Chain of Gold

by Cassandra Clare

  It was true, Cordelia thought. She had read the story of Layla and Majnun a thousand times, and each time the beginning was a thrill, even though she knew—and dreaded—the end.

  “The only equivalent in real life is memory,” Tessa said, looking up as Will Herondale came into the room, followed by Cousin Jem. “But memories can be bitter as well as sweet.”

  Will smiled at his wife—James’s parents always looked at each other with such love, it was nearly painful to see—before heading toward the small group of Lightwoods gathered around Barbara. Cordelia heard them greet him, and Sophie’s worried tones, but her gaze was on Jem. He had come toward the counter and was reaching for several jars of mixed herbs. It was now or never.

  “Cousin Jem,” Cordelia whispered. “I need to speak with you.”

  Jem glanced up in surprise. Cordelia tried not to start; it was always strange to see a Silent Brother this close. She remembered all the times her mother had suggested her father go to the Basilias, the Shadowhunter hospital in Alicante, to cure his lingering illness. Elias had always insisted he did not wish to go anywhere where he would be surrounded by Silent Brothers. They rattled his nerves, he claimed; most of them were like creatures of ice and blood. Ivory robes marked in red, skin drained of color, scarred with red runes. Most were without hair and worse, had their eyes sewn shut, their sockets sunken and hollow.

  Jem did not look like that. His face was young and very still, like the face of a knight from the Crusades carved on a marble tomb. His hair was a tangle of black and white threads. His eyes were permanently shut, as if in prayer.

  Are you all right, Cordelia? asked Jem’s voice in her mind.

  Tessa immediately moved to shield the two of them from the gaze of the rest of the sickroom. Cordelia tried to appear as if she were absolutely fascinated with her mortar and pestle, energetically mashing together feverfew and goldenseal.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Have you seen Baba—my father—in Idris? How is he? When can he come home?”

  There was a long pause.

  I have seen him, said Cousin Jem.

  For a moment, Cordelia let herself remember her father, truly remember him. Her father had taught her to fight. Her father had his faults, but he was never cruel, and when he did pay Cordelia some mind, his attention made her feel ten feet tall. It often felt as though Alastair and Sona were made of different stuff than Cordelia, glass or metal with edges that could cut, but Elias was the one who was like her.

  Memories can be bitter as well as sweet.

  She murmured, “You are a Silent Brother. I know my father was not always welcoming to you—”

  Never think I am resentful of the distance he kept, said Jem. I would do anything I could for you and our family.

  “He wrote me a note, asking me to believe in him. He says he is not responsible for what happened. Can’t you make the Clave believe him too?”

  There was a long pause. I cannot assure the Clave of what I do not know myself, said Jem.

  “They must ask him what happened,” said Cordelia. “They must try the Mortal Sword. Will they?”

  Jem hesitated. Cordelia saw that Lucie was approaching them, just as she realized she had mashed the herbs in the mortar into green sludge.

  “Daisy,” Lucie said in a low voice. This struck Cordelia as alarming. Lucie could rarely be convinced to whisper about anything. “Could you come with me a moment? I very much need your assistance.”

  “Of course,” Cordelia said, a bit hesitantly. “It is only that—”

  She turned toward Jem, hoping to get his answer to her question. But he had already vanished into the crowded sickroom.

  * * *

  “Where are we going?” Cordelia whispered, as they hurried along the corridors of the Institute. “Lucie. You cannot simply abduct me, you know.”

  “Nonsense,” said Lucie. “If I wished to abduct you, you can be sure that I would do it quite expertly, no doubt beneath the veil of silence and darkness.” They had reached the vestibule; Lucie took down a cloak from a peg on the wall and handed another to Cordelia. “Besides, I told my father I was taking you home in the carriage because you faint at the sight of blood.”

  “Lucie!” Cordelia followed her friend out into the courtyard. The sun had only just set, and the evening was brushed with a steel-blue patina. The yard was crowded with carriages, each bearing the crest of a Shadowhunter family.

