Lady Midnight
Page 31
The faerie convoy exchanged glances. “What,” said Kieran, “no words about the Cold Peace or about how this visit breaks your Law?”
“My uncle does not administrate the Cold Peace,” said Julian. “And it is not what we wish to discuss. You know the rules as well as we do; if you’ve chosen to break them, it must be for an important reason. If you don’t wish to share the information, my uncle will have to ask you to leave.”
Kieran looked haughty. “Very well,” he said. “We have come to ask a favor.”
“A favor?” Emma said in amazement. The wording of the Cold Peace was clear: Shadowhunters were not to give aid to either the Seelie or the Unseelie Court. The representatives of the Courts had never appeared to sign the Nephilim’s treaty; they had scorned it, and this was their punishment.
“Perhaps you are confused,” Arthur said coldly. “You might have heard of my niece and nephew; you might think that because our relatives Mark and Helen have faerie blood you will find a kinder hearing here than you would at some other Institute. But my niece was sent away because of the Cold Peace, and my nephew was stolen from us.”
Kieran’s lip curled up at the corner. “Your niece’s exile was a Shadowhunter decree, not a faerie one,” he said. “As for your nephew—”
Arthur took a shaking breath. His hands were gripping the armrests of his chair. “The hand of the Consul was forced by the betrayal of the Seelie Queen. Unseelie warriors fought beside hers. No faerie hand is free of blood. We are not well disposed toward faeries here.”
“The Cold Peace wasn’t what took Mark away from us,” said Julian, his cheeks burning with color. “That was you. The Wild Hunt. We can see by your eyes that you ride with Gwyn, don’t deny it.”
“Oh,” said Kieran with a slight smirk on his lips. “I would not deny that.”
Emma wondered if anyone else heard Julian’s intake of breath. “So you know my brother.”
The smirk never left Kieran’s face. “Of course I do.”
Julian looked as if he were barely holding himself back. “What do you know about Mark?”
“What is this pretense of surprise?” demanded Iarlath. “It is foolishness. We mentioned Mark of the Hunt in the letter we sent.”
Emma saw the look on Julian’s face, a flicker of shock. She stepped forward quickly, not wanting him to be the one to have to ask. “What letter?”
“It was written on a leaf,” Arthur said. “A leaf that crumbled.” He was sweating; he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped at his forehead. “There were words on it about killings. About Mark. I didn’t believe it was real. I was—”
Julian stepped forward, half-blocking his uncle from view. “Killings?”
Kieran looked at Julian, and his bicolored eyes darkened. Emma felt the uncomfortable sensation that Kieran thought he knew something about her parabatai, something she didn’t know herself. “You know of the murders,” he said. “Emma Carstairs found one of the bodies. We know you are aware there have been others.”
“Why do you care?” said Julian. “Faeries do not normally involve themselves in the bloodshed of the human world.”
“We do if the blood being shed is faerie blood,” said Kieran. He looked around at their surprised faces. “As you know, the killer has been murdering and mutilating faeries, too. That is why Iarlath was at the Sepulchre. That is why Emma Carstairs encountered him. You were hunting the same prey.”
Iarlath reached into his cloak and drew out a handful of glittering mica. He tossed it into the air, where the particles hung and separated, coalescing into three-dimensional images. Images of bodies, faerie bodies—human-looking gentry faeries, all dead. All had skin carved with the spiky dark markings that had adorned the body Emma had found in the alley.
Emma found herself unconsciously leaning forward, trying to get a better view of the illusion. “What are these? Magic photographs?”
“Memories, preserved with magic,” said Iarlath.
“Illusions,” said Julian. “Illusions can lie.”
Iarlath turned his hand to the side, and the images changed. Emma was suddenly looking at the dead man she’d found in the alley three nights ago. It was an exact image, down to the twisted look of horror on his face. “Does this lie?”
Emma stared at Iarlath. “So you saw him. You must have come across him before I did. I wondered.”
Iarlath closed his hand, and the glittering pieces of mica fell to the floor like drops of rain, the illusion vanishing. “I did. He was already dead. I could not have helped him. I left him for you to find.”
