“But it doesn’t just have to be two men. It can be a man and a woman, or two women?”
“Of course.” Jem nodded. “You have only eighteen years to find and choose a parabatai. Once you are older than that, the ritual is no longer open to you. And it is not merely a matter of promising to guard each other. You must stand before the Council and swear to lay down your life for your parabatai. To go where they go, to be buried where they are buried. If there were an arrow speeding toward Wil , I would be bound by oath to step in front of it.”
“Handy, that,” said Wil .
“And he, of course, is bound to do the same for me,” said Jem. “Whatever he may say to the contrary, Wil does not break oaths, or the Law.” He looked hard at Wil , who smiled faintly and stared out the window.
“Goodness,” said Tessa. “That’s al very touching, but I don’t see exactly how it confers any advantages.”
“Not everyone has a parabatai,” said Jem. “Very few of us, actual y, find one in the al otted time. But those who do can draw on the strength of their parabatai in battle. A rune put on you by your parabatai is always more potent than one you put on yourself, or one put on by another. And there are some runes we can utilize that no other Shadowhunter can, because they draw on our doubled power.”
“But what if you decide that you don’t want to be parabatai anymore?” Tessa asked curiously. “Can the ritual be broken?”
“Dear God, woman,” said Wil . “Are there any questions you don’t want to know the answer to?”
“I don’t see the harm in tel ing her.” Jem’s hands were folded atop his cane. “The more she knows, the better she wil be able to pretend she plans to Ascend.” He turned to Tessa. “The ritual cannot be broken save in a few situations. If one of us were to become a Downworlder or a mundane, then the binding is cut. And of course, if one of us were to die, the other would be free. But not to choose another parabatai. A single Shadowhunter cannot take part in the ritual more than once.”
“It is like being married, isn’t it,” said Tessa placidly, “in the Catholic church. Like Henry the Eighth; he had to create a new religion just so he could escape from his vows.”
“Til death do us part,” said Wil , his gaze stil fixed on the countryside speeding past outside the window.
“Wel , Wil won’t need to create a new religion just to be rid of me,” said Jem. “He’l be free soon enough.”
Wil looked over sharply, but it was Tessa who spoke. “Don’t say that,” she admonished Jem. “A cure could stil be found. I don’t see any reason to abandon al hope.”
She almost shrank back at the look Wil bent on her: blue, blazing, and furious. Jem seemed not to notice as he replied, calmly and unaffectedly.
“I haven’t abandoned hope,” he said. “I just hope for different things than you do, Tessa Gray.”
Hours went by after that, hours during which Tessa nodded off, her head propped against her hand, the dul sound of the train’s wheels winding its way into her dreams. She woke at last with Jem shaking her gently by the shoulders, the train whistle blowing, and the guard shouting out the name of York station. In a flurry of bags and hats and porters they descended to the platform. It was nowhere near as crowded as Kings Cross, and covered by a far more impressive arched glass and iron roof, through which could be glimpsed the gray-black sky.
Platforms stretched as far as the eye could see; Tessa, Jem, and Wil stood on the one closest to the main body of the station, where great gold-faced railway clocks proclaimed the time to be six o’clock. They were farther north now, and the sky had already begun to darken to twilight.
They had only just gathered beneath one of the clocks when a man stepped out of the shadows. Tessa barely suppressed a start at the sight of him. He was heavily cloaked, wearing a black oilskin-looking hat, and boots like an old sailor. His beard was long and white, his eyes crested with thick white eyebrows. He reached out and laid a hand on Wil ’s shoulder. “Nephilim?” he said, his voice gruff and thickly accented. “Is it you?”
“Dear God,” said Wil , putting his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture. “It’s the Ancient Mariner who stoppeth one of three.”
“Ah’m ’ere at t’bequest of Aloysius Starkweather. Art t’lads he wants or not? Ah’ve not got al night to stand about.”
“Important appointment with an albatross?” Wil inquired. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“What my mad friend means to say,” said Jem, “is that we are indeed Shadowhunters of the London Institute. Charlotte Branwel sent us. And you are . . . ?”