“Patience, Benedict.” Consul Wayland held the Sword lightly, as if it weighed nothing. His gaze on Tessa was heavier. She felt as if he were searching her face, reading the fear in her eyes. “We are not going to hurt you, little warlock,” he said. “The Accords would forbid it.”
“You should not cal me warlock,” Tessa said. “I bear no warlock’s mark.” It was strange, having to say this again, but when she had been questioned before, it had always been by members of the Clave, not the Consul himself. He was a tal , broad-shouldered man, exuding a sense of power and authority. Just that sort of power and authority that Benedict Lightwood so resented Charlotte laying claim to.
“Then, what are you?” he asked.
“She doesn’t know.” The Inquisitor’s tone was dry. “Neither do the Silent Brothers.”
“She may be al owed to sit,” said the Consul. “And to give evidence, but her testimony wil be counted only as half a Shadowhunter’s.” He turned to the Branwel s. “In the meantime, Henry, you are dismissed from questioning for the moment. Charlotte, please remain.”
Tessa swal owed back her resentment and went to sit in the front row of seats, where she was joined by a drawn-looking Henry, whose gingery hair was sticking up wildly. Jessamine was there, in a dress of pale brown alpaca, looking bored and annoyed. Tessa sat down next to her, with Wil and Jem on her other side. Jem was directly beside her, and as the seats were narrow, she could feel the warmth of his shoulder against hers.
At first the Council proceeded much as had other meetings of the Enclave. Charlotte was cal ed upon to give her recol ections of the night when the Enclave attacked the stronghold of the vampire de Quincey, kil ing him and those of his fol owers who’d been present, while Tessa’s brother, Nate, had betrayed their trust in him and al owed the Magister, Axel Mortmain, entry into the Institute, where he had murdered two of the servants and nearly kidnapped Tessa. When Tessa was cal ed up, she said the same things she had said before, that she did not know where Nate was, that she had not suspected him, that she had known nothing of her powers until the Dark Sisters had shown them to her, and that she had always thought her parents were human.
“Richard and Elizabeth Gray have been thoroughly investigated,” said the Inquisitor. “There is no evidence to suggest either was anything but human. The boy, the brother—human as wel . It could wel be that, as Mortmain hinted, the girl’s father is a demon, but if so, there is the question of the missing warlock mark.”
“Most curious, everything about you, including this power of yours,” said the Consul, looking at Tessa with eyes that were steady and pale blue.
“You have no idea what its limits, its constructs are? Have you been tested with an item of Mortmain’s? To see if you can access his memories or thoughts?”
“Yes, I—tried. With a button he had left behind him. It should have worked.”
“But?”
She shook her head. “I could not do it. There was no spark to it, no—no life. Nothing for me to connect with.”
“Convenient,” muttered Benedict, almost too low to be heard, but Tessa heard it, and flushed.
The Consul indicated that she might take her seat again. She caught sight of Benedict Lightwood’s face as she did so; his lips were compressed into a thin, furious line. She wondered what she could possibly have said to anger him.
“And no one has seen hide nor hair of this Mortmain since Miss Gray’s . . . altercation with him in the Sanctuary,” the Consul went on as Tessa took her seat.
The Inquisitor flipped some of the papers that were stacked on the lectern. “His houses have been searched and found to be completely emptied of al his belongings. His warehouses were searched with the same result. Even our friends at Scotland Yard have investigated. The man has vanished. Quite literal y, as our young friend Wil iam Herondale tel s us.”
Wil smiled bril iantly as if complimented, though Tessa, seeing the malice under the smile, thought of light sparking off the cutting edge of a razor.
“My suggestion,” said the Consul, “is that Charlotte and Henry Branwel be censured, and that for the next three months their official actions, undertaken on behalf of the Clave, be required to pass through me for approval before—”
“My lord Consul.” A firm, clear voice spoke out from the crowd. Heads swiveled, staring; Tessa got the feeling that this—someone interrupting the Consul midspeech—didn’t happen very often. “If I might speak.”
The Consul’s eyebrows went up. “Benedict Lightwood,” he said. “You had your chance to speak earlier, during the testimonials.”
“I hold no arguments with the testimonials given,” said Benedict Lightwood. His beaky, sharp profile looked even sharper in the witchlight. “It is your sentence I take issue with.”
The Consul leaned forward on the lectern. He was a big man, thick-necked and deep-chested, and his large hands looked as if he could span Benedict’s throat easily with a single one. Tessa rather wished he would. From what she had seen of Benedict Lightwood, she did not like him.