Horace gave her a look of disgust and turned to Oban. “Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild are dead, aren’t they?”

Oban’s expression was a mixture of anger and unease. “One of my redcaps told me it was so, and as you know, my people cannot lie.”

“There you have it,” said Horace. “I am out of patience with you, Blackthorn! Guards, come and take them to the Gard. Their punishment will be decided later.”

“We’ll take them.” Zara stepped forward, Timothy Rockford at her side. She slid Cortana from its sheath and raised it to gesture at the intruders. “Emma Carstairs, I arrest you in the name of—”

Emma reached out her hand. She reached out as she had through all the years since Julian had placed Cortana in her arms at the start of the Dark War. She reached out as she had in the thorn hedge of Faerie, as if she were reaching down through the past to touch the hands of all the Carstairs women who had held Cortana through the years.

Zara’s hand jerked. Cortana’s grip tore free of her fingers and the blade sailed across the space between them.

The hilt smacked into Emma’s hand. Reflexively, she grasped it, and raised the sword high. Cortana was hers again.

*

They had been sitting on one of the campfire logs, chatting, though Helen was too nervous to keep her mind firmly on the conversation. She couldn’t keep her mind off Jules and Mark, and the danger they were now facing.

“They’ll be all right,” Magnus said after he’d asked her a question twice and she hadn’t answered. She was staring off into the profusion of trees, her whole body tensed. “Horace wouldn’t harm them in front of so many people. He’s a politician.”

“Everyone’s got a breaking point,” said Helen. “We’ve seen people do some pretty strange things.”

Magnus’s cat eyes flashed. “I suppose we have.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” Aline said to him. “We haven’t spent much time together since Rome.”

She smiled at Helen; Rome was where they had met, years ago.

“I keep telling myself I’m going to avoid wars and battles in the future,” said Magnus. “Somehow they keep coming to me. It must be something about my face.”

The sound of the whistle brought Helen to her feet, along with Aline. It wasn’t much of a warning. The trees around them shook; Helen had just drawn her sword when a group of fifty or sixty heavily armed Cohort members burst from them, led by Manuel Villalobos, and headed straight for the camp.

Magnus hadn’t bothered to get up off his log. “Oh my,” he said in a bored voice. “A terrifying and unexpected attack.”

Aline hit him on the shoulder. The Cohort members pounded up the slight hill and burst into the camp, encircling Magnus, Helen, and Aline. Manuel wore his full Centurion gear; his red-and-gray cloak swirled impressively as he seized Aline and yanked her back against his chest, his dagger out.

“Which tent is Jace and Clary’s?” he demanded. He gestured with his dagger. “You two! Milo, Amelia! Grab the warlock’s hands. He can’t do magic without them.” He shot Magnus a look of loathing. “You ought to be dead.”

“Ah, indeed, but the thing is, I’m immortal,” Magnus said cheerfully, as a beefy Shadowhunter—Milo, apparently—yanked his hands together behind him. “Someone ought to have told you.”

Helen wasn’t having as easy a time being cheerful. Aline shot her a reassuring look, but the sight of her wife in Manuel’s grip was still more than she could stand. “Let her go!” she demanded.

“As soon as you tell me where Jace and Clary are,” said Manuel. “In fact, let me phrase it in words you might understand. Tell me where they are or I’ll cut your wife’s throat.”

Helen and Aline exchanged a look. “It’s that blue one over there,” said Helen, and pointed in what she hoped seemed a reluctant manner.

Manuel shoved Aline away from him. Helen caught her and they embraced tightly. “I hated that,” Helen muttered against Aline’s neck as Cohort members shot by them, their unsheathed blades flashing.

“I didn’t love it either,” Aline replied. “He reeks of cologne. Like a pinecone. Come on.”

They glanced back at Magnus, who was whistling cheerfully and ignoring his guards, who looked sweaty and worried. Magnus nodded at them and they hurried after Manuel and the others, who were just approaching the blue tent.

“Grab them,” Manuel said, indicating the tent stakes. “Yank it out of the ground.”

The tent was seized, lifted off the ground, and hurled aside, collapsing in a pile of fabric.

