“You’re not eating your eggs.” It was Sebastian. He had come around the counter—still noiselessly, dammit—and was looking at her, his eyebrows raised. He had the faintest accent, a mixture of the accent of the people who lived in Idris and something more British. She wondered if he’d been hiding it before or if she just hadn’t noticed.
“I don’t actually like eggs,” she confessed.
“But you didn’t want to tell Jace that, because he seemed so pleased to be making you breakfast.”
Since this was accurate, Clary said nothing.
“Funny, isn’t it?” said Sebastian. “The lies good people tell. He’ll probably make you eggs every day for the rest of your life now, and you’ll choke them down because you can’t tell him you don’t like them.”
Clary thought of the Seelie Queen. “Love makes liars of us all?”
“Exactly. Quick study, aren’t you?” He took a step toward her, and an anxious tingle seared her nerves. He was wearing the same cologne Jace wore. She recognized the citrusy black-pepper scent, but on him it smelled different. Wrong, somehow. “We have that in common,” Sebastian said, and began to unbutton his shirt.
She stood up hastily. “What are you doing?”
“Easy there, little sis.” He popped the last button, and his shirt hung open. He smiled lazily. “You’re the magical rune girl, aren’t you?”
Clary nodded slowly.
“I want a strength rune,” he said. “And if you’re the best, I want it from you. You wouldn’t deny your big brother a rune, would you?” His dark eyes raked her. “Besides, you want me to give you a chance.”
“And you want me to give you a chance,” she said. “So I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a strength rune if you let me come with you on your errand.”
He stripped the shirt the rest of the way off and dropped it onto the counter. “Deal.”
“I don’t have a stele.” She didn’t want to look at him, but it was hard not to. He seemed to be deliberately invading her personal space. His body was much like Jace’s—hard, without any extra ounce of flesh anywhere, the muscles showing clearly under the skin. He was scarred like Jace too, though he was so pale that the white marks stood out less than they did against Jace’s golden skin. On her brother they were like silver pen on white paper.
He drew a stele from his belt and handed it to her. “Use mine.”
“All right,” she said. “Turn around.”
He did. And she swallowed back a gasp. His bare back was striped with ragged scars, one after the other, too even to be random accident.
Whip marks.
“Who did this to you?” she said.
“Who do you think? Our father,” he said. “He used a whip made of demon metal, so no iratze could heal them. They’re meant to remind me.”
“Remind you of what?”
“Of the perils of obedience.”
She touched one. It felt hot under her fingertips, as if newly made, and rough, where the skin around it was smooth. “Don’t you mean ‘disobedience’?”
“I mean what I said.”
“Do they hurt?”
“All the time.” Impatiently he glanced back over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for?”
“Nothing.” She set the tip of the stele to his shoulder blade, trying to keep her hand steady. Part of her mind raced, thinking how easy it would be to Mark him with something that would damage him, sicken him, twist his insides—but what would happen to Jace if she did? Shaking her hair out of her face, she carefully drew the Fortis rune at the juncture of shoulder blade and back, just where, if he were an angel, he would have wings.
When she was done, he turned and took the stele from her, then shrugged his shirt back on. She didn’t expect a thank-you—and didn’t get one. He rolled his shoulders back as he buttoned the shirt, and grinned. “You are good,” he said, but that was all.
A moment later the steps rattled, and Jace returned, shrugging on a suede jacket. He had clipped on his weapons belt too, and wore fingerless dark gloves.
Clary smiled at him with a warmth she didn’t feel. “Sebastian says I can come with you.”
Jace raised his eyebrows. “Matching haircuts for everyone?”
“I hope not,” said Sebastian. “I look terrible with curls.”
Clary glanced down at herself. “Do I need to change into gear?”
