“You terrify me,” Mark said, and Cristina turned and made a face at him. Kieran smiled but did not laugh: there seemed too much tension in him. Perhaps because it was difficult for him to be in Alicante. It had been heavily faerie-proofed during the Dark War, iron and salt and rowan strategically deployed in nearly every street. The Basilias was covered in hammered iron nails, so Mark and Cristina waited for news of Jules and Emma in the square with Kieran, letting the bright sun warm them as they rested.

After the Dark War, Mark knew, this square had been full of bodies. Corpses laid out in rows, their eyes bound with white silk, ready for burning and burial. Now it was peacefully quiet. There had been deaths in the battle three days before, and the next day a great funeral at the Fields. Jia had spoken: of the sorrow endured, of the necessity of building again and the importance of not acting in revenge against the Cohort, fifty of whom were now in the Gard jail.

“My mother is the one who is terrifying,” said Cristina, shaking her head. She was warm in Mark’s arms, and Kieran was a comforting weight against his side. If it had not been for worry over Emma and Jules, he would have been perfectly happy. “I told her about us last night.”

“You did?” Mark was agog. Cristina’s mother was terrifying—he’d heard that after the gates of the City had been opened by the Silent Brothers, she’d climbed up on one of the walls and thrown dozens of spears at the Unseelie faeries with a deadly precision that had sent redcaps scurrying away from the city. There was also a rumor that she’d punched Lazlo Balogh in the nose, but he decided not to confirm it.

“What did she say?” Kieran’s black and silver eyes were worried.

“She said that it was perhaps not the choice she would have made for me,” said Cristina, “but that what mattered was that I was happy. She also said she wasn’t surprised it took two men to fill Diego’s shoes.” She grinned.

“Because Diego saved my life, I will absorb that slight without retort,” said Kieran.

“And I’ll tie his shoelaces together the next time I see him,” said Mark. “Can you believe they found Manuel hiding under Horace’s dead body?”

“I am only surprised he did not cut Horace’s body open and hide inside it,” said Kieran dourly.

Mark punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“Why do you strike me?” Kieran protested. “It has been done before in Faerie. Once a cowardly warrior hid inside a kelpie for a week.”

Something white fluttered down from the sky. A moth, who deposited an acorn in Kieran’s lap and winged away.

“A message?” Mark said.

Kieran unscrewed the acorn’s top. He looked darkly serious, probably because he was now clad in the raiment of an Unseelie King. It still gave Mark a jolt to see him, all in black—black boots, black breeches, and a black waistcoat sewed with embroidered waves of gold and green to symbolize Kieran’s nixie heritage. “From Winter,” Kieran said. “All the Shadowhunters and Downworlders are now returned from the Unseelie Lands to their homes.”

Kieran had opened the hospitality of the Unseelie Court to those who had fled the battle on the Fields. Alec had said he thought the gesture would go a long way toward rolling back the laws of the Cold Peace. A meeting to discuss how the Clave would go forward was scheduled for the next day, and Mark was anxious for it.

Kieran had not stayed long in the Unseelie Court. He had returned to Mark and Cristina the day after the battle, and they had been glad to have him back.

“Look!” Cristina cried. She sat up, pointing: One of the windows of the Basilias had opened and Dru had poked her head out. She was waving down at them, gesturing for them to come inside. “Emma and Julian are awake!” she called. “Come up!”

Cristina scrambled to her feet and the others followed. Julian and Emma. And Dru had been smiling. Now, Mark thought, now he was perfectly happy.

He started toward the Basilias, Cristina beside him. They were nearly there when they realized Kieran hadn’t followed.

Mark turned. “Kieran—” He frowned. “Is the iron too difficult?”

“It is not that,” Kieran said. “I should return to Faerie.”

“Now?” Cristina said.

“Now and forever,” said Kieran. “I shall not come back from there.”

