Lord of Shadows

Before Julian or Emma could speak, the front door of the Institute slammed open. Diana was there, with Mark just behind her, still in his training clothes. Diana, in a white suit, looked as beautiful and formidable as always.

Gwyn’s towering brindled horse reared as Mark approached the top of the steps. Catching sight of Emma and Jules as they strode toward him, Mark looked more than a little surprised. Emma’s cheeks felt as if they must be burning, though when she looked at Julian, he seemed unruffled, cool as always.

They joined Mark just as Diana swept to the top of the steps. The four Shadowhunters stared down at the Hunter—his horse’s eyes were blood-red, and so was the armor that Gwyn wore: tough crimson leather, torn here and there by claw marks and the rips made by weapons.

“Because of the Cold Peace, I cannot bid you welcome,” Diana said. “Why are you here, Gwyn Hunter?”

Gwyn’s ancient gaze glided up and down Diana; there was no malice in it or arrogance, only the faerie appreciation for something beautiful. “Lovely lady,” he said, “I do not think we have met.”

Diana looked momentarily nonplussed. “Diana Wrayburn. I’m the tutor here.”

“Those who teach are honored in the Land Under the Hill,” said Gwyn. Under his arm he carried a massive helmet decorated with a stag’s antlers. His hunting horn lay across the pommel of his saddle.

Emma boggled. Was Gwyn hitting on Diana? She didn’t know faeries did that, exactly. She heard Mark make an exasperated noise.

“Gwyn,” he said, “I give you fair greetings. My heart is gladdened to see you.”

Emma couldn’t help wondering if any of that was true. She knew Mark had complicated feelings for Gwyn. He’d spoken of them sometimes, during the nights in her room, head on his hand. She had a clearer picture of the Wild Hunt now than she’d ever had before, of its delights and horrors, of the strange path Mark had been forced to make for himself between the stars.

“I would that I could say the same,” said Gwyn. “I bring dark news from the Unseelie Court. Kieran of your heart—”

“He is not of my heart any longer,” interrupted Mark. It was a faerie expression, “of my heart,” the closest they might come to saying “girlfriend” or “boyfriend.”

“Kieran Hunter has been found guilty of the murder of Iarlath,” said Gwyn. “He stood trial at the Court of the Unseelie, though it was a short affair.”

Mark flushed, tensing all over. “And the sentence?”

“Death,” said Gwyn. “He will die at the moon’s rise, tomorrow night, if there is no intervention.”

Mark didn’t move. Emma wondered if she should do something—move closer to Mark, offer comfort, a gentling hand? But the expression on his face was unreadable—if it was grief, she didn’t recognize it. If it was anger, then it was unlike any anger he had shown before.

“That is sad news,” Mark said finally.

It was Julian who moved then, stepping to his brother’s side. Julian put a hand on Mark’s shoulder; Emma felt relief flood through her.

“Is that all?” Gwyn said. “Have you nothing else to say?”

Mark shook his head. He looked fragile, Emma thought worriedly. As if you could see through his skin to the bones underneath. “Kieran betrayed me,” he said. “He is nothing to me now.”

Gwyn looked at Mark in disbelief. “He loved you and he lost you and he tried to get you back,” he said. “He wanted you to ride with the Hunt again. So did I. You were one of our best. Is that so terrible?”

“You saw what happened.” Mark did sound angry now, and Emma herself could not help but remember: the twisted quickbeam tree she had leaned against while Iarlath whipped Julian and then her, and Kieran and Mark and Gwyn watched. The pain and the blood, the lashes like fire against her skin, though nothing had hurt as much as watching Julian be hurt. “Iarlath whipped my family, my friend. Because of Kieran. He whipped Emma and Julian.”

“And now you have given up the Hunt for them,” said Gwyn, his two-colored eyes flicking toward Emma, “and so, there is your vengeance, if you wanted it. But where is your compassion?”

“What do you want of my brother?” Julian demanded, his hand still on Mark’s shoulder. “Do you want him to grieve visibly for your amusement? Is that why you came?”

“Mortals,” Gwyn said. “You think you know so much, yet you know so little.” His large hand tightened on his helmet. “I do not want you to grieve for Kieran. I want you to rescue him, Mark Hunter.”

*

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but in front of the Institute, there was only silence, profound as a shout.

Even Diana seemed struck speechless. In the quiet, Emma could hear the sounds of Livvy and the others up in the training room, their voices and laughter.

Jules’s expression was flat. Calculating. His hand on Mark’s shoulder was a tight grip now. I want you to rescue him, Mark Hunter.

Anger swelled quickly inside Emma; unlike Jules, she didn’t bite it back. “Mark is not of the Wild Hunt any longer,” she said hotly. “Don’t call him ‘Hunter.’ He isn’t one.”

“He is a Shadowhunter, isn’t he?” asked Gwyn. Now that he had made his bizarre request, he seemed more relaxed. “Once a hunter, always a hunter of some sort.”

“And now you wish me to hunt for Kieran?” Mark spoke in a strange, halting tone, as if he were having difficulty getting the words out past his anger. “Why me, Gwyn? Why not you? Why not any of you?”

“Did you not hear me?” said Gwyn. “He is held captive by his father. The Unseelie King himself, in the depths of the Court.”

“And is Mark indestructible, then? You think he can take on the Unseelie Court where the Wild Hunt can’t?” It was Diana; she had moved down a step, and her dark hair blew in the desert wind. “Yours is a famous name, Gwyn ap Nudd. You have ridden with the Wild Hunt for hundreds of mortal years. There are many stories about you. Yet never had I heard that the leader of the Wild Hunt had succumbed to madness.”

“The Wild Hunt is not subject to the rule of the Courts,” said Gwyn. “But we fear them. It would be madness not to. When they came to take Kieran, I, and all my Hunters, were forced to swear a life oath that we would not challenge the trial or its outcome. To attempt to rescue Kieran now would mean death for us.”

“That’s why you’ve come to me. Because I didn’t swear. Because even if I did, I can lie. A lying thief, that’s what you want,” Mark said.

“What I wanted was one I could trust,” said Gwyn. “One who has not sworn, one who would dare the Court.”

“We want no trouble with you.” It was Julian, keeping his voice level with an effort that Emma suspected only she could sense. “But you must see that Mark cannot do what you’re asking. It is too dangerous.”

“We of the Folk of the Air do not fear danger, nor death,” said Gwyn.

“If you don’t fear death,” said Julian, “then let Kieran meet it.”

Gwyn recoiled at the coldness in Julian’s voice. “Kieran is not yet twenty.”

“Neither is Mark,” said Julian. “If you think we’re afraid of you, you’re right. We’d be fools not to be. I know who you are, Gwyn—I know you once made a man eat his own father’s heart. I know you took the Hunt from Herne in a battle over Cadair Idris. I know things that would surprise you. But I am Mark’s brother. And I will not let him risk himself in Faerie again.”

“The Wild Hunt is a brotherhood as well,” Gwyn said. “If you cannot bring yourself to help Kieran out of love, Mark, do it out of friendship.”

“Enough,” Diana snapped. “We respect you here, Gwyn the Hunter, but this discussion is at an end. Mark will not be taken from us.”

Gwyn’s voice was a bass rumble. “What if he chooses to go?”

They all looked at Mark. Even Julian turned, dropping his hand slowly from Mark’s shoulder. Emma saw the fear in his eyes. She imagined it was echoed in her own. If Mark still loved Kieran—even a little bit—

“I do not choose it,” said Mark. “I do not choose it, Gwyn.”