Lord of Shadows

“We can’t risk breaking the Law, and the punishments that entails.” Julian’s voice was still calm, but Emma could see his hands, white-knuckled, gripping his chair arms. “My family needs me. My brothers and sisters are still young, and they have no parents. I’ve raised them and I can’t leave them. It’s out of the question. But Emma and I know we can’t trust ourselves just to stay away from each other.”

“So you want to be separated by the Clave,” said Robert. “You want exile, but you don’t want to wait to be caught. You’ve come to me so you can choose which of you leaves, and for how long, and what punishment the Clave, directed by me, will decide on.”

“Yes,” said Julian.

“And though you’re not saying it, I think you want some of what exile will do for you,” said Robert. “It’ll deaden your bond. Maybe you think it’ll make it easier for you to stop loving each other.”

Neither Emma or Julian spoke. He was uncomfortably close to the truth. Julian was expressionless; Emma tried to school her features to match his. Robert was tapping his fingertips together.

“We just want to be able to be normal parabatai,” said Julian finally, but Emma could hear the silent words beneath the audible ones: We will never give each other up, never.

“It’s quite something to ask.” Emma strained to hear anger or reproach or disbelief in the Inquisitor’s voice, but he sounded neutral. It frightened her.

“You had a parabatai,” she said in desperation. “Didn’t you?”

“Michael Wayland.” Robert’s tone was wintry. “He died.”

“I’m so sorry.” Emma had known that, but the sympathy was sincere. She could imagine little more horrible than Julian dying.

“I bet he would have wanted you to help us,” Julian said. Emma had no idea if he spoke from knowledge of Michael Wayland or just intuition, that skill he had of reading the look in people’s eyes, the truth in the way they frowned or smiled.

“Michael would have—yes,” Robert murmured. “He would have. By the Angel. Exile will be a heavy burden for Emma. I can try to limit the terms of the punishment, but you’ll still lose some of your Nephilim powers. You’ll need permission to enter Alicante. There will be some Marks you can’t use. Seraph blades won’t light for you.”

“I have Cortana,” said Emma. “That’s all I need.”

There was sadness in Robert’s smile. “If there’s a war, you can’t fight in it. That’s why my exile was lifted—because Valentine returned and began the Mortal War.”

Julian’s expression was so tight that his cheekbones seemed to stand out like knife blades. “We won’t accept the exile unless Emma’s allowed to keep enough of her Nephilim power to be safe,” he said. “If she’s hurt because of this exile—”

“The exile is your idea,” said Robert. “Are you sure you’ll be able to fall out of love?”

“Yes,” Julian lied. “Separation would be the first move, anyway, wouldn’t it? We’re just asking for a little extra surety.”

“I’ve heard things,” Robert said. “The Law against parabatai falling in love exists for a reason. I don’t know the reason, but my guess is that it’s significant. If I thought you knew what it was—” He shook his head. “But you can’t possibly. I could speak with the Silent Brothers . . . .”

No, Emma thought. They’d risked so much already, but if Robert learned of the curse, they’d be in very dangerous waters. “Magnus said you would help us,” she said, in a soft voice. “He said we could trust you and that you’d understand and keep it secret.”

Robert looked up at the tapestry that hung over his mantel. At Alec. He touched the Lightwood ring on his finger; a likely unconscious gesture. “I trust Magnus,” he said. “And I owe him a great deal.”

His gaze was distant. Emma wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the past or considering the future; she and Julian sat tensely while he considered. Finally, he said, “All right. Give me a few days—the two of you will have to remain in Alicante while I look into managing the exile ceremony, and you must stay in separate houses. I need to see a good faith effort to avoid each other. Is that clear?”

Emma swallowed hard. The exile ceremony. She hoped Jem could be there: Silent Brothers were the ones who presided over ceremonies, and even though he no longer was one, he had been at her parabatai ceremony with Julian. If he could be there for this, she would feel a little less alone.

She could see Julian’s expression: He looked much as she felt, as if relief and dread were warring inside him. “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she echoed, and Robert looked surprised. She suspected no one had ever thanked him for a sentence of exile before.

*

Cristina had never been in the Gard’s Council Hall before. It was a horseshoe-shaped space, rows of benches marching toward a slightly raised dais; a second balcony level, containing more benches and seats, rose high above. Above the dais hung a huge golden clock, gorgeously made with delicate scrollwork and a repeated Latin phrase, ULTIMA THULE, marching around the rim. Behind the dais was an incredible wall of windows, giving out onto a view of Alicante below. She raised herself a little bit on tiptoe, to see the winding streets, the blue slashes of the canals, the demon towers rising like clear needles against the sky.

The Hall was beginning to fill. Annabel and Kieran had been taken to a waiting room, along with Magnus. The rest of them had been allowed in early and had claimed two rows of benches near the front. Ty, Kit, and Livvy were sitting, engaged in conversation. Dru sat quietly on her own, seeming lost in thought. Cristina was about to start toward her when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

It was Mark. He had dressed carefully for the Council visit, and she felt a pang as she looked at him—he was so gorgeous in his pressed, old-fashioned clothes, like a marvelously colored old photograph. The dark jacket and waistcoat fit him well, and he had brushed his blond hair so that it covered the tips of his ears.

He had even shaved, and nicked himself slightly on the chin—which was ridiculous because Mark had no facial hair to speak of. He looked to Cristina like a little boy wanting to make a good impression on the first day of school. Her heart went out to him—he cared so much about the good opinion of a group of people who had agreed to abandon him to the Wild Hunt despite the pleas of his family, just because of who he was.

“Do you think Kieran will be all right?” Mark said. “They ought to treat an envoy from the Court with more honor. Instead they practically ran to put the wards back up as soon as we arrived.”

“He’ll be fine,” Cristina reassured him. Both Kieran and Mark, she thought, were stronger than the other one could believe, maybe because they’d been so vulnerable in the Hunt. “Though I can’t imagine Annabel is much of a conversationalist. At least Magnus is with them.”

Mark gave a strained smile as a low murmur swept through the room. The Centurions had arrived in full dress. They wore their uniforms of red, gray, and silver, with their silver pins on display. Each carried a staff of solid adamas. Cristina recognized some from Los Angeles, like Zara’s friend Samantha, with her thin, nasty face, and Rayan, looking around the room with an expression of concern.

Zara led the procession, her head held high, her mouth a slash of bright red. Her lips curled in distaste as she passed Mark and Cristina. But why wasn’t Diego beside her? Had he not come with them? But no, there he was, almost at the end of the line, looking gray and tired, but definitely present.

He paused in front of Mark and Cristina as the other Centurions passed by. “I got your message,” he said to Cristina, in a low voice. “If it’s what you want—”

“What message?” Mark said. “What’s going on?”

Zara appeared at Diego’s side. “A reunion,” she said. “How nice.” She smiled at Cristina. “I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear how well everything went in Los Angeles after you left.”

“Very impressive of you, killing Malcolm,” said Mark. His eyes were flat and glittering. “It seems to have resulted in quite a bit of advancement. Well-earned, I’m sure.”