“Not really. This isn’t the sort of errand where we’re expecting to have to fight. But it’s good to be prepared. I’ll get you something from the weapons room,” said Sebastian, and vanished upstairs. Clary cursed herself silently for not having found the weapons room while she was searching. Surely it had something inside that could provide some sort of clue as to what they were planning—
Jace touched the side of her face, and she jumped. She’d nearly forgotten he was there. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely. I’m going stir-crazy in the house. Besides, you taught me to fight. I figure you’d want me to use it.”
His lips quirked into a devilish grin; he brushed her hair back and murmured something into her ear about using what she’d learned from him. He leaned away as Sebastian joined them, his own jacket on and a weapons belt in his hand. There was a dagger thrust through it, and a seraph blade. He reached out to draw Clary close to him and pulled the belt around her waist, double-looping it and settling it low on her hips. She was too surprised to push him away and he was done before she had the chance; turning away, he moved toward the wall, where the outline of a doorway had appeared, shimmering like a doorway in a dream.
They stepped through it.
A soft knock on the library door made Maryse raise her head. It was a cloudy day, dim outside the library windows, and the green-shaded lamps cast small pools of light in the circular room. She couldn’t say how long she’d been sitting behind the desk. Empty coffee mugs littered the surface in front of her.
She rose to her feet. “Come in.”
There was a soft click as the door opened, but no sound of footsteps. A moment later a parchment-robed figure glided into the room, his hood raised, shadowing his face. You called on us, Maryse Lightwood?
Maryse rolled her shoulders back. She felt cramped and tired and old. “Brother Zachariah. I was expecting—Well. It doesn’t matter.”
Brother Enoch? He is senior to me, but I thought perhaps that your call might have something to do with the disappearance of your adoptive son. I have a particular interest in his well-being.
She looked at him curiously. Most Silent Brothers didn’t editorialize, or speak of their personal feelings, if they had any. Smoothing her tangled hair back, she stepped out from behind the desk. “Very well. I want to show you something.”
She had never really gotten used to the Silent Brothers, to the soundless way they moved, as if their feet didn’t touch the ground. Zachariah seemed to hover beside her as she led him across the library to a map of the world tacked to the north wall. It was a Shadowhunter map. It showed Idris in the center of Europe and the ward around it as a border of gold.
On a shelf below the map were two objects. One was a shard of glass crusted with dried blood. The other was a worn leather cuff bracelet, decorated with the rune for angelic power.
“These are—”
Jace Herondale’s cuff and Jonathan Morgenstern’s blood. I understood attempts to track them were unsuccessful?
“It isn’t tracking precisely.” Maryse straightened her shoulders. “When I was in the Circle, there was a mechanism Valentine used by which he could locate us all. Unless we were in certain protected places, he knew where we were at all times. I thought there was a chance he might have done the same to Jace when he was a child. He never seemed to have trouble finding him.”
What kind of mechanism do you speak of?
“A mark. Not one from the Gray Book. We all had it. I had nearly forgotten about it; after all, there was no way to get rid of it.”
If Jace had it, would he not k
now of it, and take steps to prevent you using it to find him?
Maryse shook her head. “It could be as small as a tiny, almost invisible white mark under his hair, as mine is. He would not have known he had it—Valentine wouldn’t have wanted to tell him.”
Brother Zachariah moved apart from her, examining the map. And what has been the result of your experiment?
“Jace has it,” Maryse said, but she did not sound pleased or triumphant. “I’ve seen him on the map. When he appears, the map flares, like a spark of light, in the location where he is; and his cuff flares at the same time. So I know it is him, and not Jonathan Morgenstern. Jonathan never appears on the map.”
And where is he? Where is Jace?
“I’ve seen him appear, just for a few seconds each time, in London, Rome, and Shanghai. Just a little while ago he flickered into existence in Venice, and then vanished again.”
How is he traveling so quickly between cities?
“By Portal?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that every time the map flickers, I know he’s alive . . . for now. And it’s like I can breathe again, just for a little while.” She shut her mouth decidedly, lest the other words come pouring out—how she missed Alec and Isabelle but could not bear to call them back to the Institute, where Alec at least would be expected to take responsibility in the manhunt for his own brother. How she still thought of Max every day and it was like someone had emptied her lungs of air, and she would catch at her heart, afraid she was dying. She could not lose Jace, too.
