City of Heavenly Fire
Page 67
Jace looked as if he were going to throw up. “This is why you have to let me go after Sebastian,” he said. “This can’t keep happening. These battles, fighting the Endarkened—he’ll find worse things to do. Sebastian always does. Being Turned is worse than dying.”
“Jace,” Clary said sharply, but Jace shot her a look, half-desperate and half-pleading. A look that begged her not to doubt him. He leaned forward, hands on the Consul’s desk.
“Send me to him,” Jace said. “And I’ll try to kill him. I have the heavenly fire. It’s our best chance.”
“It’s not an issue of sending you anywhere,” said Maryse. “We can’t send you to him; we don’t know where Sebastian is. It’s an issue of letting him take you.”
“Then let him take me—”
“Absolutely not.” Brother Zachariah looked grave, and Clary remembered what he had said to her, once: If the chance comes before me to save the last of the Herondale bloodline, I consider that of higher importance than the fealty I render the Clave. “Jace Herondale,” he said. “The Clave can choose to obey Sebastian or defy him, but either way you cannot be given up to him in the way he will expect. We must surprise him. Otherwise we are simply delivering to him the only weapon that we know he fears.”
“Do you have another suggestion?” asked Jia. “Do we draw him out? Use Jace and Clary to capture him?”
“You can’t use them as bait,” Isabelle protested.
“Maybe we could separate him from his forces?” suggested Maryse.
“You can’t trick Sebastian,” Clary said, feeling exhausted. “He doesn’t care about reasons or excuses. There’s only him and what he wants, and if you get between those two things, he’ll destroy you.”
Jia leaned across the table. “Maybe we can convince him he wants something else. Is there anything else we could offer him as a bargaining chip?”
“No,” Clary whispered. “There’s nothing. Sebastian is . . .” But how did you explain her brother? How could you explain staring into the dark heart of a black hole? Imagine if you were the last Shadowhunter left on earth, imagine if all your family and friends were dead, imagine if there were no one left who even believed in what you were. Imagine if you were on the earth in a billion, billion years, after the sun had scorched away all the life, and you were crying out from inside yourself for just one single living creature to still draw breath alongside you, but there was nothing, only rivers of fire and ashes. Imagine being that lonely, and then imagine there was only one way you could think of to fix it. Then imagine what you would do to make that thing happen. “No. He won’t change his mind. Not ever.”
A murmur of voices broke out. Jia clapped her hands for silence. “Enough,” she said. “We’re going around in circles. It is time for the Clave and Council to discuss the situation.”
“If I might make a suggestion.” Brother Zachariah’s eyes swept the room, thoughtful under dark lashes, before coming to rest on Jia. “The funeral rites for the Citadel dead are about to begin. You will be expected there, Consul, as will you, Inquisitor. I would suggest that Clary and Jace remain at the Inquisitor’s house, considering the contention surrounding them, and that the Council gather after the rites.”
“We have a right to be at the meeting,” said Clary. “This decision concerns us. It’s about us.”
“You will be summoned,” said Jia, her gaze not resting on Clary or Jace, but skipping past them, sweeping over Robert and Maryse, Brother Enoch and Zachariah. “Until then, rest; you will need your energy. It could be a long night.”
12
THE FORMAL NIGHTMARE
The bodies were burning on orderly rows of pyres that had been set up along the road to Brocelind Forest. The sun was beginning to set behind a cloudy white sky, and as each pyre went up, it burst in orange sparks. The effect was oddly beautiful, although Jia Penhallow doubted that any of the mourners gathered on the plain thought so.
For some reason a rhyme she had learned as a child was repeating itself in her head.
Black for hunting through the night
For death and mourning the color’s white
Gold for a bride in her wedding gown
And red to call enchantment down.
White silk when our bodies burn,
Blue banners when the lost return.
Flame for the birth of a Nephilim,
And to wash away our sins.
Gray for knowledge best untold,
Bone for those who don’t grow old.
Saffron lights the victory march,
Green will mend our broken hearts.
Silver for the demon towers,
And bronze to summon wicked powers.