“What?” Mark strode back toward Kieran. The white letter from Winter fluttered in Kieran’s hand like the wing of a bird. “Speak sense, Kieran.”

“I am speaking sense,” Kieran said softly. “Now that we know Emma and Julian will live, I must go back to Faerie. It is the bargain I made with Winter.” He glanced down at the letter. “My general summons me. Without a King the Land is at risk of falling into chaos.”

“They have a King!” Cristina had run to Kieran’s side. She wore a light blue shawl; she drew it around herself tightly in agitation, shaking her head. “You are their King, whether you are there or here.”

“No.” Kieran closed his eyes. “The King is linked to the Land. Every moment that the King is in the mortal world, the Land weakens. I cannot stay here. I did not want to be King—I did not ask to be King—but I am King, and I cannot be a bad one. It would not be right.”

“We could come with you, then,” said Mark. “We could not stay in Faerie all the time, but we could visit—”

“I thought that as well. But after even a short time as King in the Court, I know otherwise now,” Kieran said. His hair had gone entirely black under the slim gold circlet that now encircled his brow. “The King is not permitted to have a mortal consort—”

“We know that,” said Cristina, remembering her words in Brocelind. Even then she had believed Kieran might not become King. That a way would be found. “But your father had mortal consorts, didn’t he? Isn’t there some way around the rules?”

“No. He had mortal lovers.” The word sounded ugly. “A consort is an official position. Mortal companions are playthings to be toyed with and tossed aside. He cared not how they were treated, but I do care. If I brought you to the Court as such, you would be treated with contempt and cruelty, and I could not stand to see it.”

“You’re the King,” Cristina said. “They’re your people. Can’t you order them not to be cruel?”

“They have had years of a cruel reign,” said Kieran. “I cannot teach them overnight. I did not know it myself. I had to learn kindness from both of you.” His eyes glittered. “My heart is breaking and I cannot see a way out. You are all I want, but I must do what is best for my people. I cannot weaken my Land by coming here, and I cannot hurt you by bringing you there. We would never have peace in either place.”

“Please, Kieran,” said Mark. He caught at Kieran’s wrist: I am holding the arm of the Unseelie King, he thought. It was perhaps the first time he had thought of Kieran as the King and not simply his Kieran. “We can find a solution.”

Kieran pulled Mark to him and kissed him, hard and suddenly, his fingers digging into Mark’s wrist. When he let him go, he was pale, his cheeks burning with color. “I have not slept for three days. This is why I wanted Adaon to be King. Others want the throne. I do not. I only want you.”

“And you will be a great King because of it,” said Cristina, her brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “What if it was only you and Mark? Mark is half-faerie—surely that must mean something—”

“He is a Shadowhunter to them,” said Kieran, releasing Mark’s hand. He strode over to Cristina. His eyes were smudged with tiredness. “And I love you both, my brave Cristina. Nothing can change that. Nothing ever will.”

The tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks as Kieran cupped her face gently. “You’re truly leaving? There must be another way!”

“There is no other way.” Kieran kissed her, swiftly and hard, as he had kissed Mark; Cristina closed her eyes. “Know that I will always love you no matter how far away I am.”

He let her go. Mark wanted to protest, but more than Cristina, he understood the cruel realities of Faerie. The thorns among the roses. What it would mean to be a toy and plaything of the King of a faerie Court; he could stand it for himself but not for Cristina.

Kieran leaped onto Windspear’s back. “Be happy with each other,” he said, his eyes averted as if he could not bear to look at them. “It is my wish as King.”

“Kieran—” Mark said.

But Kieran was already riding away with thunderous speed. The flagstones trembled with Windspear’s retreating hoofbeats; within seconds, Kieran was out of sight.

*

Kit hated it in the Silent City, even though his room was fairly comfortable, at least compared to the rest of the Silent City, which was all sharp-edged objects made out of human skeletons. Once you’d picked up three or four skulls and muttered “Alas, poor Yorick,” to them, the novelty wore off quickly.