City of Heavenly Fire
Page 50
Jace’s voice was hoarse. “Did it hurt?”
Zachariah looked puzzled. “I’m sorry?”
“When Clary stabbed me with Glorious, it was—agonizing. I felt as if my bones were melting down to ashes inside me. I kept thinking about that when I woke up—I kept thinking about the pain, and whether it hurt when you touched me.”
Zachariah looked at him in surprise. “You thought about me? About whether I was in pain?”
“Of course.” Jace could see their reflections in the window behind Zachariah. Zachariah was as tall as he was, but thinner, and with his dark hair and pale skin he looked like a photo negative of Jace.
“Herondales.” Zachariah’s voice was a breath, half laughter, half pain. “I had almost forgotten. No other family does so much for love, or feels so much guilt for it. Don’t carry the weight of the world on you, Jace. It’s too heavy for even a Herondale to bear.”
“I’m not a saint,” Jace said. “Maybe I should bear it.”
Zachariah shook his head. “You know, I think, the phrase from the Bible: ‘Mene mene tekel upharsin’?”
“‘You have been weighed in the balance and have been found wanting.’ Yes, I know it. The Writing on the Wall.”
“The Egyptians believed that at the gate of the dead your heart was weighed on scales, and if it weighed more than a feather, your path was the path to Hell. The fire of Heaven takes our measure, Jace Herondale, like the scales of the Egyptians. If there is more evil in us than good, it will destroy us. I only just lived, and so did you. The difference between us is that I was only brushed by the fire, whereas it entered your heart. You carry it in you still, a great burden and a great gift.”
“But all I’ve been trying to do is get rid of it—”
“You cannot rid yourself of this.” Brother Zachariah’s voice had become very serious. “It is not a curse to be rid of; it is a weapon you have been entrusted with. You are the blade of Heaven. Make sure you are worthy.”
“You sound like Alec,” Jace said. “He’s always on about responsibility and worthiness.”
“Alec. Your parabatai. The Lightwood boy?”
“You . . .” Jace indicated the side of Zachariah’s throat. “You had a parabatai too. But your rune is faded.”
Zachariah looked down. “He is long dead,” he said. “I was—When he died, I—” He shook his head, frustrated. “For years I have spoken only with my mind, though you hear my thoughts as words,” he said. “The process of shaping language in the ordinary way, of finding speech, does not come easily to me now.” He raised his head to look at Jace. “Value your parabatai,” he said. “For it is a precious bond. All love is precious. It is why we do what we do. Why do we fight demons? Why are they not fit custodians of this world? What makes us better? It is because they do not build, but destroy. They do not love, but hate only. We are human and fallible, we Shadowhunters. But if we did not have the capacity to love, we could not guard humans; we must love them to guard them. My parabatai, he loved like few ever could love, with all and everything. I see you are like that too; it burns more brightly in you than the fire of Heaven.”
Brother Zachariah was looking at Jace, with a fierce intensity that felt as if it would strip the flesh off his bones. “I’m sorry,” Jace said quietly. “That you lost your parabatai. Is there anyone—anyone left for you to go home to?”
The boy’s mouth curved a little at the corner. “There is one. She has always been home for me. But not so soon. I must stay, first.”
“To fight?”
“And love and grieve. When I was a Silent Brother, my loves and losses were muted slightly, like music heard from a distance, true in tune but muffled. Now—now it has all come upon me at once. I am bowed under it. I must be stronger before I can see her.” His smile was wistful. “Have you ever felt that your heart contained so much that it must surely break apart?”
Jace thought of Alec wounded in his lap, of Max still and white on the floor of the Accords Hall; he thought of Valentine, his arms around Jace as Jace’s blood soaked the sand underneath them. And lastly he thought of Clary: her sharp bravery that kept him safe, her sharper wit that kept him sane, the steadiness of her love.
“Weapons, when they break and are mended, can be stronger at the mended places,” said Jace. “Perhaps hearts are the same.”
Brother Zachariah, who was now just a boy like Jace himself, smiled at him a little sadly. “I hope that you are right.”
“I can’t believe Jordan’s dead,” Clary said. “I just saw him. He was sitting on the wall at the Institute when we went through the Portal.”
