Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3)

“But only the Silent Brothers can do that,” said Emma. “And we can’t get near them right now.”

“There’s Jem,” Magnus said. “He and I have both seen Marks stripped. And he was a Silent Brother himself. Together, we could make it happen.” He looked slightly ill. “It would be painful and unpleasant. But if there was no other choice—”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said quickly. “If the curse starts to happen, then strip my Marks. I can take it.”

“I don’t . . . ,” Julian began. Emma held her breath; the real Julian would never let her offer this. She had to get him to agree before Magnus took off the spell. “I don’t like the idea,” Julian said at last, looking almost puzzled, as if his own thoughts surprised him. “But if there’s no other choice, all right.”

Magnus gave Emma a long look. “I’ll take this as a binding promise,” he said after a pause. He stretched out a ringed hand. “Julian. Come here.”

Emma watched in an agony of anticipation—what if something went wrong? What if Magnus couldn’t remove the spell?—as Julian went over to the warlock and sat down on a chair facing him.

“Brace yourself,” said Magnus. “It’ll be a shock.”

He reached out and touched Julian’s temple. Julian started as a spark of light flew from Magnus’s fingers to brush against his skin; it vanished like a firefly winking out, and Julian flinched back, suddenly breathing hard.

“I know.” Julian’s hands were shaking. “I already went through it in Thule. I can—do it again.”

“It made you sick in Thule,” Emma said. “On the beach.”

Julian looked at her. And Emma’s heart leaped: In that look was everything, all of her Julian, her parabatai and best friend and first love. In it was the shining connection that had always bound them.

He smiled. A careful smile, thoughtful. In it she saw a thousand memories: of childhood and sunshine, playing in the water as it rushed up and down the beach, of Julian always saving the best and biggest seashells for her. Carefully holding her hand in his when she’d cut it on a piece of glass and was too young for an iratze. He’d cried when they stitched it up, because he knew she didn’t want to even though the pain was awful. He’d asked her for a lock of her hair when they both turned twelve, because he wanted to learn to paint the color. She remembered sitting on the beach with him when they were sixteen; the strap of her swimsuit had fallen down and she recalled the sharp hitch of his breath, the way he’d looked away quickly.

How had she not known? she thought. How he felt. How she felt herself. The way they looked at each other wasn’t the way Alec looked at Jace, or Clary at Simon.

“Emma,” Julian whispered. “Your Marks . . .”

She shook her head, tears bitter in the back of her throat. It’s done.

The look on his face broke her heart. He knew there was no point arguing that he should be the one to have his Marks stripped instead, Emma thought. He could read her again, just like she could read him.

“Julian,” Magnus said. “Give me your arm. The left one.”

Julian tore his gaze away from Emma’s and offered his scarred arm to Magnus.

Magnus ran his blue-sparking fingers with surprising gentleness along Julian’s forearm, and the incised letters, one by one, faded and disappeared. When he was done, he released Julian and looked between him and Emma. “I’ll give you a small piece of good news,” he said. “You weren’t parabatai when you were in Thule. That was an injury to your bond that’s healing. So you have a small cushion of time during which the bond will be weaker.”

Thank the Angel. “How long?” Emma said.

“That depends on you. Love is powerful, and the more you’re together, and let yourself feel what you do, the stronger it’ll be. You need to stay away from each other. To not touch each other. Not speak to each other. Try not to even think about each other.” He waved his arms like an octopus. “If you find yourselves thinking fondly of each other, for God’s sake stop yourselves right away.”

They both stared at him.

“We can’t do that forever,” Emma said.

“I know. But hopefully, when the Cohort is gone, we’ll have a new Inquisitor who can gift you with exile. And hopefully it’ll happen soon.”

“Exile is a pretty bitter gift,” Julian said.

Magnus’s smile was full of sorrow. “Many gifts are.”

*

It wasn’t hard to find Kieran. He hadn’t gone very far; he was standing in the hallway near one of the windows that looked out over the hills. He had his palm pressed flat against the glass, as if he could touch the sand and desert flowers through the barrier.

“Kieran,” Mark said, stopping before he reached him. Cristina stopped too; there was something remote in Kieran’s expression, something distant. The awkwardness that had been between all of them since the night before was still there too, forbidding simple gestures of comfort.

“I fear my people will be murdered and my country will be destroyed,” Kieran said. “That all the beauty and magic of Faerie will be dissolved and forgotten.”

“Faeries are strong and magical and wise,” said Cristina. “They have lived through all the ages of mortals. These—these culeros cannot wipe them out.”

“I will not forget the beauty of Faerie and neither will you,” said Mark. “But it will not come to that.”

Kieran turned to look at them with unseeing eyes. “We need a good King. We need to find Adaon. He must take the throne from Oban and end this madness.”

“If you want to find Adaon, we will find him. Helen knows how to reach Nene. She can ask Nene to find him in the Seelie Court,” said Cristina.

“I did not want to presume she would do that for me,” Kieran said.

“She knows how dear you are to me,” said Mark, and Cristina nodded in agreement. Helen, part-faerie herself, would surely understand.

But Kieran only half-closed his eyes, as if in pain. “I thank you. Both of you.”

“There is no need to be so formal—” Cristina began.

“There is every need,” Kieran said. “What we had last night—I was happy in those moments, and I know now we will not ever have it again. I will lose one of you and possibly I will lose both of you. In fact, it seems the most likely outcome.”

He looked from Mark to Cristina. Neither of them moved or spoke. The moment stretched on and on; Cristina felt paralyzed. She longed to reach out to both of them, but perhaps they had already decided? Perhaps it truly was impossible, just as Kieran said. Surely he would know. And Mark looked agonized—surely he would not look like that if he did not have the same fears she did? And Kieran—

Kieran’s mouth set in a hard line. “Forgive me. I must go.”

Cristina watched him hurry away, vanishing into the shadows at the end of the corridor. Outside the window, she saw Alec and Magnus emerge from the back door of the Institute into the bright sunlight. Clary and Jace followed. It was clear they were bidding Magnus and Alec good-bye for now.

Mark leaned his back against the window. “I wish Kieran understood he would be a great King.”

The light through the window edged his pale hair with gilt. His eyes burned amber and sapphire. Her golden boy. Though Kieran’s silver darkness was just as beautiful, in its own way.

“We must talk in private, Mark,” Cristina said. “Meet me outside the Institute tonight.”

*

Emma and Julian left the library in silence, and made it back to her room in the same silence before Julian finally spoke.

“I should leave you here,” he said, gesturing at her door. He sounded as if his throat hurt—gruff and husky. His sleeve was still rolled up to the elbow, showing the healed skin of his forearm. She wanted to touch it—to touch him, to reassure herself he was back to himself. Her Julian again. “Will you be all right?”