  “Not every bit of a good story is true,” said Lucie. Her cheeks were bright pink. The air had become chill; Cordelia pulled her cloak around her. “It’s the story that’s important.”

  “I don’t want to go home, though,” Cordelia pointed out, as she and Lucie wove their way through the crowd of carriages. She squinted. “Is someone singing inside the Baybrook carriage?”

  Lucie waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you’re not going home. You’re coming with me on an adventure.” She waved at something half-hidden behind the Wentworth carriage. “Bridget!”

  It was indeed Bridget, her graying red hair wound into a chignon, having clearly just finished readying the Institute’s brougham and a fresh horse—Balios’s brother Xanthos. The two were a matched pair. Cordelia had heard a great deal about them growing up. Lucie went instantly to pat Xanthos’s soft, white-speckled nose; Cordelia tried to smile at Bridget, who was eyeing them both suspiciously.

  “Carriage all ready for you, Miss Baggage,” Bridget said to Lucie. “Try to not get in trouble. It fusses your parents.”

  “I’m just taking Cordelia home,” Lucie said, blinking innocently. Bridget wandered off, muttering about finding certain people stuck in certain trees while sneaking out of certain windows. Lucie bent to whisper something in Xanthos’s ear before gesturing for Cordelia to join her in the carriage. “It’s all glamoured,” she explained, as the brougham rattled under the open gate and into the streets of London. “It would just upset the mundanes to see a carriage racing about with no driver.”

  “So the horse knows where to take us?” Cordelia settled back against the upholstered bench seat. “But it’s not to Cornwall Gardens?”

  Lucie shook her head. “Balios and Xanthos are special horses. And we’re going to Chiswick House.”

  Cordelia stared. “Chiswick House? We’re going to see Grace and Tatiana? Oh, Lucie, I don’t know—”

  Lucie held up a hand. “There could be a time—a short time—during which you may have to distract them. But it is not a social call. I am on a mission.”

  Cordelia did not think Grace seemed the sort of person who could be easily distracted. “I shan’t,” she said firmly. “Not unless you tell me what this mission is.”

  Lucie was silent a moment, her face small and pale in the shadows of the carriage. “You know I can see ghosts,” she said, and hesitated.

  Cordelia blinked. It was the last thing she’d expected Lucie to say. Ghosts were something all Shadowhunters knew existed, and when ghosts wanted to be seen, most Nephilim could see them. But the Herondales had a special ability: Will, James, and Lucie could all see ghosts that didn’t want to be seen. “Yes, but what—?”

  “A ghost told me—” Lucie broke off for a moment. “Jessamine told me there is a ghost at Chiswick House that might know about these daylight demons,” she said at last. “Daisy, I have to do something for Barbara and the others. I cannot just sit about passing out tinctures. If there is anything I can do to help, I must do it.”

  “Of course—but why not tell your father or your mother? They would surely understand.”

  “I do not wish to raise hopes that may come to nothing,” said Lucie. “Besides, they might feel they needed to tell some of the others, and I—I have been told that being sought out by ghosts is not an appealing trait in a young woman.”

  Cordelia caught at Lucie’s hand with her own bandaged one. “Tell me who said that to you. I will kill them.”

  Lucie sniffled and then laughed. “You needn’t kill anyone. Just come with me to Chiswick, and I will b
e perfectly satisfied.”

  * * *

  “We must bar the doors,” said James. “They don’t lock, and we can’t be interrupted.” He frowned. “Matthew, can you stand?”

  The ballroom had been closed up after the ball; it was rarely used except for social functions. The room was warm and close as James, Christopher, and Thomas threw off their jackets and stripped down to shirtsleeves. Most were still wearing the same weapons belts they’d had on in the park: James had added several new daggers to his own.

  Only Matthew was unarmed. Blinking and disheveled, he found his way to a plushly upholstered chair and fell into it. “I am quite all right,” he said, waving an airy hand. “Please continue with your plan.” He squinted. “What was your plan?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment,” James said. He was quite sure none of them were going to like it. “Thomas?”

