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

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, “I didn’t know that Kit—”

“I’m not sorry,” Julian said, and there was a savagery in his tone that made her look up, her head clearing. Julian’s face was smudged with blood and dirt. His gear was ripped at the shoulder, his boots thick with churned mud and blood. He was beautiful. “Whatever happened, whatever Kit did, he saved your life. The Riders would have killed you.”

She was breathless with fear, not for herself but for Julian. The Riders hated them both. Gwyn and Diana were circling over the Fields, calling out that Oban was dead, that Kieran was King. Perhaps Kieran could order the Riders around—perhaps not. At the moment, they had not sworn allegiance to him. They were masterless, here for blood and vengeance, and very dangerous.

“Do you need an iratze?” Julian was still holding her shoulders. She wanted to hug him, wanted to touch his face and make sure he was whole and unharmed. She knew she couldn’t.

“No,” Emma said. Runes between them were too dangerous. “I’m fine.”

Slowly he bent his head and touched his forehead to hers. They stood for a moment, motionless. Emma could feel the parabatai energy in them both, vibrating beneath their skin like an electric current. There was no one around them; they were at the very edge of the battle, almost in the woods.

She felt herself smile a little. “Ty’s up a tree with a slingshot,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Julian drew back, a look of amusement ghosting across his face. “I know. Safest place for him, I guess, though when I find out how he got out of Magnus’s enchantment, I’m not sure which of them I’m going to kill.” There was a sudden commotion; Emma looked over at the field and saw flashes of bronze. The Riders had regrouped; they were laying about themselves with their blades, cutting a path through the Shadowhunters. Several bodies lay crumpled on the ground: with a pang, she recognized Vivianne Penhallow’s strawberry-blond hair, now flecked with blood.

Emma grabbed Cortana. “Julian—where’s the Mortal Sword?”

“Gave it to Jace,” he said as they both hurried across the trampled grass. “I hated carrying that thing around. He’ll enjoy it.”

“Probably,” Emma admitted. She looked around: The skies overhead roiled blue-black. The bodies of Downworlders and Shadowhunters were scattered across the field; as they pressed on, Emma nearly stepped on a corpse in a Centurion uniform, eyes rolled to the sky. It was Timothy Rockford. She fought down a wave of nausea and turned away. A redcap surged up behind her.

She raised Cortana, the blade slicing the air.

“Emma!” Julian caught at her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said as the redcap turned and vanished back into the crowd. “The Unseelie soldiers don’t know what to do. Some are still following Oban. Some are retreating at Kieran’s orders. It’s chaos.”

“So it could be ending?” she said, breathless. “We could be winning?”

He drew the back of his hand across his face, smudging more dirt on his cheekbones. His eyes were brilliant blue-green in the odd light of the clouds; his gaze ran up and down her, and she recognized his look as the embrace he couldn’t give, the words he couldn’t say.

“The Cohort won’t give up,” he said instead. “They’re still fighting. We’re trying not to harm them, but they’re not making it easy.”

“Where’s Horace?” Emma demanded, craning her head to see what was happening across the field.

“He’s kept himself surrounded by his followers,” Julian said, leaping over the body of a dead troll. “Jace and the others are trying to get to him, but the Cohort are willing to die for him and we don’t want to kill them. Like I said, they’re not making it easy.”

“We should get back and help.” She started to head across the field, Julian beside her. Downworlders flashed past them, hurling themselves at Unseelie faeries and Cohort Nephilim. Jessica Beausejours was struggling to fend off a black-haired vampire with a seraph blade, while nearby a werewolf rolled on the ground with a massive troll, two sets of fangs snapping.

Emma heard someone yell. It was Mark—she could see Cristina, too, not far away, sword to sword with Vanessa Ashdown. Cristina was fighting carefully, trying not to hurt Vanessa; Vanessa was showing no such care—she held a swordstaff in her hand and was pushing Cristina back with slamming blows.

Mark, though—Mark was facing Eochaid. A Rider had found him.

Emma and Julian took off instantly, racing toward Mark. He was backing away, bow in hand, taking careful aim, but each arrow that hit Eochaid seemed only to slow him down, not to stop him.

No one’s killed one of Mannan’s Riders in all the history I know.

Emma had killed one of the Riders. But Emma had Cortana. Mark had only an ordinary bow, and Cristina and Kieran were both caught up in the vast crowd. They could never make it to Mark in time.

Emma heard Julian whisper his brother’s name. Mark. They were racing flat-out over the uneven ground—Emma could feel the parabatai energy driving them forward—when something reared up and struck her. She went flying, hit the ground, rolled to her feet.

Standing in front of her was Zara.

She was cut and filthy, her long hair matted in clumps of blood and dirt. Her colorful Centurion gear had been cut to ribbons. There were tracks of dirty tears on her face, but her hands, gripping a longsword, were steady. As was her gaze, fixed on Cortana.

“Give me back my sword, you bitch,” she snarled.

*

Arrested by Emma’s fall, Julian spun around and saw his parabatai facing Zara Dearborn. Zara was whipping her sword back and forth while Emma watched her with a puzzled look: Zara wasn’t a very good fighter, but she wasn’t this bad.

Emma met Julian’s eyes as she raised Cortana: Go, go to Mark, her expression said. Julian hesitated a moment—but Emma could more than handle Zara. He whirled around and ran for his brother.

Mark was still fighting, though he was pale, bleeding from a cut across his chest. Eochaid seemed to be playing with him, as a cat might play with a mouse, thrusting his sword and then turning it aside to slash rather than stab. It would mean a slow death of cuts and bloodletting. Julian felt the sourness of rage in the back of his throat. He saw Cristina slam the hilt of her sword against Vanessa’s head; Cameron’s cousin went down hard and Cristina turned, sprinting toward Mark.

Another Rider cut her off. Julian’s heart sank; he was nearly there, but he recognized Ethna, with her long bronze braid and vicious scowl. She carried a sword in one hand, a staff in the other, and swung out at Cristina, knocking her hard to the ground.

“Stop!”

The word was a gravel-toned bellow. Cristina and Mark were both on the ground; their opponents turned, staring. Kieran stood before them, his shoulder knotted with white bandages. It was Winter who had spoken: The redcap stood upright, swordstaff in hand. He pointed the sharp end of it at Eochaid.

“Stop,” he said again. “The King commands that you stand down.”

Eochaid and Ethna exchanged a look. Their metallic eyes simmered with rage. They would not soon forget being cast down from the sky and humiliated.

“We will not,” said Eochaid. “Our King was Arawn the Elder. He commanded us to slay the Blackthorns and their allies. We shall enact that command and no word from you shall change it.”

“We have not yet sworn allegiance to you,” said Ethna. “You are not our King.”

Julian wondered if Kieran would flinch. He didn’t. “I am your King,” he said. “Leave them be and return to Unseelie or be considered traitors.”

“Then we will be traitors,” said Ethna, and brought her longsword down.