“Arthur had sworn fealty,” said Wayland. “He had sworn it to me.”

“My father told me long ago that you were a Shadowhunter,” said Cordelia, her mind whirling. “But all you speak of happened before Raziel created the Nephilim, nor do Shadowhunters live forever. And you bear no runes.”

“Many claim me. I have been called one of the fey. Some call me a god,” said Wayland. “In reality, I am beyond and above such things. In the early days of the Nephilim, I came to Shadowhunters in their own form, that they might know me as one of their own and trust my making of weapons. In truth, I am far older than they. I recall a time before demons, before angels.” His gaze was steady, but his ember eyes shone intently. “And now a darkness walks among Shadowhunters, striking at will. This death will only spread. If it falls upon your shoulders to stop the killings, Cordelia Herondale, can you bear it?”

If it falls upon your shoulders. Her heart began to beat more quickly. “You—are you asking me to be your paladin?”

“I am.”

“Truly? Not the bearers of Excalibur, or Durendal?”

“Excalibur lies far beneath the lake; Durendal is trapped in rock,” growled the smith. “But Cortana is free, and burns for battle. Will you take up your blade? For I believe you have within you the soul of a great warrior, Cordelia Herondale. It but demands an oath of fealty to be truly free.”

Distantly, Cordelia wondered how Wayland the Smith knew she had married—she was still not accustomed to hearing her new name. But then, he seemed to know everything. He was, as he had said, very nearly a god.

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I will take up my blade.”

He smiled, and she realized each of his teeth was forged of bronze, glimmering in the dark light. “Raise your blade. Hold it before you.”

Cordelia raised the sword, the tip pointing toward the heavens. The hilt was a narrow streak of golden fire, burning before her eyes. Wayland the Smith moved so that he was standing in front of her. To her surprise, he caught the unsheathed sword in his enormous right fist, wrapping his hand around it. Blood dripped from his fingers, streaking the blade.

“Now swear,” he said. “Swear you will be loyal to me, that you shall not falter—and when you draw a blade, you will draw it in my name.”

“I swear my loyalty,” Cordelia said fervently. His blood continued to run down the blade, but as soon as the drops struck the hilt, they became sparks that lifted, gold and copper and bronze, into the air. “I swear my courage. I swear neither to falter nor to fail in battle. Whenever I draw my sword, whenever I lift up a weapon in battle, I shall do it in your name.”

Wayland released the sword. “Now rise,” he said, and Cordelia stood for the first time. She had not realized until this moment how very big the great smith was: he towered over her, his massive bulk a dark shadow against the stormy sky. “Go forth,” he said. “And be a warrior. I will find you again.”

He touched her, once, on the brow—and then he was gone. In a single blink, the world changed again: there was no more storm, no more embers, no more ringing sound of the forge. She stood on an ordinary hill under an ordinary blue sky, the sun bright as a golden coin. She took one last look at the barrow and was not surprised to see that the opening was dark again, half-hidden by moss.

Cordelia started back up the hill and saw Matthew, at the summit, raise his hand to greet her. Her heart rising in triumph, she ran toward him, Cortana held aloft, its blade shedding golden sparks in the sunlight.

15

WALK BY DAYTIME

Dreams that strive to seem awake,

Ghosts that walk by daytime,

Weary winds the way they take,

Since, for one child’s absent sake,

May knows well, whate’er things make

Sport, it is not Maytime.

—Algernon Charles Swinburne, “A Dark Month”

It was sunset, and Berwick Street was lively with foot traffic: tradesmen going home from work, rouged ladies already plying their trade from doorways, and laborers in high spirits arriving at the Blue Posts pub.

Leaning against the wall by the entrance to Tyler’s Court, Lucie sighed. Fog softened the edges of the city, turning the lights of salesmen’s naphtha flare lamps into shimmering, heatless bonfires. Balios, waiting at the curb with the carriage, stomped his feet and neighed softly, his breath a white plume in the air.

“Lucie Herondale?”

She whirled, about to snap at Grace for being late—and froze. Behind her stood a girl in a thin muslin dress, far too lightweight for the winter weather. Scanty blond hair was scraped back under a white cap. She was bone-thin, her arms and neck pitted with black sores. Through them, Lucie could see the street beyond, as if she looked through cracks in a brick wall.

“I’m Martha,” the girl whispered. “I heard you could help folks like me.” She drifted closer: her skirts seemed to end in a kind of white smoke that floated just above the pavement. “That you could command us.”

“I—” Lucie took a step back. “I shouldn’t. I oughtn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Please.” The girl moved closer: her eyes were white, as Filomena’s had been, though they were blank and pupil-less. “I want to forget what I did. I shouldn’t have taken the laudanum. My mam had the greater need. She died screaming ’cause I took it. And then there was no more for anyone.”

“You want to forget?” Lucie whispered. “Is—is that it?”

“No,” said the girl. “I want to feel again what I felt when I took the laudanum.” The girl bit at her insubstantial thumb, her white eyes rolling. “All those lovely dreams. You could command me to have them again.” She drifted closer; Lucie stumbled back, almost catching the heel of her boot on the pavement. A strange feeling arrowed through her—a sort of ice, sizzling in her veins.

“Leave her alone.”

Jesse stood at the alley’s entrance, looking so real it was hard even for Lucie to recall he wasn’t exactly there. His gaze was fixed on Martha.

“Please,” the ghost-girl whined. “She helps you. Don’t be selfish—”

“You know what you were doing,” Jesse said. His green eyes were burning; Lucie realized, at the look of fear on Martha’s face, that Jesse must be a terrible oddity to her. He was not alive enough to be among the living, nor dead enough to seem natural to the dead. “There is no excuse to harm the living. Now go.”

The ghost bared her teeth—a sudden, savage gesture. They were black, ragged stubs. “You can’t always be with her—”

Jesse moved lightning fast. He was no longer at the alley’s entrance; he was next to Martha, his hand closing on her shoulder. She gave a little shriek as if the touch had burned her, and pulled back—her body seemed to stretch out like taffy, strands of white ghost-matter clinging to Jesse’s hand as Martha twisted away. She gave a little hiss as she came apart in strings of ropy white stuff that drifted away like fog.

Lucie gasped. A moment later Jesse was beside her, leading her under the overhang of a market stall shuttered for the night.

“What—what was that?” she demanded, angling her hat to protect her from the dripping awning. “Is she—dead? I mean, more dead?”