  Thomas nodded, seized hold of a heavy sideboard, and began to shove it in front of the ballroom doors. Christopher looked worriedly at Matthew. “Perhaps some water?” he said.

  “I’m quite all right,” Matthew repeated.

  “I found you drinking from a flask and singing ‘Elsie from Chelsea’ in the Baybrooks’ carriage,” said Thomas darkly.

  “It was private there,” said Matthew. “And well-upholstered.”

  “At least it wasn’t the Bridgestocks’ carriage, because they have already experienced enough tragedy today. Nothing bad has happened to the Baybrooks,” said Christopher, with great sincerity.

  “Nothing until now,” said James. “Christopher—was everything all right, dropping off Miss Blackthorn?”

  He tried not to sound as if he were too invested in the answer. Matthew raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Oh, perfectly,” said Christopher. “I told her all about culturing bacteria, and she was so fascinated that she never spoke a word!”

  James had gone to pile chairs in front of the doors to the withdrawing room. He hoped Grace had not expired from boredom. “Did you have to tell Mrs. Blackthorn what had happened at the park? She can’t have been pleased.”

  Christopher shook his head. “I confess I didn’t see her. Miss Blackthorn asked that I drop her at the gates, not the front door.”

  “She probably doesn’t want anyone to see the state of the place,” said Matthew, yawning. “The gates alone are festooned in rust.”

  James eyed him. “Thomas,” he said, in a low voice. “Maybe a healing rune?”

  Thomas nodded and approached Matthew cautiously, as one might approach a stray cat on the street. Some time ago James had discovered that healing runes sobered Matthew up: not entirely, but enough.

  “Push up your sleeve, then, there’s a good fellow,” Thomas said, seating himself on the arm of Matthew’s chair. “Let’s wake you up and James can tell us whatever mad thing he has planned.”

  Done with the chairs, James cast a glance around the room, dusted off his hands, and said, “We’d better check the locks on all the windows. Just to be sure.”

  “It seems somehow blasphemous to use Marks to rid oneself of the effects of alcohol,” Matthew added, as Thomas put his stele away. The Mark in question gleamed, new-made, on Matthew’s wrist. He looked already more clear-eyed, and less as if he were about to fall asleep or be sick.

  “I’ve seen you use your stele to part your hair,” said James dryly, as he began to examine the window locks.

  “The Angel gave me this hair,” replied Matthew. “It’s one of the Shadowhunters’ gifts. Like the Mortal Sword.”

  “Now that is blasphemy,” said Thomas. Christopher had joined James in checking the window fastenings, though James desperately wished he could open one and get some air into the room.

  “A thing of beauty is a joy forever, Thomas,” said Matthew. “James, why are we locking all the windows? Are we afraid of overcurious pigeons?”

  James slammed a bolt home and turned to look at the others. “I have spent the past four years of my life trying to train myself not to do what I’m about to do. I don’t wish to even consider the possibility of being interrupted.”

  “By a pigeon?” said Matthew, but the look in his eyes was sympathetic, despite his lightly mocking words. “Jamie, what are we doing here?”

  James took a deep breath. “I am going to deliberately send myself into the shadow realm,” he said.

  The Merry Thieves exploded in a chorus of protest. Matthew stood up, his eyes glittering. “Certainly not,” he said. “The danger—”

  “I do not think there will be danger,” said James. “I have been in and out of the shadow realm many times in my life. It has been ages since I fell accidentally into that world. Yet in the past week, I have seen it three times, once just before the attack today. I cannot think that is a coincidence. If I can use this ability to help Barbara, Ariadne, all of us—you must let me do it.”

  “Bloody hell.” Matthew rubbed at his eyes. “If we don’t help you here, you’ll just try to do this after we’re all gone, won’t you?”

  “Clearly,” said James. He tapped the daggers at his waist. “I’m armed, at least.”

  Matthew twisted the signet ring on his finger, marked with MF. It had been a gift from James when they had become parabatai, and he tended to fiddle with it only when distressed. “Very well, James. As you wish.”

  James cleared his throat. “All right. Let’s get on with it.”

  He was met with the gaze of six expectant eyes.