I can understand that. Brother Zachariah folded his hands in front of him. His hands looked young, not gnarled or bent, his fingers slender. Maryse often wondered how the Brothers aged and how long they lived, but that information was secret to their order. There is little more powerful than the love of family. But what I do not know is why you chose to show this to me.
Maryse took a shuddering breath. “I know I should show it to the Clave,” she said. “But the Clave knows of his bond with Jonathan now. They are hunting them both. They will kill Jace if they find him. And yet to keep it to myself is surely treason.” She hung her head. “I decided that telling you, the Brothers, was something I could bear. Then it is your choice whether to show it to the Clave. I—I can’t stand that it be mine.”
Zachariah was silent a long moment. Then his voice, gentle in her head, said, Your map tells you that your son is still alive. If you give it to the Clave, I do not think it will help them much, besides telling them that he is traveling fast and is impossible to track. They know that already. You keep the map. I will not speak of it for now.
Maryse looked at him in astonishment. “But . . . you are a servant of the Clave . . .”
I was once a Shadowhunter like you. I lived like you do. And like you, there were those I loved enough to put their welfare before anything else—any oath, any debt.
“Did you . . .” Maryse hesitated. “Did you ever have children?”
No. No children.
“I’m sorry.”
Do not be. And try not to let fear for Jace devour you. He is a Herondale, and they are survivors—
Something snapped inside Maryse. “He is not a Herondale. He is a Lightwood. Jace Lightwood. He’s my son.”
There was a long pause. Then, I did not mean to imply otherwise, said Brother Zachariah. He unclasped his thin hands and stepped back. There is one thing you must be aware of. If Jace appears on the map for more than a few seconds at a time, you will have to tell the Clave. You should brace yourself for the possibility.
“I don’t think I can,” she said. “They’ll send hunters after him. Set a trap for him. He’s just a boy.”
He was never just a boy, said Zachariah, and he turned to glide from the room. Maryse did not watch him go. She had returned to staring at the map.
Simon?
Relief opened like a flower in his chest. Clary’s voice, tentative but familiar, filled his head. He looked sideways. Isabelle was still sleeping. Midday light was visible around the edges of the curtains.
Are you awake?
He rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling. Of course I’m awake.
Well, I wasn’t sure. You’re what, six, seven hours behind where I am. It’s twilight here.
Italy?
We’re in Prague now. It’s pretty. There’s a big river and a lot of buildings with spires. Looks a little like Idris from a distance. It’s cold here, though. Colder than at home.
Okay, enough with the weather report. Are you safe? Where are Sebastian and Jace?
They’re with me. I wandered off a little, though. I said I wanted to commune with the view from the bridge.
So I’m the view from the bridge?
She laughed, or at least he felt something that was like laughter in his head—a soft, nervous laughter. I can’t take too long. Though, they don’t really seem to suspect anything. Jace . . . Jace definitely doesn’t. Sebastian is harder to read. I don’t think he trusts me. I searched his room yesterday, but there’s nothing—I mean, nothing—to indicate what they’re planning. Last night . . .
Last night?
Nothing. It was odd, how she could be inside his head and he could still sense that she was hiding something. Sebastian has in his room the box my mom used to own. With his baby stuff in it. I can’t figure out why.
Don’t waste your time trying to figure out Sebastian, Simon told her. He’s not worth it. Figure out what they’re going to do.
I’m trying. She sounded irritable. Are you still at Magnus’s?
Yeah. We’ve moved to phase two of our plan.
Oh, yeah? What was phase one?
Phase one was sitting around the table, ordering pizza, and arguing.
What’s phase two? Sitting around the table drinking coffee and arguing?
Not exactly. Simon took a deep breath. We raised the demon Azazel.
