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

Emma sprang for the rough wall of the throne room. She scrambled up one-handed, looking down on the chaos below. The Queen and King were battling back and forth before the throne. Adaon and Jace were holding their own against the Riders, though Adaon had a long cut across one shoulder that was bleeding freely. And Clary was spinning, quick and fast, jabbing at the redcap guards and then darting back out of reach with startling swiftness.

Emma flung herself off the wall, air rushing past her as she flipped and twisted, landing boots-first and sending Winter sprawling. The other redcaps rushed her and she swung her blade in an arc, slicing the tips from their pikestaffs. She sprang away from Winter and advanced on the other guards, her sword arcing in the air. “I slew Fal the Rider,” she said in her most menacing voice. “I will slay you, too.”

They paled markedly. Several fell back, as behind them Julian and Cristina rushed to Mark and to Kieran. Julian hauled Mark to his feet, bringing his sword down to sever the chain that connected Mark’s wrists. They swung free, each one still bearing an iron wristband.

Mark caught hold of his brother with his manacled arms and hugged him quickly, fiercely. Emma’s eyes prickled but there was no time to look at them; she spun and kicked and slashed, the world a chaos of silver and ice and blood.

Emma heard Cristina call her name.

Ice turned to fire. She ran toward the sound, leaping over toppled rocks, and found Cristina standing with a shattered blade in her hand. Kieran was still kneeling, pieces of the broken sword scattered around the chain that bound his wrists to the earth.

“Emma, please—” Cristina began, but Emma was already bringing her blade down. It wasn’t Cortana, but it held; the chain shattered and Kieran leaped to his feet. Cristina seized him by the arm.

“We must go,” she said, her eyes frantic. “I can use the artifact to return us—”

“Call everyone to you,” Emma said. She pressed her sword into Cristina’s hand. “I need to get the copy of the Black Volume.”

Cristina tried to shove the sword back at Emma. “What? Where?”

But Emma was already running, kicking off the uneven floor to hurl herself at the steps to the throne. She heard the King bellow; she heard Julian cry out her name. She had reached the top of the steps. The throne loomed up before her, dark and granite, the printer-bound pages of the Black Volume resting on a great stone arm.

Emma seized the book and spun around just in time to hear Adaon cry out, a hoarse shout of pain. Eochaid had him trapped against the side of a massive boulder. The front of Adaon’s tunic was soaked with blood, and Eochaid’s sword kissed his throat.

“Shall I slay him, King?” Eochaid said in a gloating voice. Most of the bystanders in the room had frozen. Cristina had her hand over her mouth; she was the one who had brought Adaon here, after all. Even the redcaps were staring. “Your traitor son? Shall I end his life?”

The Queen began to laugh. Redcaps had caught her by the arms, but she was still smiling her strange, catlike smile. “Oh, my lord,” she said. “Is there a one of your sons that does not hate your name?”

The King bared his teeth. “Cut his throat,” he said to Eochaid.

Adaon’s muscles tensed. Emma’s brain worked frantically—she saw Kieran start forward, but there was no way he could reach Adaon in time—Eochaid raised his blade like an executioner, his other arm braced against Adaon’s chest—

There was a horrible choking cry. Adaon, Emma thought wildly, stumbling down the steps, but no, Eochaid was turning away from his captive, his sword still raised, his face contorted in surprise.

The King was sinking to his knees, blood running freely down the front of his rich doublet. Kieran’s hand was still raised in the air. Something protruded from the King’s throat—a sliver of what looked almost like glass. . . .

The elf-bolt arrowhead, Emma realized with a start. Kieran had flung his necklace at the King with incredible force.

Eochaid and Ethna rushed toward the King, their gleaming swords in hand, their faces pictures of dismay. Adaon, too, walked toward his father. Kieran did not move. He was leaning heavily on Cristina’s shoulder, his face expressionless.

Kneeling, the King clawed at his throat. To Emma’s shock, he seemed to be weakening—his hand scrabbled at the embedded elf-bolt, and then fell to his side, hanging uselessly.

Adaon looked down at him. “Father,” he said in a low voice. “Forgive me.”

Ethna’s face contorted into a mask. Jace and Clary, both bloody and filthy, were staring in amazement. Distantly, Emma knew she was seeing something remarkable. The dying of a King who had ruled for a thousand years.

Ethna whirled to glare at Kieran. “Kinslayer!” she cried. “Patricide!”

“He was trying to save Adaon!” Mark shouted back. “Are you blind, Rider?”

“Because he wants to be King,” snarled Eochaid. “Because he wants the throne!”

The Queen began to laugh. She drew free of the redcaps who had held her as if their touch were no more than spiderwebs, though several fell screaming to the floor, their palms burned and blackened, their fingers snapped.

“Already they scavenge for your throne like dogs worrying at a bone,” she said to the King, as blood ran out of the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolled up to the whites.

She seized Adaon by the arm. He cried out in shock and pain; the Queen’s hair whipped around them both as she grinned down at the King.

“You took my son,” she said. “Now I take yours.”

She vanished, and Adaon vanished with her. The King gave a cry and fell to the ground, scrabbling at the earth with gauntleted hands. His crown tumbled from his head and struck the stone floor as he choked out garbled words. Perhaps he was trying to say the Queen’s name, perhaps Adaon’s. Perhaps even Kieran’s. Emma would never know. The King’s body stiffened and slumped, and both Eochaid and Ethna cried out.

He had gone still. But his blood continued to run out around him, snaking across the floor in rivulets. The redcaps were scrambling back from the King’s body, their faces masks of horror.

Winter lowered the pikestaff he had been aiming at Emma. “The King is dead! King Arawn is dead!” he cried, and Emma realized it must be true: It was safe to speak the King’s true name now that he was no longer alive.

The redcaps fled—save Winter, who held his ground—pouring out of the throne room in a river of crimson. Cristina was shouting for the other Shadowhunters; she held Mark by one hand, and he gripped a stunned-looking Kieran. Jace and Clary were scrambling over a pile of boulders to get to them. Julian was only yards away; Emma began to run as the King’s body burst into flames.

She cast one look back over her shoulder. The King was burning and so was the ground everywhere his blood had spilled—small fires and larger ones, burning fierce and hot, consuming the stone floor as if it were kindling. The King’s body had already vanished behind a sheet of flames.

A figure reared up out of the smoke, cutting Emma off.

It was Ethna. She gleamed all over like a weapon, her bronze armor unsmudged, her metallic eyes gleaming with bloodlust. “My oath to the King died with him,” she said, baring her teeth. “Your life is forfeit now, murderer!”

She lunged at Emma. Emma’s sword was gone; she flung up the copy of the Black Volume, and Ethna’s sword plunged into it. Ethna flung it aside in disgust; the shredded remains of the book landed on the burning ground, its pages bursting into flames.

Emma could hear Clary calling out to her, and the others, shouting for her to come quickly. She realized with a sinking heart that they must not be able to see her; they wouldn’t know she needed help, they wouldn’t know—

Ethna’s blade flew through the air, bronze cutting through smoke. Emma twisted aside and fell to the ground, rolling to avoid the slashing blows that followed. Each time Ethna’s blade barely missed her, it cut a deep gouge into the stone floor.

It was getting harder for Emma to breathe. She scrambled to her knees, only to have Ethna plant a booted foot in her shoulder. She shoved, and Emma sprawled backward, hitting the ground hard.

“Die on your back, bitch,” Ethna said, raising her sword high.

Emma flung her hands out as if they could ward off the blade. Ethna laughed, swung down—

And toppled sideways. Emma scrambled upright, choking on smoke and disbelief.