Bone for those who don’t grow old. Brother Enoch, in his bone-colored robes, was striding up and down the line of pyres. Shadowhunters stood or knelt or cast into the orange flames handfuls of the pale white Alicante flowers that grew even in the winter.
“Consul.” The voice at her shoulder was soft. She turned to see Brother Zachariah—the boy who had once been Brother Zachariah, at least—standing at her shoulder. “Brother Enoch said you wished to speak to me.”
“Brother Zachariah,” she began, and then paused. “Is there another name by which you wish to be called? The name you had before you became a Silent Brother?”
“‘Zachariah’ will do fine for now,” he said. “I am not yet ready to reclaim my old name.”
“I have heard,” she said, and paused, for the next bit was awkward, “that one of the warlocks of the Spiral Labyrinth, Theresa Gray, is someone whom you knew and cared for during your mortal life. And for someone who has been a Silent Brother as long as you have, that must be a rare thing.”
“She is all I have left from that time,” said Zachariah. “She and Magnus. I would have wished to talk to Magnus, if I could have, before he—”
“Would you like to go to the Spiral Labyrinth?” Jia interrupted.
Zachariah looked down at her with startled eyes. He looked about the same age as her daughter, Jia thought, his lashes impossibly long, his eyes both young and old at the same time. “You’re releasing me from Alicante? Aren’t all warriors needed?”
“You have served the Clave for more than a hundred and thirty years. We can ask no more of you.”
He looked back at the pyres, at the black smoke smearing the air. “How much does the Spiral Labyrinth know? Of the attacks on the Institutes, the Citadel, the representatives?”
“They are students of lore,” said Jia. “Not warriors or politicians. They know of what happened at the Burren. We have discussed Sebastian’s magic, possible cures for the Endarkened, ways to strengthen the wards. They do not ask beyond that—”
“And you do not tell,” said Zachariah. “So they do not know of the Citadel, the representatives?”
Jia set her jaw. “I suppose you will say I must tell them.”
“No,” he said. He had his hands in his pockets; his breath was visible on the cold clear air. “I will not say that.”
They stood side by side, in the snow and silence, until, to her surprise, he spoke again:
“I will not go to the Spiral Labyrinth. I will stay in Idris.”
“Jace,” Clary said sharply, but Jace shot her a look, half-desperate and half-pleading. A look that begged her not to doubt him. He leaned forward, hands on the Consul’s desk.
“Send me to him,” Jace said. “And I’ll try to kill him. I have the heavenly fire. It’s our best chance.”
“It’s not an issue of sending you anywhere,” said Maryse. “We can’t send you to him; we don’t know where Sebastian is. It’s an issue of letting him take you.”
“Then let him take me—”
“Absolutely not.” Brother Zachariah looked grave, and Clary remembered what he had said to her, once: If the chance comes before me to save the last of the Herondale bloodline, I consider that of higher importance than the fealty I render the Clave. “Jace Herondale,” he said. “The Clave can choose to obey Sebastian or defy him, but either way you cannot be given up to him in the way he will expect. We must surprise him. Otherwise we are simply delivering to him the only weapon that we know he fears.”
“Do you have another suggestion?” asked Jia. “Do we draw him out? Use Jace and Clary to capture him?”
“You can’t use them as bait,” Isabelle protested.
“Maybe we could separate him from his forces?” suggested Maryse.
“You can’t trick Sebastian,” Clary said, feeling exhausted. “He doesn’t care about reasons or excuses. There’s only him and what he wants, and if you get between those two things, he’ll destroy you.”
Jia leaned across the table. “Maybe we can convince him he wants something else. Is there anything else we could offer him as a bargaining chip?”
“No,” Clary whispered. “There’s nothing. Sebastian is . . .” But how did you explain her brother? How could you explain staring into the dark heart of a black hole? Imagine if you were the last Shadowhunter left on earth, imagine if all your family and friends were dead, imagine if there were no one left who even believed in what you were. Imagine if you were on the earth in a billion, billion years, after the sun had scorched away all the life, and you were crying out from inside yourself for just one single living creature to still draw breath alongside you, but there was nothing, only rivers of fire and ashes. Imagine being that lonely, and then imagine there was only one way you could think of to fix it. Then imagine what you would do to make that thing happen. “No. He won’t change his mind. Not ever.”