  “Well?” Thomas said hopefully, after a long pause. “Go on into the shadow realm, then.”

  James concentrated. He stared at the blank floor and tried to conjure up images in his mind of the shadow realm. The scorched gray sky and dimmed sun. He imagined the ballroom wrong, the windows set oddly into the walls, the chandeliers melting and sagging.

  He opened his eyes and yelled. A pair of eyes was staring directly into his, so close that he could make out the details inside the green irises, the faint splotches of brown and black. “Matthew!”

  “I really don’t think staring at him is going to help, Matthew,” said Thomas, and Matthew took a reluctant step back from his parabatai. “Jamie, is there anything that might help you begin the process? We’ve all seen you do it.… You start to get shadowy, and turn a bit blurry around the edges.”

  “When I go into the shadow realm, the realness of my presence here begins to fade,” James said. He did not mention that in the past, he had “faded” enough in this world to pass through a solid wall. He did not intend to do it again. “But it is not what drives me into the shadow realm. More of a side effect of being there.”

  “Often it happens when you are upset or shocked,” said Christopher. “I suppose we could try upsetting or shocking you.”

  “Given everything that’s happened, that shouldn’t be too hard,” said James.

  “Nonsense,” said Matthew, hopping up on a nearby occasional table. It was quite frail-looking, with thin gold-painted wooden legs, and James eyed it worriedly. “The last time I saw you shocked was when that Iblis demon was sending Christopher love letters.”

  “I have a dark charm,” said Christopher sadly.

  “Please recall that I am the pale neurasthenic one and you are the stern heroic one,” Matthew said to James. “It is very tedious when you mix up our roles. We will have to think of something quite impressive to startle you.”

  “So what is my role?” said Christopher.

  “Mad inventor, of course,” said Matthew promptly. “And Thomas is the one with a good heart.”

  “Lord, I sound dull,” said Thomas. “Look, James, come here for a second.”

  James moved toward Thomas, who seemed to have decided on something: in moments like this, he looked very like his mother, with her brilliant hazel eyes and ferocious mouth.

  A fist came sailing out of the air and landed squarely in James’s solar plexus. He went flying backward, hitting the floor with a gasp. His head swam.

  Matthew dropped down by his side, as Ja
mes heaved himself up onto his elbows, gasping. The pain wasn’t bad but the feeling of trying to catch his breath was sickening.

  “Thomas!” Matthew yelled. “What were you trying to—?”

  “I was trying to surprise him!” Thomas yelled back. “This is important, Matthew!” He darted a worried look at James, belying his angry words. “You don’t mind, do you, Jamie?”

  “It’s all right,” James said breathlessly. “Only it didn’t work. If I turned into a shadow every time something hit me, I couldn’t patrol.” He stared up at the ceiling, which had mirrors on it. He could see himself lying splayed on the parquet, hair very black against the white, Matthew kneeling over him like a squire over the body of a dead knight.

  He could see Christopher and Thomas in the mirror as well, or at least the tops of their heads. Christopher was reaching up to pull something down from the wall. Thomas had his arms crossed.

  Matthew jumped to his feet with the agility of a fox and held out a hand to help James up after him. James had only just regained his footing when an arrow shot past his head. One of the windows shattered, and Matthew threw himself against James. They tumbled to the floor again, knocking the breath out of James for the second time in five minutes.

  He rolled into a sitting position, shouldering Matthew aside, to find Thomas goggling at Christopher, who was clutching one of the bows that had been hanging on the wall.

  “In case anyone was wondering if those were purely ornamental,” said James, getting to his feet, “they are not.”

  “In the name of a million bloody angels, Christopher, what the hell did you just do?” Matthew demanded, leaping up after James. “Did you try to kill James?”

  Christopher lowered the bow. James thought he could hear noises in the Institute: doors slamming in the distance and running feet. Bloody hell.

  “I was not trying to kill James,” said Christopher in an injured tone. “I was hoping the shock of the arrow flying past would startle him into the shadow realm. Pity it didn’t work. We must think of a new plan to grievously alarm James at once.”