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

“No!” Annabel screamed. “Don’t you touch him!”

“Guards,” said the King, and the guards snapped to attention. “Take the woman and the boy away. I am done with them.”

Julian scrambled to his feet. “We have to follow them—”

“We can’t,” Emma whispered. “The potion is wearing off. Look. The red light is almost gone.”

Julian glanced down. The scarlet glow above his heart had dimmed to an ember.

The guards had closed about Annabel and Ash and were marching them from the chamber. Emma caught hold of Julian’s hand and together they crept out from behind the boulders.

The guards were escorting Annabel and Ash out the arched doorway. For a moment, Emma and Julian paused in the center of the throne room, directly in the line of the King’s view.

He was staring straight ahead of him. In the untouched side of his face, Emma thought she could see a bit of Kieran—a Kieran split down the middle, half-tortured and inhuman.

She felt Julian’s hand tighten on hers. Every one of her nerves was screaming that the King could see them, that at any moment he would call for his guards, that they would die here before Emma even got a chance to lift a blade.

She told herself she would at least try to plunge her dagger into the King’s heart before she died.

Julian tugged her fingers. Incredibly, he had the map in his other hand; he jerked his chin toward the arch beneath which Ash and Annabel had vanished.

There was no more time. They raced through the archway.

*

There was little point struggling; there were at least three faerie guards on each side of Mark, and their grip on his arms was merciless. He was dragged through the revel, still dizzy from the potion in his blood. Shapes seemed to loom up on either side of him: spinning dancers, blurred as if seen through the prism of a teardrop. The King of Cats, regarding him with glimmering tabby eyes. A row of horses, rearing away from the sparks of a fire.

He couldn’t see Kieran. Kieran was somewhere behind him; Mark could hear the guards shouting at him, almost drowned out by the sounds of music and laughter. Kieran. Cristina. His heart was a cold knot of fear for both of them as he was shoved through a filthy puddle and up a set of wooden steps.

A flap of velvet canopy slapped him in the face; Mark sputtered as the guard holding him laughed. There were hands at his waist, unfastening his weapons belt.

He kicked out reflexively and was shoved to the floor. “Kneel, half-breed,” snapped one of the guards. They released him, and Mark crouched where he was, on his knees, his chest throbbing with rage. Two guards stood behind him, holding spears level with the back of Mark’s neck. A few feet away, Kieran was in the same position, though he was bleeding from a cut lip. His expression was set in a bitter snarl.

They were inside Oban’s pavilion. The walls were heavy hanging velvet, the floor expensive rugs that had been trampled and muddied by uncountable booted feet. Wooden tables held dozens of empty and half-empty bottles of wine; some had tipped over and spilled, filling the room with the reek of alcohol.

“Well, well,” said a drawling voice. Mark looked up; in front of them was a red velvet sofa, and sprawled on it was an indolent-looking young man. Hair streaked black and purple tumbled around his pointed ears, and black kohl was smudged around glittering silver eyes. He wore a silver silk doublet and hose, and white lace spilled from his cuffs. “Little brother Kieran. How nice to see you.” His silver eyes flicked to Mark. “With some guy.” He flicked a dismissive hand in Mark’s direction and turned his smirk on Manuel. “Good work.”

“I told you I saw them,” Manuel said. “They were at the revel.”

“I admit it never occurred to me they would be stupid enough to set foot in the Unseelie Lands,” said Oban. “You win that point, Villalobos.”

“They make an excellent gift,” said Manuel. He stood between the guards with their spears, his arms crossed over his chest. He was grinning. “Your father will be pleased.”

“My father?” Oban tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “You think I should deliver Kieran to my father? He’ll just kill him. Dull.”

Mark darted a glance at Kieran through his eyelashes. Kieran was on his knees. He didn’t look frightened of Oban, but he’d never show it if he was.

“A gift is more than just a gift,” said Manuel. “It’s a method of persuasion. Your father—mistakenly—thinks you weak, Prince. If you bring him Prince Kieran and the Shadowhunter half-breed, he’ll realize he should take you more seriously.” He lowered his voice. “We can convince him to kill the prisoners and move ahead with our plan.”

Prisoners? What prisoners? Mark tensed. Could he mean Julian and Emma? But that wasn’t possible. They were with the Seelie procession.

At least Cristina was safe. She had vanished, eluding the guards. The Angel knew where she was now. Mark chanced a sideways glance at Kieran: Wasn’t he panicking too? Wasn’t he terrified for Cristina as Mark was? He ought to be, considering the way they’d been kissing.

Oban reached for the side table and scrabbled around among the bottles stacked on top of it, looking for one with alcohol still in it. “My father does not respect me,” he said. “He thinks my brothers are more worthy of the throne. Though they are not.”

“I’m sure they think the same about you,” Mark muttered.

Oban found a bottle and lifted it up to the light, squinting at the half inch of amber fluid still inside. “A wanted prisoner might change his mind, but it might not be enough.”

“You do want to rise in your father’s favor, do you not?” said Manuel.

Oban took a swig from his bottle. “Of course. Rather.”

Mark had the feeling Manuel was rolling his eyes internally. “Then you need to demonstrate that he should take you seriously. The first time you went to him, he wouldn’t even hear you out.”

“Fatuous old bag,” muttered Oban, tossing the empty bottle aside. It shattered.

“If you bring him these prisoners, he will listen to you. I will go with you—I will tell him that together we tracked them down. I will make it clear that as a representative of the Cohort, I wish to work only with you as our contact in the Unseelie Court. It will make you seem important.”

“Seem?” said Oban.

Kieran made an inelegant snorting noise.

“It will make him understand how important you are,” Manuel corrected smoothly. “Your father will realize the value you bring to him. The hostages are the key to a parley between Nephilim and the Unseelie Folk that has no precedent in our history. When every Shadowhunter sees you meet and achieve a mutually beneficial peace, all will realize that you and Horace Dearborn are the greatest of leaders, able to achieve the alliance your forefathers could not.”

“What?” said Mark, unable to stay silent. “What are you talking about?”

“Might it not bring real war?” Oban had found another bottle. “War seems like a bad idea.”

With exasperated patience, Manuel said, “There will be no war. I told you.” He glanced at Kieran and then at Mark. “War is not the object here. And I think the King wants Kieran dead more than you think.”

“Because the people love him,” said Oban, in a maudlin tone. “They wanted him to be King. Because he was kind.”

“Kindness is not a kingly quality,” said Manuel. “As the people will discover when your father hangs Kieran from a gibbet high above the tower gardens.”

Mark jerked backward, and nearly impaled himself on a spear. “You—”