Revealed beneath were Jace and Clary, sitting cross-legged on the dirt, facing each other. They had been playing tic-tac-toe on the ground with sticks. Clary had her hair in a ponytail and looked about fifteen.

Manuel made a sputtering noise. “Kill them,” he said, turning to his companions. “Go on. Kill them.”

The Cohort looked nonplussed. Amelia took a step forward, raising her blade—then started visibly.

The trees around the campsite were rustling loudly. The Cohort members who had remained at the treeline, weapons drawn, were glancing around in puzzlement and dawning fear.

Jace drew the third in a line of X’s on the ground and tossed aside his stick. “Checkmate,” he said.

“Checkmate is chess,” Clary pointed out, entirely ignoring the Cohort surrounding them.

Jace grinned. It was a bright, beautiful grin, the sort of grin that made Helen understand why, all those years ago, Aline had kissed him just to see. “I wasn’t talking about our game,” he said.

“I said kill them!” Manuel shouted.

“But, Manu,” said Amelia, pointing a shaking finger. “The trees—the trees are moving—”

Aline grasped Helen’s hand as the forest exploded.

*

There was a moment of stillness. Genuine wonder showed on nearly every face, even Oban’s. As a faerie, perhaps he understood the significance of Cortana’s choice, whether he liked it or not.

Emma’s gaze met Julian’s. He smiled at her with his eyes. Julian understood what this meant to her. He always did.

Zara gave a screech. “Give that back!” She advanced on Emma, who raised Cortana in triumph. Her blood sang in her veins, a song of gold and battle. “You cheaters! Thieves! Coming here, trying to spoil everything, trying to ruin what we’re building!”

“Cortana doesn’t want you, Zara,” Julian said quietly. “A sword of Wayland the Smith can choose its bearer, and Cortana does not choose liars.”

“We are not liars—”

“Really? Where’s Manuel?” Mark demanded. “He was in Faerie when I was there. I saw him plotting with Oban. He spoke of an alliance with the Cohort.”

“Then he spoke of this parley!” Horace roared. “This is an alliance—it is no secret—”

“That was long before you told the Clave that Jace and Clary had died,” said Cristina. “Can Manuel see the future?”

Horace actually stamped his foot. “Vanessa! Martin! Get rid of these intruders!”

“My redcaps can take them,” said Oban. “Shadowhunter blood makes a fair dye.”

The Cohort froze. Julian gave a small, cold smile.

“Really, Prince?” said Mark. “How would you know?”

Oban whirled on him. “You will address me as your King! I rule the Lands of Unseelie! I took the title from my father—”

“But you didn’t kill him,” said Cristina. “Kieran did that. Kieran Kingson.”

The army of Unseelie had begun to mutter. The redcaps looked on stonily.

“End this farce, Dearborn,” Julian said. “Send the Unseelie army home. Come and face your people in the Council Hall.”

“Face them?” Horace said, his mouth working in disgust. “And how do you suggest I do that when I have not yet arranged for justice? Would you simply forget those brave Shadowhunters, the ones who you claim as friends, who have died at the hands of Downworlders? I will not abandon them! I will speak for them—”

“Or you could let them speak for themselves,” Alec said mildly. “Since, you know, here they are.”

“Oh, look, and there’s Manuel,” said Emma. “We were awfully sorry to miss him, but I see he was . . .”

“Don’t say it,” warned Julian.

“. . . tied up.” Emma grinned. “Sorry. Can’t resist a bad pun.”

And tied up he was: Manuel, along with a group of fifty or more Cohort members, was being marched firmly across the Fields from the edge of Brocelind Forest. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were being propelled forward by a crowd of Shadowhunters—Aline and Helen, Isabelle and Diana and Simon.

Walking alongside them, as casually as if they were out for a morning stroll, were Jace and Clary. Above them fluttered the banner of Livia’s Watch, Clary holding the stanchion from which the banner flew. Emma’s eyes stung—Livvy’s locket and saber, flying high above the Imperishable Fields.

And behind them—behind them came a wave of all the Downworlders who had waited in the woods through the night: warlocks and werewolves and fey of all sorts, leaping and striding and stalking out from between the trees. Brocelind Forest was full of Downworlders once more.

Horace had gone still. Zara shrank in against his bulk, glaring through her tangled hair.