Chain of Iron

“And Grace Blackthorn,” said Matthew.

A short silence followed. None of them had spoken Grace’s name in front of James since his and Cordelia’s engagement party, four months ago.

“I don’t know what Grace thinks, actually,” said James. “She was very strange after the betrothal—”

Matthew’s mouth twisted. “Even though she herself was already betrothed and had no business—”

“Matthew,” Thomas said quietly.

“I haven’t spoken with her for months,” James said. “Not a word.”

“You haven’t forgotten that you burned down that house for her, have you?” Matthew said, refilling his cup.

“No,” said James tightly. “But it doesn’t matter. I made a promise to Daisy, and I will keep that promise. If you wanted to prevent me from doing the right thing, you should have started the campaign quite a bit earlier than the night before my wedding.”

Everything was very quiet for a moment. The four of them were still, barely breathing. Snow dashed itself against the panes in soft explosions of white. James could see himself reflected in the glass: his own dark hair, his pale face.

At last Matthew said, “You are right, of course; it is only perhaps that we worry that you are too honest—too good, and goodness can be a blade sharp enough to cut, you know, just as much as evil intent.”

“I am not as good as all that,” said James, turning away from the window—

—and suddenly the room and his friends fell away, and he had the sensation of falling, twisting and turning through a long expanse of nothingness, though he was also standing still.

He had landed on a hard patch of earth.

No, not now, it can’t be. But as James got to his feet, he found himself in a barren wasteland, under a sky covered in ash. It wasn’t possible, he thought—he had seen this shadow realm fall apart, as Belial howled in rage.

The last time he was in this place, he had watched Cordelia drive her sword into Belial’s chest. An image of her appeared unbidden in his mind, striking the blow, her sword out and her hair streaming, as if she were a goddess captured in a painting: Liberty or Victory leading the people.

And then the world itself had yawned open as the sky split and red-black light fell upon the crumbling earth. And James had watched Belial’s face cave in and his body shatter into a thousand pieces.

Belial wasn’t dead, but he had been so weakened by Cortana that Jem had said he would not be able to return for at least a hundred years. And certainly since that moment, all had been quiet. James had not seen his grandfather, nor a hint of his grandfather’s shadow realm. But who else but Belial could have drawn James here now?

James spun around, narrowing his eyes. Something about this place, which he had seen so many times in dreams and visions, was different. Where were the piles of bleached bones, the dunes of sand, the twisted and gnarled trees? Far in the distance, across a desolate expanse of weed-choked scree, James saw the outline of a massive stone structure, a towering fortress rising above the plains.

Only human hands—or intelligent ones, at least—could have built such things. James had never seen a hint of such history in the desolation of Belial’s realm.

He took a cautious step, only to feel the air slam into him like a wave. He was blinded, forced choking to his knees, and yanked into a depthless blackness. He hurtled again through nothing, twisting and flailing until he landed roughly on a hard wooden floor.

He forced himself up onto his elbows, inhaling the stink of burnt chemicals mixed with damp wool. He heard voices before his vision cleared, Matthew’s rising above the other two: “James? Jamie!”

James coughed weakly. He tasted salt, and touched his mouth with his fingertips. They came away black and red. Hands caught his wrists; he was hauled up roughly, an arm around his back. Brandy and cologne.

“Matthew,” he said, in a dry voice.

“Water,” Christopher said. “Do we have any water?”

“Never touch the stuff,” said Matthew, settling James onto the long sofa. He sat down next to him, staring so intently into James’s face that, despite everything, James had to stifle a laugh.

“I’m fine, Matthew,” said James. “Also, I don’t know what you expect to discover by looking into my eyeball.”

“I’ve got water,” said Thomas, pushing past Christopher to offer James a mug: James’s hands were shaking so badly that his first swallow went half down his windpipe, half down his shirtfront. Christopher pounded him on the back until he was able to gulp air and breathe, and drink properly.

He set the empty mug on the arm of the sofa. “Thanks, Thomas—”

He was caught, suddenly, in a fierce hug from Matthew. Matthew’s hands were tight on the back of his shirt, Matthew’s cold cheek against his. “You went shadowy,” Matthew said, his voice low, “as if you were going to disappear, as if I’d wished you gone and you were vanishing—”

James drew back enough to smooth Matthew’s hair away from his forehead. “Have you wished me gone?” he said teasingly.

“No. Only I wish myself gone, sometimes,” Matthew said in a whisper, and it was that rarest of things where Matthew was concerned, an entirely true statement with no mockery or teasing or humor to be had.

“Never wish that,” James said, and sat back enough to see the other two Merry Thieves, and their worried expressions. “I turned into a shadow?”

Thomas nodded. Matthew was leaning against the back of the sofa now, only his right hand wrapped around James’s wrist, as if he were reassuring himself that James was still there.

“I did think that rubbish was over,” James admitted.

“It’s been months,” said Christopher.

“I thought it couldn’t happen to you anymore,” Thomas said. “I thought Belial’s realm was destroyed.”

James looked at his friends, wanting to reassure them—it doesn’t mean anything, there could be any sort of reason for it to happen, I’m sure it isn’t important—but the words died on his lips. The bleakness of the place was still too close to him, the acid taste of the air, the distant fortress shrouded in smoke.

Someone had wanted him to see it, he thought. And it was unlikely to be someone who wished him well.

“I know,” he said at last. “That’s what I thought too.”

 

The air outside was so cold it seemed to shimmer as Cordelia, tipsy and giggling, clambered down from the Institute carriage and waved a vigorous goodbye to Lucie. Behind her, Cornwall Gardens was dark and shuttered. “Thank you for the party surprise,” she called, closing the carriage door. “I never expected to spend the night before my wedding playing tiddlywinks with werewolves.”

“Did you think they were cheating? I thought they were cheating. But it was terribly amusing regardless.” Lucie leaned out the open window and blew Cordelia a dramatic kiss. “Good night, my dear! Tomorrow I will be your suggenes! We will be sisters.”

Cordelia looked momentarily anxious. “Only for a year.”

“No,” Lucie said firmly. “Whatever happens, we will always be sisters.”

Cordelia smiled and turned to go into the house. The front door had opened, and Lucie could see Alastair in the doorway, holding an upraised lamp, like Diogenes looking for an honest man. He nodded at Lucie before pulling the door shut behind his sister; Lucie tapped the side of the carriage, and Balios started up again, the sound of his hooves like muffled rain against the snowy ground.