Come to the Silent City. I shall meet you in the infirmary. Do not reveal yourself to the other Brothers. I will explain when you arrive.
Please hurry.
—Jem
She handed it wordlessly to Lucie. James was pacing the floor, hands in his pockets.
“If Jem says I must go, then I must,” he said, as Matthew and Thomas both glanced at the note’s contents. “The rest of you go to Chiswick—”
“No,” Matthew said. He had reached for the flask in his pocket—a gesture of long-practiced habit—but quickly dropped his hand. His fingers were shaking slightly, but his voice was light. “Whither thou goest, I will go, James. Even unto the tedious suburb of Highgate.”
Jem, Cordelia thought. She had to talk to him about her father. There was no one else she could speak to about what Alastair had told her. There was no one else she could tell that she had changed her mind.
Cousin Jem, I have something to tell you about my father. I think he needs to be in the Basilias. I think he should not come back from Idris after all. I think I need your help.
She took a deep breath. “I will also go. I must see Jem. Unless—” She turned to Lucie. “If you’d rather I go with you to Chiswick—”
“Nonsense,” Lucie said, sympathy in her eyes. “All we’re doing is fetching a plant, and I’m familiar with the house and the grounds—not,” she added hastily as James looked dark, “because I’ve lurked about or spied on that property at all, because of course I haven’t.”
“You and Thomas can take my carriage,” said Matthew. “It is downstairs.”
“And the rest of us can take a hansom cab,” said Cordelia. “Where is the nearest entrance to the Silent City?”
“In Highgate Cemetery,” said James, reaching for his weapons belt as the others caught up gear jackets, belts, and blades. “It’s a good distance. We’ll have to hurry—there’s no time to waste.”
* * *
There was little to slow Cordelia and the others down until they reached Highgate, where the narrow streets were snarled up with evening traffic. The driver of the hansom cab, refusing to brave the bottleneck, deposited them in front of a pub on Salisbury Road.
James asked Cordelia and Matthew to wait while he went to search for the entrance to the Silent City. It often moved about within the cemetery, he had told Cordelia in the carriage, and could be found in various locations depending on the day.
Matthew gave the pub a longing look, but was soon distracted by a large stone tablet at the junction of Highgate Hill and Salisbury Road. It was caged by iron rails and carved with the words THRICE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON.
“ ‘Turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London Town,’ ” said Matthew, with a dramatic gesture. “This is where it’s meant to have happened—him hearing the Bow Bells, I mean.”
Cordelia nodded; she had been told the story often enough when she was a child. Richard Whittington had been a mundane boy who set out from London with his cat, determined to make his fortune elsewhere, only to hear the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow calling him back to a promised glory if he returned. And so he had, and become mayor of London, three times.
Cordelia wasn’t sure what had happened to the cat. All the stories might be true, she thought, but it would be awfully nice if such obvious signals were on offer for her own destiny.
Matthew slipped his silver flask from his waistcoat and began to unscrew it. Though he was in gear, he had not sacrificed his blue spats to duty. Cordelia only looked at him as he tipped back his head and swallowed, then screwed the cap back on. “Dutch courage,” he said.
“Are the Dutch particularly brave, or just particularly drunk?” she asked, her voice sharper than she’d intended.
“A little of both, I imagine.” His tone was light, but he put away the flask. “Did you know Dick Whittington’s cat might never have existed? Scandalous fiction, apparently.”
“Does it matter if he had a cat or not?”
“The truth always matters,” Matthew said.
“Not when it comes to stories,” Cordelia said. “The point of stories is not that they are objectively true, but that the soul of the story is truer than reality. Those who mock fiction do so because they fear the truth.”
She felt, rather than saw, Matthew turn to look at her in the dimming light. His voice was hoarse. “James is my parabatai,” he said. “And I love him. The only thing that I have never understood about him is his feelings for Grace Blackthorn. I have wished for a long time for him to place his affections somewhere else, and yet, when I saw him with you in the Whispering Room, I was not happy.”