A murmur of voices broke out. Jia clapped her hands for silence. “Enough,” she said. “We’re going around in circles. It is time for the Clave and Council to discuss the situation.”
“If I might make a suggestion.” Brother Zachariah’s eyes swept the room, thoughtful under dark lashes, before coming to rest on Jia. “The funeral rites for the Citadel dead are about to begin. You will be expected there, Consul, as will you, Inquisitor. I would suggest that Clary and Jace remain at the Inquisitor’s house, considering the contention surrounding them, and that the Council gather after the rites.”
“We have a right to be at the meeting,” said Clary. “This decision concerns us. It’s about us.”
“You will be summoned,” said Jia, her gaze not resting on Clary or Jace, but skipping past them, sweeping over Robert and Maryse, Brother Enoch and Zachariah. “Until then, rest; you will need your energy. It could be a long night.”
12
THE FORMAL NIGHTMARE
The bodies were burning on orderly rows of pyres that had been set up along the road to Brocelind Forest. The sun was beginning to set behind a cloudy white sky, and as each pyre went up, it burst in orange sparks. The effect was oddly beautiful, although Jia Penhallow doubted that any of the mourners gathered on the plain thought so.
For some reason a rhyme she had learned as a child was repeating itself in her head.
Black for hunting through the night
For death and mourning the color’s white
Gold for a bride in her wedding gown
And red to call enchantment down.
White silk when our bodies burn,
Blue banners when the lost return.
Flame for the birth of a Nephilim,
And to wash away our sins.
Gray for knowledge best untold,
Bone for those who don’t grow old.
Saffron lights the victory march,
Green will mend our broken hearts.
Silver for the demon towers,
And bronze to summon wicked powers.
Bone for those who don’t grow old. Brother Enoch, in his bone-colored robes, was striding up and down the line of pyres. Shadowhunters stood or knelt or cast into the orange flames handfuls of the pale white Alicante flowers that grew even in the winter.
“Consul.” The voice at her shoulder was soft. She turned to see Brother Zachariah—the boy who had once been Brother Zachariah, at least—standing at her shoulder. “Brother Enoch said you wished to speak to me.”
“Brother Zachariah,” she began, and then paused. “Is there another name by which you wish to be called? The name you had before you became a Silent Brother?”
“‘Zachariah’ will do fine for now,” he said. “I am not yet ready to reclaim my old name.”
“I have heard,” she said, and paused, for the next bit was awkward, “that one of the warlocks of the Spiral Labyrinth, Theresa Gray, is someone whom you knew and cared for during your mortal life. And for someone who has been a Silent Brother as long as you have, that must be a rare thing.”
“She is all I have left from that time,” said Zachariah. “She and Magnus. I would have wished to talk to Magnus, if I could have, before he—”
“Would you like to go to the Spiral Labyrinth?” Jia interrupted.
Zachariah looked down at her with startled eyes. He looked about the same age as her daughter, Jia thought, his lashes impossibly long, his eyes both young and old at the same time. “You’re releasing me from Alicante? Aren’t all warriors needed?”
“You have served the Clave for more than a hundred and thirty years. We can ask no more of you.”
He looked back at the pyres, at the black smoke smearing the air. “How much does the Spiral Labyrinth know? Of the attacks on the Institutes, the Citadel, the representatives?”
“They are students of lore,” said Jia. “Not warriors or politicians. They know of what happened at the Burren. We have discussed Sebastian’s magic, possible cures for the Endarkened, ways to strengthen the wards. They do not ask beyond that—”
“And you do not tell,” said Zachariah. “So they do not know of the Citadel, the representatives?”
Jia set her jaw. “I suppose you will say I must tell them.”
“No,” he said. He had his hands in his pockets; his breath was visible on the cold clear air. “I will not say that.”
They stood side by side, in the snow and silence, until, to her surprise, he spoke again:
“I will not go to the Spiral Labyrinth. I will stay in Idris.”