She was walking beside Simon along one of the canals, heading toward the center of the city. The demon towers rose around them, their brilliance reflected in the canal waters.
Simon glanced sidelong at Clary. He kept thinking of the way she’d looked when he’d seen her the night before, blue and exhausted and barely conscious, her clothes ripped and bloody. She looked like herself again now, color in her cheeks, her hands in her pockets, the hilt of her sword protruding from her belt. “Neither can I,” he said.
Clary’s eyes were distant and bright; Simon wondered what she was remembering—Jordan teaching Jace to control his emotions in Central Park? Jordan in Magnus’s apartment, talking to a pentagram? Jordan the first time they’d ever seen him, ducking under a garage door to audition for Simon’s band? Jordan sitting on the sofa in his and Simon’s apartment, playing Xbox with Jace? Jordan telling Simon that he was sworn to protect him?
Simon felt hollow inside. He’d spent the night sleeping fitfully, waking up out of nightmares in which Jordan appeared and stood looking at him silently, hazel eyes asking Simon to help him, save him, while the ink on his arms ran like blood.
“Poor Maia,” she said. “I wish she were here; I wish we could talk to her. She’s had such a hard time, and now this—”
“I know,” Simon said, almost choking. Thinking about Jordan was bad enough. If he thought about Maia, too, he’d fall apart.
Clary responded to the abruptness in his tone by reaching out for his hand. “Simon,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He let her take his hand, loosely interlacing their fingers. He saw her glance down at the gold faerie ring he always wore.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“No, of course not. How could you be? He was your—” Friend? Roommate? Bodyguard?
“Responsibility,” Simon said.
She looked taken aback. “No—Simon, you were his. He was your guard.”
“Come on, Clary,” Simon said. “What do you think he was doing at the Praetor Lupus headquarters? He never went there. If he was there, it was because of me, because he was looking for me. If I hadn’t gone and gotten myself kidnapped—”
“Gotten yourself kidnapped?” Clary snapped. “What, you volunteered to have Maureen kidnap you?”
“Maureen didn’t kidnap me,” he said in a low voice.
She looked at him, puzzled. “I thought she kept you in a cage at the Dumort. I thought you said—”
Zachariah looked puzzled. “I’m sorry?”
“When Clary stabbed me with Glorious, it was—agonizing. I felt as if my bones were melting down to ashes inside me. I kept thinking about that when I woke up—I kept thinking about the pain, and whether it hurt when you touched me.”
Zachariah looked at him in surprise. “You thought about me? About whether I was in pain?”
“Of course.” Jace could see their reflections in the window behind Zachariah. Zachariah was as tall as he was, but thinner, and with his dark hair and pale skin he looked like a photo negative of Jace.
“Herondales.” Zachariah’s voice was a breath, half laughter, half pain. “I had almost forgotten. No other family does so much for love, or feels so much guilt for it. Don’t carry the weight of the world on you, Jace. It’s too heavy for even a Herondale to bear.”
“I’m not a saint,” Jace said. “Maybe I should bear it.”
Zachariah shook his head. “You know, I think, the phrase from the Bible: ‘Mene mene tekel upharsin’?”
“‘You have been weighed in the balance and have been found wanting.’ Yes, I know it. The Writing on the Wall.”
“The Egyptians believed that at the gate of the dead your heart was weighed on scales, and if it weighed more than a feather, your path was the path to Hell. The fire of Heaven takes our measure, Jace Herondale, like the scales of the Egyptians. If there is more evil in us than good, it will destroy us. I only just lived, and so did you. The difference between us is that I was only brushed by the fire, whereas it entered your heart. You carry it in you still, a great burden and a great gift.”
“But all I’ve been trying to do is get rid of it—”
“You cannot rid yourself of this.” Brother Zachariah’s voice had become very serious. “It is not a curse to be rid of; it is a weapon you have been entrusted with. You are the blade of Heaven. Make sure you are worthy.”
“You sound like Alec,” Jace said. “He’s always on about responsibility and worthiness.”
“Alec. Your parabatai. The Lightwood boy?”
“You . . .” Jace indicated the side of Zachariah’s throat. “You had a parabatai too. But your rune is faded.”
