“Some of us are Seelie, some Unseelie, and some of the wild peoples,” said Nene. “We do not acknowledge you as the King of the Unseelie Lands. We acknowledge Kieran Kingson, who slew Arawn the Elder-King with his own hands. He has the right of the throne by blood in his veins and by blood spilt.”
She stepped aside, and Kieran emerged from the circle of the fey. He had dressed himself in his clothes from Faerie: unbleached linen tunic, soft deerskin breeches and boots. He carried himself upright, his back straight, his gaze level.
“Greetings, brother Oban,” he said.
Oban’s face twisted into a snarl. “The last time I saw you, brother Kieran, you were being dragged in chains behind my horses.”
“That is true,” said Kieran. “But it speaks more ill of you than it does of me.” He looked out over the ranged masses of silent Unseelie warriors. “I have come to challenge my brother for the throne of Unseelie,” he said. “The usual method is a duel to the death. The survivor shall take the throne.”
Oban laughed in disbelief. “What? A duel now?”
“And why not now?” said Nene. Mark and Cristina were looking at each other in horror; it was clear neither of them had known this part of the plan. Emma doubted anyone had but Kieran himself and a few other faeries. “Or are you afraid, my lord Oban?”
In a smooth, sudden move, Oban raised his bow and shot at Kieran. The arrow flew free; Kieran jerked aside, the arrow just missing his arm. It flew across the field and slammed into Julie Beauvale; she went down like a struck sapling, her whip flying from her hand.
Emma gasped. Beatriz Mendoza cried out and fell to her knees at Julie’s side; Alec whirled and shot a flurry of arrows at Oban, but the redcaps had already closed in around the King. Several went down with Alec’s arrows in them as he nocked arrow after arrow to his bow and flew toward the Unseelie warriors.
“After him! Follow Alec!” shouted Maia. Werewolves dropped to the ground on all fours, sprouting fur and fangs. With a shout, the Cohort surrounding Horace seized up their weapons and charged; Julian parried a blow from Timothy with the Mortal Sword, while Jessica Beausejours threw herself at Emma, her sword whipping around her head.
Nene dashed forward to arm Kieran with a silver sword; it flashed like lightning as he laid about him. Oban’s Unseelie faeries, loyal to their King, surged to protect him, a tide of bristling spears and swords. Mark and Cristina hurtled toward Kieran, Cristina armed with a two-edged longsword, elf-shot flying from Mark’s bow. Redcaps crumpled at their feet. Simon, Jace, and Clary had already drawn their swords and leaped into the fray.
Timothy yelled as his sword snapped in half against the blade of Maellartach. With a whimper, he vanished behind Horace, who was screaming wildly for everyone to stop, for the battle to stop, but no one was listening. The noise of the battle was incredible: swords slamming against swords, werewolves howling, screams of agony. The smell of blood and metal. Emma disarmed Jessica and kicked her legs out from under her; Jessica went down with a scream of pain and Emma whirled to find two goblin warriors with their broken-glass teeth and leathery faces approaching. She raised Cortana as one rushed at her. The other went down suddenly, its legs caught in a snare of electrum.
Emma dispatched the first goblin with a blade to the heart and turned to see Isabelle, her golden whip snared around the legs of the second.
The trapped goblin yelled and Simon took care of it with the stroke of a longsword, his expression grim. Julian called out and Emma turned to see a faerie knight rise up behind her; before she could even lift Cortana, he staggered back with one of Julian’s throwing knives sunk deep in his throat.
Emma whirled; Julian was behind her, the gleaming Mortal Sword in his hand. There was blood on him, and a bruise on his cheek, but with Maellartach in his hand he looked like an avenging angel.
Emma’s heart beat in great, powerful strokes; it was so good to have Cortana in her hand again, so good to fight with Julian by her side. She could feel the parabatai warrior magic working between them, could see it like a shimmering cord that tied them together, moving when they moved, binding but never ensnaring them.
He gestured to her to follow him, and together they plunged into the heart of the battle.
*
The Projection in the sky burst apart like fireworks, the images tumbling toward the city in shining shards. But Dru had seen enough. They all had.
She swung around to see Maryse behind her, staring at the sky as if blinded by an eclipse. “Poor Julie—did you see—?”
