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

“And in Faerie,” said Julian. “When you helped Oban become King. When you brokered an alliance between the Cohort and the Unseelie Court. Was that because Horace asked you to do it?”

Manuel was biting his lip so hard blood was running down his chin. But the Sword was stronger than his will. “It was my idea,” he gasped. “But Horace embraced it—he loved the idea of pulling off a trick under the Clave’s noses—we put Oban on the throne because Oban was a fool who would do what we wanted—he would stage this parley with us, and we would pretend to reach a deal, a deal where both parties would get what they wanted. The Unseelie Court would get the Shadowhunters on their side against Seelie and other Downworlders—and the Cohort would be able to say that they had forced the Unseelie Court into a peace agreement, that they had agreed never to enter Idris again. Both sides would look strong to their people. . . .”

“Enough!” Oban shouted. He reached to seize the Mortal Sword from Manuel, but Mark moved in front of him, blocking his way. “Silence this brat!”

“Fine,” Julian said unexpectedly, and plucked the Sword from Manuel’s grasp. “Enough with the junior leagues. Dearborn, take the Sword.”

He walked toward Horace, holding the Sword. All around Horace drooped the members of the Cohort, looking alternately shocked and furious. It wasn’t too difficult to tell who had been surprised by Manuel’s revelations, and who hadn’t.

“It’s time you spoke to your people, Dearborn,” Julian said. “They can see you. They can hear you. You owe them an explanation.” He held the Sword out to him, level and ready. “Let yourself be tested.”

“We will be tested in battle!” Horace screamed. “I will prove myself! I am their leader! Their rightful Consul!”

“Consuls don’t lie to their Council members,” said Julian. He lowered the Mortal Sword so that the flat of the blade lay across his left palm, wincing slightly as the truth-telling compulsion took hold. “You blamed Dane Larkspear’s death on faeries. I killed Dane Larkspear.”

Emma felt her eyes widen. She hadn’t expected Julian to say that.

“Maybe a little too much radical honesty,” Simon muttered.

“I killed him because you sent him into Faerie to murder me and to murder my parabatai,” said Julian. “I’m holding the Mortal Sword. I’m not lying. You can see that.” He spoke as if he were addressing only Horace, but Emma knew he was addressing every Shadowhunter and Downworlder who could hear him. “Samantha Larkspear was hurt when she tried to torture Kieran Kingson at the Scholomance. Possibly also on your orders.” He gave a little gasp; the Sword was clearly hurting him. “You’ve set Shadowhunters against Shadowhunters and against innocent Downworlders, all in service of tricking the Council into adopting your bigoted reforms—all in service of fear—”

“Yes, I did!” Horace screamed. Zara flew to her father’s side and yanked on his empty sleeve; he seemed barely to notice her. “Because the Nephilim are fools! Because of people like you, telling them Downworlders are our friends, that we can live in peace beside them! You would have us stretch out our necks willingly to the slaughtering blade! You would have us die lying down, not fighting!” He flung his right arm toward Oban. “I wouldn’t have had to accept an alliance with this drunken fool if the Clave had not been so stupid and so stubborn! I needed to show them—show them how to protect ourselves honorably from Downworlders—”

“?‘Honorably’?” Julian echoed, raising the Mortal Sword so it no longer touched his palm. It was a weapon again now, not a test of the bearer’s veracity. “You drove the Downworlders out of Brocelind. You knew the Unseelie Court was spreading the blight that was killing warlocks and you did nothing. How is that honorable?”

“As if all he did was nothing,” Mark spat. “He encouraged the King to spread his poisoned earth here—to slay the Children of Lilith—”

“I think we’re done here.” Alec spoke coldly, in a ringing voice. “It is time for the Unseelie Court to go, Horace. Your loyalty is in question and you are no longer able to negotiate on the behalf of either Downworlders or Nephilim.”

“You have no power to send us away, boy!” snapped Oban. “You are not the Consul, and our arrangement is with Horace Dearborn alone.”

“I don’t know what Horace promised you,” said Jace, cool satisfaction in his tone. “But he can’t help you, Prince.”

“I am the King.” Oban raised his bow.

From the knot of Downworlders, a faerie woman stepped forward. It was Nene, Mark and Helen’s aunt. She faced Oban proudly. “You are not our King,” she said.

“Because you are Seelie folk,” sneered Oban.

“Some of us are Seelie, some Unseelie, and some of the wild peoples,” said Nene. “We do not acknowledge you as the King of the Unseelie Lands. We acknowledge Kieran Kingson, who slew Arawn the Elder-King with his own hands. He has the right of the throne by blood in his veins and by blood spilt.”

She stepped aside, and Kieran emerged from the circle of the fey. He had dressed himself in his clothes from Faerie: unbleached linen tunic, soft deerskin breeches and boots. He carried himself upright, his back straight, his gaze level.

“Greetings, brother Oban,” he said.

Oban’s face twisted into a snarl. “The last time I saw you, brother Kieran, you were being dragged in chains behind my horses.”

“That is true,” said Kieran. “But it speaks more ill of you than it does of me.” He looked out over the ranged masses of silent Unseelie warriors. “I have come to challenge my brother for the throne of Unseelie,” he said. “The usual method is a duel to the death. The survivor shall take the throne.”

Oban laughed in disbelief. “What? A duel now?”

“And why not now?” said Nene. Mark and Cristina were looking at each other in horror; it was clear neither of them had known this part of the plan. Emma doubted anyone had but Kieran himself and a few other faeries. “Or are you afraid, my lord Oban?”

In a smooth, sudden move, Oban raised his bow and shot at Kieran. The arrow flew free; Kieran jerked aside, the arrow just missing his arm. It flew across the field and slammed into Julie Beauvale; she went down like a struck sapling, her whip flying from her hand.

Emma gasped. Beatriz Mendoza cried out and fell to her knees at Julie’s side; Alec whirled and shot a flurry of arrows at Oban, but the redcaps had already closed in around the King. Several went down with Alec’s arrows in them as he nocked arrow after arrow to his bow and flew toward the Unseelie warriors.

“After him! Follow Alec!” shouted Maia. Werewolves dropped to the ground on all fours, sprouting fur and fangs. With a shout, the Cohort surrounding Horace seized up their weapons and charged; Julian parried a blow from Timothy with the Mortal Sword, while Jessica Beausejours threw herself at Emma, her sword whipping around her head.

Nene dashed forward to arm Kieran with a silver sword; it flashed like lightning as he laid about him. Oban’s Unseelie faeries, loyal to their King, surged to protect him, a tide of bristling spears and swords. Mark and Cristina hurtled toward Kieran, Cristina armed with a two-edged longsword, elf-shot flying from Mark’s bow. Redcaps crumpled at their feet. Simon, Jace, and Clary had already drawn their swords and leaped into the fray.

Timothy yelled as his sword snapped in half against the blade of Maellartach. With a whimper, he vanished behind Horace, who was screaming wildly for everyone to stop, for the battle to stop, but no one was listening. The noise of the battle was incredible: swords slamming against swords, werewolves howling, screams of agony. The smell of blood and metal. Emma disarmed Jessica and kicked her legs out from under her; Jessica went down with a scream of pain and Emma whirled to find two goblin warriors with their broken-glass teeth and leathery faces approaching. She raised Cortana as one rushed at her. The other went down suddenly, its legs caught in a snare of electrum.