In one of them sat Charlotte; beside her was Henry, looking wide-eyed and nervous. Charlotte sat calmly with her hands in her lap; only someone who knew her wel would have seen the tension in her shoulders and the set of her mouth.
Before them, at a sort of speaker’s lectern—it was broader and longer than the usual lectern—stood a tal man with long, fair hair and a thick beard; his shoulders were broad, and he wore long black robes over his clothes like a judge, the sleeves glimmering with woven runes. Beside him, in a low chair, sat an older man, his brown hair streaked with gray, his face clean-shaven but sunk into stern lines. His robe was dark blue, and gems glittered on his fingers when he moved his hand. Tessa recognized him: the ice-voiced, ice-eyed Inquisitor Whitelaw who questioned witnesses on behalf of the Clave.
“Mr. Herondale,” said the blond man, looking up at Wil , and his mouth quirked into a smile. “How kind of you to join us. And Mr. Carstairs as wel .
And your companion must be—”
“Miss Gray,” Tessa said before he could finish. “Miss Theresa Gray of New York.”
A little murmur ran around the room, like the sound of a wave receding. She felt Wil , next to her, tense, and Jem draw a breath as if to speak.
Interrupting the Consul, she thought she heard someone say. So this was Consul Wayland, the chief officer of the Clave. Glancing around the room, she saw a few familiar faces—Benedict Lightwood, with his sharp, beaky features and stiff carriage; and his son, tousle-haired Gabriel Lightwood, looking stonily straight ahead. Dark-eyed Lilian Highsmith. Friendly-looking George Penhal ow; and even Charlotte’s formidable aunt Cal ida, her hair piled on her head in thick gray waves. There were many other faces as wel , ones she didn’t know. It was like looking at a picture book meant to tel you about al the peoples of the world. There were blond Viking-looking Shadowhunters, and a darker-skinned man who looked like a caliph out of her il ustrated The Thousand and One Nights, and an Indian woman in a beautiful sari trimmed with silver runes. She sat beside another woman, who had turned her head and was looking at them. She wore an elegant silk dress, and her face was like Jem’s—the same delicately beautiful features, the same curves to her eyes and cheekbones, though where his hair and eyes were silver, hers were dark.
“Welcome, then, Miss Tessa Gray of New York,” said the Consul, sounding amused. “We appreciate your joining us here today. I understand you have already answered quite a few questions for the London Enclave. I had hoped you would be wil ing to answer a few more.”
Across the distance that separated them, Tessa’s eyes met Charlotte’s. Should I?
Charlotte dropped her a nearly imperceptible nod. Please.
Tessa squared her shoulders. “If that is your request, certainly.”
“Approach the Council bench, then,” said the Consul, and Tessa realized he must mean the long, narrow wooden bench that stood before the lectern. “And your gentleman friends may escort you,” he added.
Wil muttered something under his breath, but so quietly even Tessa couldn’t hear it; flanked by Wil on her left and Jem on her right, Tessa made her way down the steps and to the bench before the lectern. She stood behind it uncertainly. This close up, she could see that the Consul had friendly blue eyes, unlike the Inquisitor’s, which were a bleak and stormy gray, like a rainy sea.
“Inquisitor Whitelaw,” said the Consul to the gray-eyed man, “the Mortal Sword, if you please.”
The Inquisitor stood, and from his robes drew a massive blade. Tessa recognized it instantly. It was long and dul silver, its hilt carved in the shape of outspread wings. It was the sword from the Codex, the one that the Angel Raziel had risen from the lake carrying, and had given to Jonathan Shadowhunter, the first of them al .
“Mael artach,” she said, giving the Sword its name.
The Consul, taking the Sword, looked amused again. “You have been studying up,” he said. “Which of you has been teaching her? Wil iam?
James?”
“Tessa picks things up on her own, sir,” Wil ’s drawl was bland and cheerful, at odds with the grim feeling in the room. “She’s very inquisitive.”
“Al the more reason she shouldn’t be here.” Tessa didn’t have to turn; she knew the voice. Benedict Lightwood. “This is the Gard Council. We don’t bring Downworlders to this place.” His voice was tight. “The Mortal Sword cannot be used to make her tel the truth; she’s not a Shadowhunter.
What use is it, or her, here?”