The last time he had seen the Riders of Mannan had been in London. There were six of them now, gleaming in bronze and gold; their horses were shod with gold and silver, their eyes inky black. The Riders wore armor without joints or rivets to hold it together—a smooth, liquidy bronze that covered them from neck to foot like the gleaming carapaces of insects.

“Get behind me, Kit.” Emma had gone pale. She stepped in front of Kit, lifting Cortana. “Stay down. They’re probably coming for me, not you.”

The Riders hurtled toward them, like a shower of falling stars. They were beautiful and awful. Kit had taken only the Herondale dagger Jace had given him. He realized now how unprepared he had been. How foolish.

One of the Riders jerked and yelled, clasping at his arm. Ty’s slingshot, Kit realized, and felt a rush of reluctant warmth and a sudden stab of fear—what if he never saw Ty again?

The struck Rider spat a curse; they were almost overhead, and Kit saw their faces—their bronze hair, their sharp cold features.

“Six of you against one?” Emma shouted, the wind whipping her hair. “Are you that dishonorable? Come down one by one and fight me! I dare you!”

“It seems you cannot count, little Shadowhunting murderer,” said Ethna, the only woman among the Riders. “There are two of you.”

“Kit is a child,” said Emma, which annoyed Kit even as he realized she was probably right to say it. Kieran’s voice was in his head: The children of Mannan have never been defeated.

Across the field, Julian was running toward them. Helen ran alongside him, and Aline. But they would never reach Emma and Kit in time.

“Kit is the child,” said Etarlam with a smirk. “The descendant of the First Heir.”

“Give him to us,” said Karn. “Give him to us and we might spare you.”

Kit’s throat had gone dry. “That’s not right,” he said. “I have no faerie blood. I’m a Shadowhunter.”

“One can be both,” said Ethna. “We guessed it when we saw you in that dirty city.”

She meant London, Kit thought dizzily. He remembered Eochaid looking at him, saying: I know you. I know your face.

“You look just like her,” said Eochaid now with a smirk. “Just like Auraline. And just like your mother.”

“We slew her,” said Ethna. “And now we will slay you, too, and wipe out any trace of your tainted bloodline from this world and ours.”

“What?” Kit forgot his fear, forgot Emma’s exhortation that he stay behind her. Forgot that anyone was coming to help them. Forgot everything except Ethna’s words. “You killed my mother? My mother?”

“What did you think happened to her, child?” Ethna said. “Yes, we spilled her blood at the King’s orders. She died screaming for you, though even when we tortured her, she never spoke your name or revealed your whereabouts. Perhaps that will be a comfort for you, in these last moments!” She burst out laughing, and in a moment, the Riders were all laughing, their horses rearing back against the sky.

Cold fire spread through Kit’s veins; he moved toward the Riders, as if he could reach up and pull them from the sky.

He felt the Talent rune Ty had given him begin to burn on his upper arm.

Emma swore, trying to grab at Kit and draw him behind her. “You can’t,” she was saying. “You can’t, they’re unbeatable, Kit—”

The Riders drew their swords. Metal flashed in the sky. They blocked out the sun as they hurtled down toward Emma and Kit. Emma raised her sword as Ethna, blaze-eyed astride her stallion, smashed into her, blade against blade. Emma was lifted off her feet and hurled backward. She hit the turf with an impact Kit could hear. She scrambled to her feet as Ethna wheeled her steed around, laughing, and started to race to Kit, but the others were coming—they were driving their horses toward Kit with such force that the grass below them flattened—he raised his hands as if he could ward them off with a gesture, and heard Eochaid laugh—

Something inside him cracked apart, flooding his body with power. It surged through him, electric, exploding from the palms of his hands with enough force to press him to his knees.

Emma looked at him incredulously as white light shot from his hands and surrounded the Riders like a net. Kit could hear them screaming in horror and surprise; they urged their horses higher, into the sky—

He closed his hands into fists, and the horses vanished. Winked out of existence between one breath and the next. The Riders, who had already plunged high into the sky to get away, fell screaming through the air to the ground; they crashed down among the surge of battle and disappeared from view.

