Lord of Shadows

In the end, after the Shadowhunters had all entered the Portal, she went through with Magnus, clutching the Black Volume in her hands, her face hidden against his shoulder.

Only to be met on the other side by a crowd of Council members and the Consul herself. Jia had blanched when she saw Annabel and said in an astonished voice, “Is that really her?”

Magnus had locked eyes with the Consul for a moment. “Yes,” he said firmly. “It is. She is.”

There was a babble of questions. Emma couldn’t blame the assembled Council members. There had been quite a few questions for Julian when he’d emerged from the library and told a waiting Magnus and Emma that Annabel was coming with them to Idris.

As he’d outlined his plan, Emma had caught sight of the expression on Magnus’s face. The warlock had looked at Julian with a mixture of astonishment, respect, and something that might have looked a little like horror.

But it had probably just been surprise. After all, Magnus had seemed sanguine enough, and had immediately set about sending a fire-message to Jia to let her know what to expect.

Emma had drawn Julian aside while blue sparks flew from Magnus’s fingers. “What about the book?” she’d whispered. “What about the Queen?”

Julian’s eyes glittered. “If this works, Annabel will give us the Black Volume,” he’d replied in a whisper, and he’d been looking at the library door as if Annabel, behind it, were the answer to all their prayers. “And if not—I have a plan for that, too.”

There’d been no chance to ask him what the plan was: Annabel had stepped out of the library, looking fearful and shy. She looked even more fearful now as the hubbub rose around her: Kieran drew some of the fire by stepping up to announce himself as the envoy of the Seelie Queen, sent to speak on the behalf of the Seelie Court to the Council of Shadowhunters. He’d been expected, but there was still a burst of more excited talking.

“Put the wards back up,” said the Consul, inclining her head to Kieran. Her expression was polite, but the message was clear: Though Kieran was there to help them, all full-blood faeries were still going to be treated with extreme suspicion by the Clave.

Mark and Cristina moved to Kieran’s side protectively, while Magnus spoke quietly with the Consul. After a moment, she nodded, and gestured at Emma and Julian.

“If you want to speak to Robert, go ahead,” she said. “But keep it short—the meeting is soon.”

Emma was unsurprised, as she and Julian headed toward the Gard’s offices, to see that Livvy, Ty, Kit, and Dru had flanked Annabel protectively. Ty, especially, had his chin jutting out, his hands in fists. Emma wondered if he felt responsible for Annabel because his letter had brought her to them, or if he felt some kind of kinship for those at odds with the Clave’s standards for “normalcy.”

A door swung open. “You can come in now,” said a guard. It was Manuel Villalobos, wearing his Centurion uniform. His start of surprise at seeing them was quickly hidden by a smirk. “An unexpected pleasure,” he said.

“We’re not here to see you,” said Julian. “Though nice to know you’re opening doors for the Inquisitor these days. Is he here?”

“Let them in, Centurion,” Robert called, which was all the permission needed for Emma to shove by Manuel and stalk down the hallway. Julian followed her.

The short hall ended in the Inquisitor’s office. He was sitting behind his desk, looking much the same as he had the last time Emma had seen him at the Los Angeles Institute. A big man only now beginning to show the marks of age—his shoulders were a little hunched, his dark hair woven thickly with gray—Robert Lightwood cut an imposing figure behind his massive mahogany desk.

The room was largely unfurnished aside from the desk and two chairs. There was an unlit fireplace, above whose mantel hung one of the series of tapestries on display in the hall outside. This one said THE BATTLE OF THE BURREN. Figures in red clashed with figures in black—Shadowhunters and the Endarkened Ones—and above the melee, a dark-haired archer was visible standing on a tipped boulder, holding a drawn bow and arrow. To anyone who knew him, it was very clearly Alec Lightwood.

Emma wondered what thoughts went through Robert Lightwood’s mind as he sat each day in his office and looked at the portrait of his son, a hero of a now-famous battle. Pride, of course, but there must also be some wonder, that he had created this person—these people, really, for Isabelle Lightwood was no slouch in the heroics department—who had become so fierce and amazing in their own right.

Someday Julian would have that pride, she thought, in Livvy and Ty and Tavvy and Dru. But her parents had never had a chance to feel it. She’d never had a chance to make them proud. She felt the familiar wave of bitterness and resentment, pressing against her heart.

Robert gestured for them to be seated. “I hear you wanted to talk to me,” he said. “I hope this isn’t meant to be some sort of distraction.”

“Distraction from what?” Emma asked, settling herself into the uncomfortable wing-backed chair.

“Whatever you’re up to.” He sat back. “So what is it?”

Emma’s heart seemed to flip. Was this a good idea, or a terrible one? It felt as if everything in her had been armoring against this moment, against the idea that she and Julian would have to spread their feelings out under the feet of the Clave for them to tread on.

She watched Julian as he leaned forward and began to speak. He seemed absolutely calm as he spoke of his and Emma’s early friendship, their affection for each other, their decision to be parabatai, brought on by the Dark War and the loss of their parents. He made it sound like a reasonable decision—no one’s fault—who could have blamed them, any of them? The Dark War had stricken them all with loss. No one could be at fault for overlooking details. For mistaking their feelings.

Robert Lightwood’s eyes began to widen. He listened in silence as Julian spoke of his and Emma’s growing feelings for each other. How they both had realized what they felt separately, struggled in silence, confessed their emotions, and finally decided to seek the Inquisitor’s assistance and even the exercise of the Law.

“We know we’ve broken the Law,” Julian finished, “but it was not intentional, or under our control. All we want is your help.”

Robert Lightwood got to his feet. Emma could see the glass towers through his window, glimmering like burning banners. She could hardly believe that just that morning they’d been fighting the Riders in the courtyard of the London Institute. “No one’s ever asked me if they could be exiled before,” he said, finally.

“But you were exiled yourself, once,” said Julian.

“Yes,” Robert said. “With my wife, Maryse, and Alec, when he was a toddler. And for good reason. It’s a lonely thing, exile. And for someone as young as Emma . . .” He glanced at them. “Does anyone else know about you?”

“No.” Julian’s voice was calm and firm. Emma knew he was trying to protect those who had guessed or been told—but it unnerved her anyway, the way he could sound so absolutely sincere when he was lying.

“And you’re sure? This isn’t a crush, or just—parabatai feelings can be very intense.” Robert sounded awkward as he clasped his hands behind his back. “They’re easy to misconstrue.”

“We,” said Julian, “are absolutely sure.”

“The usual measure would be separation, not exile.” Robert looked from one of them to the other as if he still couldn’t quite believe what was in front of him. “But you don’t want that. I can see that already. You wouldn’t have come to me if you thought I could only offer you the standard measures—separation, stripping of your Marks.”