Dru looked at Max and Rafe, who were clinging together, clearly terrified. “You have to get the kids into the house. Please. Take Tavvy.”
“No!” Tavvy wailed as Dru pushed him toward Maryse and the red front door of the Graymark house. “No, ’Silla, I want to go with you! NO!?” he shrieked, the word tearing her heart as she let go of him and backed away.
Maryse was staring at her, still looking stunned. “Drusilla—stay in the house—”
Behind Maryse the streets were full of people. They’d caught up weapons, dressed themselves in gear. A battle had begun, and Alicante would not wait.
“I’m sorry,” Dru whispered. “I can’t.”
She took off running, hearing Tavvy screaming for her long after she was likely out of earshot. She wove in and out of crowds of Shadowhunters in gear, bows and swords slung over their shoulders, their skin gleaming with fresh runes. It was the Dark War all over again, when they had flown hectically through the cobblestoned streets, chaos all around them. She caught her breath as she cut through Cistern Square, darted through a narrow alley, and came out in Hausos Square, opposite the Western Gate.
The great doors of the gate were closed. Dru had expected that. Lines of Cohort warriors blocked the crowds of Shadowhunters—many of whom Dru recognized from the war council meeting—from accessing them. The square was quickly filling with Nephilim, their angry voices raised.
“You cannot hold us in here!” shouted Kadir Safar, from the New York Conclave.
Lazlo Balogh scowled at him. “The Inquisitor has decreed that no Shadowhunters leave the city!” he called back. “For your own protection!”
Someone grabbed at Dru’s sleeve. She jumped a foot and nearly screamed; it was Tavvy, grubby and disheveled. “The Silent Brothers—why don’t they do something?” he demanded, distress printed all over his small face.
The Silent Brothers were still standing at the watch points they’d been assigned, motionless as statues. Dru had passed many of them the night before, though none had tried to stop her or asked her business. She couldn’t think about the Silent Brothers now, though. She seized Tavvy and almost shook him.
“What are you doing here? It’s dangerous, Tavvy!”
He stuck out his jaw. “I want to be with you! I won’t be left behind anymore!”
The crowd burst into a fresh spate of shouting. The Cohort guarding the gate was starting to look rattled, but none of them had moved.
There was no time to send Tavvy back. This could turn into a bloodbath at any moment, and even more than that, Dru’s family and friends were on the Imperishable Fields. They needed help.
She grabbed Tavvy’s hand. “Then keep up,” she snapped, and they started to run, shoving and pushing their way through the crowd to the other side of the square. They ran down Princewater Canal and over the bridge, reaching Flintlock Street in a matter of minutes. It was deserted—some houses had been abandoned so quickly that their doors still swung open.
Halfway down the street was the shop with its small sign. DIANA’S ARROW. Dru flew to the door and rapped on it hard—three fast knocks, then three slow. Open up, she prayed. Open, open, open—
The door flew wide. Jaime Rocio Rosales stood on the other side, dressed in black battle gear. He carried a gleaming silver crossbow, pointed directly at her.
“It’s me,” Dru said indignantly. “You know—the one who got you out of jail?”
“You can never be too careful, princess,” he said with a wink, and lowered the bow, calling over his shoulder for Diego and the others. They began to pour out into the street, all in gear, bristling with brand-new weapons: longswords and rapiers, crossbows and maces, axes and bolas. “Who taught you how to pick locks like that, anyway? I never got a chance to ask you last night.”
Kit Herondale, Dru thought. The thought of Kit reminded her of something else, too. Tavvy was staring round-eyed at all the gleaming weaponry: Diego was sporting an ax, Divya a two-handed bidenh?nder, Rayan a Spanish bola. Even Jia was decked out with her favorite sword, a curved dao. “Okay, everyone,” Dru said. “These weapons are Diana’s, and after today, they have to be returned to the store.”
“No worries,” said Jaime. “I have written out a receipt.”
“He has not written out a receipt,” said Diego.
“I considered it,” said Jaime.
“Sometimes it is not the thought that counts, little brother,” said Diego, and there was a deep warmth in his voice that Dru had never heard before. She sympathized—she knew what it was like to lose a brother and get him back.