Azazel? Her mental voice spiked upward; Simon almost clutched at his ears. So that’s what the stupid Smurf question was about. Tell me you’re kidding.
I’m not. It’s a long story. He filled her in as best he could, watching Isabelle breathe as he did, watching the light outside the window grow brighter. We thought he could help us find a weapon that can hurt Sebastian without hurting Jace.
Yeah, but—demon-raising? Clary didn’t sound convinced. And Azazel is no ordinary demon. I’m the one with Team Evil over here. You’re Team Good. Keep it in mind.
You know nothing’s that simple, Clary.
It was as if he could feel her sigh, a breath of air that passed over his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. I know.
Cities and rivers, Clary thought as she took her fingers from the gold ring on her right hand and turned away from the view off Charles Bridge, back to Jace and Sebastian. They were on the other side of the old stone bridge, pointing off at something she couldn’t see. The water below was the color of metal, sliding soundlessly around the bridge’s ancient struts; the sky was the same color, pocked with black clouds.
The wind whipped at her hair and coat as she walked over to join Sebastian and Jace. They all set off again, the two boys conversing softly; she could have joined the conversation if she’d wanted to, she supposed, but there was something about the still loveliness of the city, its spires rising into mist in the distance, that made her want to be quiet, to look and to think on her own.
The bridge emptied out into a twisting cobblestone street lined with tourist shops, shops selling blood-red garnets and big chunks of golden Polish amber, heavy Bohemian glass, and wooden toys. Even at this hour, touts stood outside nightclubs, holding free passes or cards that would give you discounts on drinks; Sebastian gestured them aside impatiently, snapping his annoyance in Czech. The press of people was relieved when the street widened into an old medieval square. Despite the cold weather, it was filled with milling pedestrians and kiosks were selling sausages and hot, spiced cider. The three of them stopped for food and ate around a tall rickety table while the h
uge astronomical clock in the square’s center began to chime the hour. Clanking machinery started up, and a circle of dancing wooden figures appeared from doors on either side of the clock—the twelve apostles, Sebastian explained as the figures whirled around and around.
“There’s a legend,” he said, leaning forward with his hands cupped around a mug of hot cider, “that the king had the eyes of the clock maker put out after this clock was finished, so he could never build anything as beautiful again.”
Clary shuddered and moved a little closer to Jace. He had been quiet since they’d left the bridge, as if lost in thought. People—girls, mainly—stopped to look at him as they passed, his hair bright and startling among the winter-dark colors of the Old Square. “That’s sadistic,” she said.
Sebastian ran his finger around the rim of his mug, and licked the cider off. “The past is another country.”
“Foreign country,” said Jace.
Sebastian looked at him with lazy eyes. “What?”
“‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there,’” Jace said. “That’s the whole quote.”
Sebastian shrugged and pushed his mug away. You got a euro for returning them to the stand where you bought the cider, but Clary suspected Sebastian couldn’t be bothered to fake good citizenship for a measly euro. “Let’s go.”
Clary wasn’t finished with her cider, but she set it down anyway and followed as Sebastian led them away from the square, among a maze of narrow, twisting streets. Jace had corrected Sebastian, she thought. Certainly it had been over something minor, but wasn’t Lilith’s blood magic supposed to bind him to her brother in such a way that he thought everything Sebastian did was right? Could this be a sign—even a tiny sign—that the spell that connected them was starting to fade?
It was stupid to hope, she knew. But sometimes hope was all you had.
The streets grew narrower, darker. The clouds overhead had completely blocked out the lowering sun, and old-fashioned gas lamps burned here and there, illuminating the misty dimness. The streets had turned to cobblestones, and the sidewalks were narrowing, forcing them to walk in a line, as if they were picking their way across a narrow bridge. Only the sight of other pedestrians, appearing and disappearing out of the fog, made Clary feel that she had not stepped through some sort of warp in time into a dream city out of her own imagination.
Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series Page 187