Cordelia had not expected such frankness. “What do you mean?”
“I suppose I question if he knows what he feels,” said Matthew. “I suppose I worry that he will hurt you.”
“He is your parabatai,” said Cordelia. “Why should you care if he hurts me?”
Matthew tipped his head back to look at the darkening evening sky. His lashes were several shades darker than his blond hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I find that I do care.”
Cordelia wished they were discussing anything else. “Don’t worry. Alastair gave me the same warning about James just yesterday. I have been well told.”
Matthew’s jaw tightened. “I always said that the day I would be in charity with Alastair Carstairs would be the day I burn in Hell.”
“Was he really so horrible to James at school?” said Cordelia.
Matthew turned to her, and the look on his face startled her. It was the purest fury. “It was more than that—”
James appeared out of the shadows, his black hair disarrayed, and beckoned to them. “I’ve found the entrance. We ought to go quickly.”
They proceeded to the cemetery and passed through the tall gates. Dark cypress trees soared overhead, their overlapping leaves blocking out the last of the evening light. In their shadow rose elaborate monuments to the dead. Great mausoleums and Egyptian obelisks towered beside broken granite columns, symbolizing life cut short. Headstones were carved into hourglasses with wings, Greek urns, and beautiful women with streaming hair. And everywhere, of course, there were stone angels: chubby and sentimental-looking, sweet-faced as children. How little mundanes understood about angels, Cordelia thought, picking her way along the twig-strewn path after James. How much they did not understand what was terrifying about their power.
James turned off one of the gray avenues then, and they found themselves in an open space that seemed deep in the woods, leaves clustered so thickly above them that the waning light was tinged with green. In the center of the clearing was a statue of an angel, but this was no cherub. It was the marble figure of a beautiful man of great height. Scaled armor had been carved on his body. He held a sword in one outstretched hand, etched with the words QUIS UT DEUS, and his head was thrown back as if he were crying out to heaven.
James stepped forward, raising one hand—the one that bore the Herondale ring with its pattern of birds. “Quis ut Deus?” he said. “ ‘Who is like God?’ the Angel asks. The answer is ‘No one. No one is like God.’ ”
The stone angel’s eyes opened, absolutely black, apertures into a great and silent dark. Then, with a grinding of stone, the angel slid aside, revealing a great empty pit in the earth and stairs leading downward.
James lit his witchlight as they proceeded down the stairs into a shadowed darkness. The Silent Brothers, living as they did with eyes sewn shut, did not see as ordinary Shadowhunters did, and did not require light.
The shimmering white witchlight rayed out between James’s fingers, painting the walls with bars of light. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, James caught Cordelia’s arm and swung her around into an archway below the steps. Matthew followed a moment later. James closed his hand over the witchlight, dousing its illumination; the three of them watched in silence as a group of Silent Brothers, their parchment robes brushing the ground, swept by and vanished through another archway.
/> “Jem said not to reveal ourselves to the other Brothers,” James whispered. “The infirmary is on the far side of the Speaking Stars. We must move quickly and quietly.”
Cordelia and Matthew nodded. A moment later they were passing through an enormous room full of keyhole-shaped stone archways rising overhead. Semiprecious stones alternated with marble: tiger’s-eye, jade, malachite. Beneath the arches huddled mausoleums, many with family names etched into them: RAVENSCAR, CROSSKILL, LOVELACE.
They reached a great square whose floor was inlaid with tiles printed in a pattern of shimmering stars. On a wall, high above reach, hung a massive dull-silver sword whose crosspiece was carved in the shape of angel wings.
The Mortal Sword. Cordelia’s heart skipped a beat. The sword that her father had held, though it had not been able to make him speak a truth he could not remember.
They passed through the square and into a large space lined with rough flagstones. A pair of wooden doors led one way; a great square arch led another. The doors sported runes of death and peace and silence.