Kit rolled onto his back on the grass. He was gasping for breath. Dying, he thought. I’m dying. And I cannot be who they said I am. It’s impossible.

“Kit!” Emma was crouching over him, pulling the collar of his shirt aside to place an iratze there. “Kit, by the Angel, what did you do?”

“I don’t—know.” He felt like there was no breath in his body. His fingers scrabbled weakly against the dirt. Help me, Emma. Help me.

Tell Ty—

“It’s all right.” There was someone else bending over him, someone with a familiar face and calming voice. “Christopher. Christopher, breathe.”

It was Jem. Closing his eyes, Kit let Jem’s gentle arms lift him from the ground, and darkness came down like the curtain at the end of a play.

*

“Emma!”

Dazed, Emma stumbled a little as she straightened up. She had been bending over Kit, and then Jem had come—and Kit was gone. She was still dizzy from the shock of the Riders’ attack and the strangeness that had followed.

Kit had made the Riders’ steeds disappear and they’d fallen into the crowd of battle, wreaking havoc. And now Julian was here, looking at her with worry and concern.

“Emma,” Julian said again, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her to look at him. “Are you all right?”

“Aline and Helen,” she said breathlessly. “They were with you—”

“They went back to help the others,” he said. “The Riders are causing chaos on the field—”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, “I didn’t know that Kit—”

“I’m not sorry,” Julian said, and there was a savagery in his tone that made her look up, her head clearing. Julian’s face was smudged with blood and dirt. His gear was ripped at the shoulder, his boots thick with churned mud and blood. He was beautiful. “Whatever happened, whatever Kit did, he saved your life. The Riders would have killed you.”

She was breathless with fear, not for herself but for Julian. The Riders hated them both. Gwyn and Diana were circling over the Fields, calling out that Oban was dead, that Kieran was King. Perhaps Kieran could order the Riders around—perhaps not. At the moment, they had not sworn allegiance to him. They were masterless, here for blood and vengeance, and very dangerous.

“Do you need an iratze?” Julian was still holding her shoulders. She wanted to hug him, wanted to touch his face and make sure he was whole and unharmed. She knew she couldn’t.

“No,” Emma said. Runes between them were too dangerous. “I’m fine.”

Slowly he bent his head and touched his forehead to hers. They stood for a moment, motionless. Emma could feel the parabatai energy in them both, vibrating beneath their skin like an electric current. There was no one around them; they were at the very edge of the battle, almost in the woods.

She felt herself smile a little. “Ty’s up a tree with a slingshot,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Julian drew back, a look of amusement ghosting across his face. “I know. Safest place for him, I guess, though when I find out how he got out of Magnus’s enchantment, I’m not sure which of them I’m going to kill.” There was a sudden commotion; Emma looked over at the field and saw flashes of bronze. The Riders had regrouped; they were laying about themselves with their blades, cutting a path through the Shadowhunters. Several bodies lay crumpled on the ground: with a pang, she recognized Vivianne Penhallow’s strawberry-blond hair, now flecked with blood.

Emma grabbed Cortana. “Julian—where’s the Mortal Sword?”

“Gave it to Jace,” he said as they both hurried across the trampled grass. “I hated carrying that thing around. He’ll enjoy it.”

“Probably,” Emma admitted. She looked around: The skies overhead roiled blue-black. The bodies of Downworlders and Shadowhunters were scattered across the field; as they pressed on, Emma nearly stepped on a corpse in a Centurion uniform, eyes rolled to the sky. It was Timothy Rockford. She fought down a wave of nausea and turned away. A redcap surged up behind her.

She raised Cortana, the blade slicing the air.

“Emma!” Julian caught at her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said as the redcap turned and vanished back into the crowd. “The Unseelie soldiers don’t know what to do. Some are still following Oban. Some are retreating at Kieran’s orders. It’s chaos.”

“So it could be ending?” she said, breathless. “We could be winning?”

He drew the back of his hand across his face, smudging more dirt on his cheekbones. His eyes were brilliant blue-green in the odd light of the clouds; his gaze ran up and down her, and she recognized his look as the embrace he couldn’t give, the words he couldn’t say.