City of Heavenly Fire

“No,” Simon said. “I think he always lies, and sending them won’t help anything. Even if he swears, he lies, like Isabelle said.” He looked at Jace, and then Clary. “You know,” he said. “You know him better than anyone; you know he never means what he says. Tell them.”


Clary shook her head, mutely. It was Isabelle who answered for her: “They can’t,” she said. “It would seem like they were begging for their lives, and neither of them are going to do that.”

“I’ve already volunteered,” said Jace. “I said I would go. You know why he wants me.” He threw his arms wide. Clary wasn’t surprised to see that the heavenly fire was visible against the skin of his forearms, like golden wires. “The heavenly fire injured him at the Burren. He’s afraid of it, so he’s afraid of me. I saw it on his face, in Clary’s room.”

There was a long silence. Jia slumped back in her chair. “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t disagree with any of you. But I cannot control the Clave, and there are those among them who will choose what they see as safety, and yet others who hate the idea that we allied with Downworlders in the first place and will welcome a chance to refuse. If Sebastian wished to splinter the Clave into factions, and I am sure he did, he chose a good way to do it.” She looked around at the Lightwoods, at Jace and Clary, the Consul’s steady dark gaze resting on each of them in turn. “I would love to hear suggestions,” she added, a little dryly.

“We could go into hiding,” Isabelle said immediately. “Disappear to a place where Sebastian will never find us; you can report back to him that Jace and Clary fled despite your attempts to keep us. He can’t blame you for that.”

“A reasonable person wouldn’t blame the Clave,” said Jace. “Sebastian’s not reasonable.”

“And there isn’t anywhere we can hide from him,” Clary said. “He found me in Amatis’s house. He can find me anywhere. Maybe Magnus could have helped us, but—”

“There are other warlocks,” said Patrick, and Clary chanced a glimpse at Alec’s face. It looked like it had been carved out of stone.

“You can’t count on them helping us, no matter what you pay them, not now,” Alec said. “That’s the point of the kidnapping. They won’t come to the aid of the Clave, not until they see whether we come to their aid first.”

There was a knock on the door and in came two Silent Brothers, their robes glimmering like parchment in the witchlight. “Brother Enoch,” said Patrick, by way of greeting, “and—”

“Brother Zachariah,” said the second of them, drawing his hood down.

Despite what Jace had hinted at in the Council room, the sight of the now-human Zachariah was a shock. He was barely recognizable, only the dark runes on the arches of his cheekbones a reminder of what he had been. He was slender, almost slight, and tall, with a delicate and very human elegance to the shape of his face, and dark hair. He looked perhaps twenty.

“Is that,” Isabelle said in a low, amazed voice, “Brother Zachariah? When did he get hot?”

“Isabelle!” Clary whispered, but Brother Zachariah either hadn’t heard her or had great self-restraint. He was looking at Jia, and then, to Clary’s surprise, said something in a language she didn’t know.

Jia’s lips trembled for a moment. Then they tightened into a hard line. She turned to the others. “Amalric Kriegsmesser is dead,” she said.

It took Clary, numb from a dozen shocks in as many hours, several seconds to remember who that was: the Endarkened who had been captured in Berlin and brought to the Basilias while the Brothers searched for a cure.

“Nothing we tried on him worked,” said Brother Zachariah. His spoken voice was musical. He sounded British, Clary thought; she’d only ever heard his voice in her mind before, and telepathic communication apparently wiped out accents. “Not a single spell, not a single potion. Finally we had him drink from the Mortal Cup.”

It destroyed him, said Enoch. Death was instantaneous.

“Amalric’s body must be sent through a Portal to the warlocks in the Spiral Labyrinth, to study,” Jia said. “Perhaps if we act quickly enough, she—they can learn something from his death. Some clue to a cure.”

“His poor family,” said Maryse. “They will not even see him burned and buried in the Silent City.”

“He is not Nephilim anymore,” said Patrick. “If he were to be buried, it would be at the crossroads outside Brocelind Forest.”

“Like my mother was,” said Jace. “Because she killed herself. Criminals, suicides, and monsters are buried at the place where all roads cross, right?”

He had his false bright voice on, the one Clary knew covered up anger or pain; she wanted to move closer to him, but the room was too full of people.