“Get back!” Matthew whispered suddenly; he threw an arm out, pressing James and Cordelia back into the shadows. Cordelia remained motionless as a Silent Brother passed by them and went up a set of nearby stairs. With a nod, James slipped from the shadows, followed by Matthew and Cordelia. They ducked under the square archway and into another massive room with a vaulted stone ceiling, crisscrossed with beams of stone and wood. The walls were bare, and up and down the room marched rows of beds, each with a still figure lying in it: Cordelia guessed there might have been thirty or so sick people there. Young and old, male and female, they lay as soundless and unmoving as if they had already died.
The room was utterly silent. Silent—and empty. Cordelia bit her lip. “Where is Jem?”
But Matthew’s eyes had lighted on a familiar figure. “Christopher,” he said, and darted over, followed by James. Cordelia came after them more slowly, reluctant to intrude. Matthew was crouching down beside a narrow iron bed; James stood at the head, leaning over Christopher.
Christopher had been stripped of his shirt. Dozens of white bandages encircled his narrow chest; blood had already soaked through some of them, forming a scarlet patch over his heart. His glasses were gone, and his eyes seemed sunk deep into his skull, the shadows below them dark purple. Black veins unfurled like coral beneath his skin. “Matthew,” he said with hoarse disbelief. “Jamie.”
James reached to touch his friend’s shoulder, and Christopher caught at his wrist. His fingers were twitching; he picked restlessly at the cuff of James’s jacket. “Tell Thomas,” he whispered. “He can finish the antidote without me. He only needs the root. Tell him.”
Matthew was silent; he seemed sick with pain. James said, “Thomas knows. He is with Lucie now, collecting the root. He’ll finish it, Kit.”
Cordelia cleared her throat, knowing her voice would come out as a whisper regardless. It did. “Jem,” she whispered. “Has Jem been in here, Christopher?”
He smiled at her sweetly. “James Carstairs,” he said. “Jem.”
Cordelia looked nervously at James, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Yes,” she said. “James Carstairs. My cousin.”
“James,” Christopher whispered, and then the figure in the bed next to his echoed the word.
“James,” whispered Piers Wentworth. “James.”
And then the next figure, in the next bed. “James.”
Matthew rose to his feet. “What’s going on?”
Christopher’s lilac eyes flew wide; his grip on James’s wrist tightened as he jerked him forward. Face inches from James’s, he hissed, “Get out of here—you have to get out of here. You have to leave. James, you don’t understand. It’s about you. It’s always been about you.”
“What does that mean?” Matthew demanded, as more and more voices were added to the chant:
“James. James. James.”
Matthew took hold of James’s sleeve and drew him back from Christopher, who let go of James reluctantly. Cordelia put her hand to the hilt of Cortana. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Christopher—?”
One by one the sick were rising into sitting positions, though it did not look as if they were doing so of their own volition. It seemed they were being dragged upward like puppets on strings; their heads sagged loosely to the side, their arms limp and dangling. Their eyes were wide open, white and shining in the dimness of the room. Cordelia saw with horror that the whites of them were also veined in black.
“James Herondale.” It was the voice of Ariadne Bridgestock. She sat at the edge of her own narrow bed, her body slumped forward. Her voice rasped, empty of emotion. “James Herondale, you have been summoned.”
“By who?” Matthew shouted. “Who’s summoning him?”
“The Prince,” said Ariadne, “the Lord of Thieves. Only he can stop the dying. Only he can call off the Mandikhor, the poison bringer. You carry the taint now, Herondale. Your blood can open the gateway.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “You have no other choice.”
Drawing away from Matthew, James took a step toward her. “What gateway? Ariadne—”
Cordelia threw out an arm to stop him. “This is not Ariadne.”
What is going on here?
They all turned. It was Jem, who had entered the room in a swirl of parchment robes; he carried his oak staff in his hand. Despite the stillness of his face, Cordelia could sense how furious he was. It radiated from the words that exploded into her mind: What are you three doing here?
“I got your message,” said James. “You told me to come.”
I sent no message, said Jem.