Zachariah looked down. “He is long dead,” he said. “I was—When he died, I—” He shook his head, frustrated. “For years I have spoken only with my mind, though you hear my thoughts as words,” he said. “The process of shaping language in the ordinary way, of finding speech, does not come easily to me now.” He raised his head to look at Jace. “Value your parabatai,” he said. “For it is a precious bond. All love is precious. It is why we do what we do. Why do we fight demons? Why are they not fit custodians of this world? What makes us better? It is because they do not build, but destroy. They do not love, but hate only. We are human and fallible, we Shadowhunters. But if we did not have the capacity to love, we could not guard humans; we must love them to guard them. My parabatai, he loved like few ever could love, with all and everything. I see you are like that too; it burns more brightly in you than the fire of Heaven.”
Brother Zachariah was looking at Jace, with a fierce intensity that felt as if it would strip the flesh off his bones. “I’m sorry,” Jace said quietly. “That you lost your parabatai. Is there anyone—anyone left for you to go home to?”
The boy’s mouth curved a little at the corner. “There is one. She has always been home for me. But not so soon. I must stay, first.”
“To fight?”
“And love and grieve. When I was a Silent Brother, my loves and losses were muted slightly, like music heard from a distance, true in tune but muffled. Now—now it has all come upon me at once. I am bowed under it. I must be stronger before I can see her.” His smile was wistful. “Have you ever felt that your heart contained so much that it must surely break apart?”
Jace thought of Alec wounded in his lap, of Max still and white on the floor of the Accords Hall; he thought of Valentine, his arms around Jace as Jace’s blood soaked the sand underneath them. And lastly he thought of Clary: her sharp bravery that kept him safe, her sharper wit that kept him sane, the steadiness of her love.
“Weapons, when they break and are mended, can be stronger at the mended places,” said Jace. “Perhaps hearts are the same.”
Brother Zachariah, who was now just a boy like Jace himself, smiled at him a little sadly. “I hope that you are right.”
“I can’t believe Jordan’s dead,” Clary said. “I just saw him. He was sitting on the wall at the Institute when we went through the Portal.”
She was walking beside Simon along one of the canals, heading toward the center of the city. The demon towers rose around them, their brilliance reflected in the canal waters.
Simon glanced sidelong at Clary. He kept thinking of the way she’d looked when he’d seen her the night before, blue and exhausted and barely conscious, her clothes ripped and bloody. She looked like herself again now, color in her cheeks, her hands in her pockets, the hilt of her sword protruding from her belt. “Neither can I,” he said.
Clary’s eyes were distant and bright; Simon wondered what she was remembering—Jordan teaching Jace to control his emotions in Central Park? Jordan in Magnus’s apartment, talking to a pentagram? Jordan the first time they’d ever seen him, ducking under a garage door to audition for Simon’s band? Jordan sitting on the sofa in his and Simon’s apartment, playing Xbox with Jace? Jordan telling Simon that he was sworn to protect him?
Simon felt hollow inside. He’d spent the night sleeping fitfully, waking up out of nightmares in which Jordan appeared and stood looking at him silently, hazel eyes asking Simon to help him, save him, while the ink on his arms ran like blood.
“Poor Maia,” she said. “I wish she were here; I wish we could talk to her. She’s had such a hard time, and now this—”
“I know,” Simon said, almost choking. Thinking about Jordan was bad enough. If he thought about Maia, too, he’d fall apart.
Clary responded to the abruptness in his tone by reaching out for his hand. “Simon,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He let her take his hand, loosely interlacing their fingers. He saw her glance down at the gold faerie ring he always wore.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“No, of course not. How could you be? He was your—” Friend? Roommate? Bodyguard?
“Responsibility,” Simon said.
She looked taken aback. “No—Simon, you were his. He was your guard.”
“Come on, Clary,” Simon said. “What do you think he was doing at the Praetor Lupus headquarters? He never went there. If he was there, it was because of me, because he was looking for me. If I hadn’t gone and gotten myself kidnapped—”
“Gotten yourself kidnapped?” Clary snapped. “What, you volunteered to have Maureen kidnap you?”
“Maureen didn’t kidnap me,” he said in a low voice.
She looked at him, puzzled. “I thought she kept you in a cage at the Dumort. I thought you said—”