“Yes, you did,” protested Cordelia indignantly. “We all saw it.”
“Our master sent the message,” said Ariadne. “He waits in the shadows. Still, he controls all.”
Jem shook his head. His hood had fallen back so that Cordelia could see the white streak in his dark hair.
There is foulness at work here, he said. He lifted the oaken staff in his hands, and Cordelia saw the letters WH carved into the grip.
The sick were all chanting James’s name now, their voices rising in a hazy murmur.
Jem brought the staff down, and the noise of the wood striking the stone floor echoed in their ears. The chanting stopped; the sick went still.
Jem turned to Cordelia and the boys. Some evil has brought you here, Jem said. Get out. I fear you are in danger.
They ran.
* * *
The flight out of the Silent City was almost a blur to Cordelia. James went first, the witchlight in his hand illuminating their path as they darted out of the way of various Silent Brothers. She and Matthew came after; in seconds they had all reached the last stairway, where it arced up toward the sky.
Suddenly Matthew gasped. He staggered, falling back against the stone wall as if he’d been pushed. Cordelia caught at his arm. “Matthew! What’s happening?”
His face was paper white. “James,” he whispered. “There’s something very wrong with James.”
Cordelia glanced up the stairs. James vanished from her view. He must not have realized they were no longer following. “Matthew, he’s fine—he’s out of the City—”
Matthew pushed away from the wall. “We must hurry,” was all he said, and began to run again.
They tore up the stairs and burst out into the clearing above. James was nowhere to be seen.
Matthew took Cordelia’s hand. “He’s this way,” he said, and drew her through a narrow path between the trees. It was nearly black beneath the canopy of leaves, but Matthew seemed to know exactly where he was going.
They emerged in a shadowy grove ringed with tombs, the sky above them the deep blue of late twilight. James was there, standing still as a statue. A statue of a dark prince, all in black, with hair like crow’s feathers. He was in the process of casting aside his jacket, puzzlingly, since it had grown cold now that it was evening.
He was not looking at
Matthew or Cordelia, but at something in the distance. His expression was stark, his eyes ringed with darkness. He looked ill, Cordelia realized with dismay. As if, just as Matthew had said, there was something very wrong.
Matthew cupped his hands around his mouth. “James!”
James turned slowly, dropping his jacket to the ground. He was moving mechanically, like an automaton.
Cordelia’s unease mounted. She went toward James, slowly, as if she were approaching a startled deer in the forest. He watched her with restless gold eyes; there was color in his cheeks, a high consumptive flush. She heard Matthew curse under his breath.
“James,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
He rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt. On the back of his wrist, just above where the cuff of his shirt would have ended, were four small, bloody crescents, surrounded by a tracery of darkening veins.
Nail marks.
“Christopher,” said James, and Cordelia remembered with horror the way Christopher had clutched at James in the sickroom, gripping his wrist. “I know he didn’t mean to.” His mouth twisted into a painful smile. “No one tell him. He’d be so upset.”
Oh, James, no. Please, no. She thought of Oliver Hayward, dead because Barbara had clawed him in her last agonies. Not James.
Matthew’s voice shook. “We have to go back to the Silent City. We have to get you to Jem—”
“No,” Cordelia whispered. “It isn’t safe for James there. If we went to the Institute—or brought Jem there—”
“Absolutely not,” said James very calmly. “I’m not going anywhere. Not anywhere in London, at least.”
“Bloody hell, he’s hallucinating,” said Matthew with a groan.
But Cordelia didn’t think he was. In a low voice, she said, “James. What do you see?”
James raised his hand and pointed. “There. Between those two trees.”
And he was right—suddenly Cordelia, and Matthew as well, could see what James had been staring at all this time. Between two cedar trees was a large archway. It seemed to be made of dark light; it curved with Gothic flourishes, as though it were part of the cemetery, but Cordelia knew it was not. Through it, she could glimpse a swirl of dark chaos, as if she were looking through a Portal into the vastness of black space itself.
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