Emma said nothing. It was quite evident from the picture that Iarlath was telling the truth.
And faeries didn’t lie.
“Shadowhunters have been killed too, we know,” Kieran said.
“Shadowhunters are often killed,” said Uncle Arthur. “There is no safe place.”
“Not so,” said Kieran. “There is protection where there are protectors.”
“My parents,” Emma said, ignoring Julian, who was shaking his head at her, as if to say, Don’t tell them, don’t share, don’t give them anything. She knew he was likely right—it was in the nature of faeries to take your secrets and turn them against you. But if there was the chance, the smallest chance that they knew something . . . “Their bodies were found with those same markings on them, five years ago. When the Shadowhunters tried to move them, they crumbled to ashes. The only reason we know about the markings was because the Nephilim took photos first.”
Kieran glanced at her with shimmering eyes. Neither looked quite human: The black eye was too dark, the silver too metallic. And yet the overall effect was haunting, inhumanly beautiful. “We know about your parents,” he said. “We know of their deaths. We know of the demon language with which their bodies were inscribed.”
“Mutilated,” Emma said, her breath catching, and felt Julian’s eyes on her, a reminder that he was there, a silent support. “Disfigured. Not inscribed.”
Kieran’s expression didn’t change. “We understand as well that you have tried for years to translate or understand the markings, with no success. We can help you change that.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” Julian demanded. His eyes were guarded; his whole posture was. The tension in his body kept Emma from bursting out with questions.
“The scholars of the Unseelie Court have studied the markings,” said Iarlath. “It looks like a language from an ancient time of Faerie. One long before your human memory. Before there were Nephilim.”
“Back when faeries were more closely tied to their demonic ancestry,” said Arthur hoarsely.
Kieran’s lip curled as if Arthur had said something distasteful. “Our scholars began to translate it,” he said. He drew several sheets of thin, parchment-like paper from his cloak. Emma recognized on them the markings she was so familiar with. Below the markings were more words, written in a spidery script.
Emma’s heart started to pound.
“They translated the first line,” he said. “It does appear to perhaps be part of a spell. There our knowledge fails us—the Fair Folk do not deal in spells; that is warlock territory—”
“My uncle does not administrate the Cold Peace,” said Julian. “And it is not what we wish to discuss. You know the rules as well as we do; if you’ve chosen to break them, it must be for an important reason. If you don’t wish to share the information, my uncle will have to ask you to leave.”
Kieran looked haughty. “Very well,” he said. “We have come to ask a favor.”
“A favor?” Emma said in amazement. The wording of the Cold Peace was clear: Shadowhunters were not to give aid to either the Seelie or the Unseelie Court. The representatives of the Courts had never appeared to sign the Nephilim’s treaty; they had scorned it, and this was their punishment.
“Perhaps you are confused,” Arthur said coldly. “You might have heard of my niece and nephew; you might think that because our relatives Mark and Helen have faerie blood you will find a kinder hearing here than you would at some other Institute. But my niece was sent away because of the Cold Peace, and my nephew was stolen from us.”
Kieran’s lip curled up at the corner. “Your niece’s exile was a Shadowhunter decree, not a faerie one,” he said. “As for your nephew—”
Arthur took a shaking breath. His hands were gripping the armrests of his chair. “The hand of the Consul was forced by the betrayal of the Seelie Queen. Unseelie warriors fought beside hers. No faerie hand is free of blood. We are not well disposed toward faeries here.”
“The Cold Peace wasn’t what took Mark away from us,” said Julian, his cheeks burning with color. “That was you. The Wild Hunt. We can see by your eyes that you ride with Gwyn, don’t deny it.”
“Oh,” said Kieran with a slight smirk on his lips. “I would not deny that.”
Emma wondered if anyone else heard Julian’s intake of breath. “So you know my brother.”
The smirk never left Kieran’s face. “Of course I do.”
Julian looked as if he were barely holding himself back. “What do you know about Mark?”
“What is this pretense of surprise?” demanded Iarlath. “It is foolishness. We mentioned Mark of the Hunt in the letter we sent.”
Emma saw the look on Julian’s face, a flicker of shock. She stepped forward quickly, not wanting him to be the one to have to ask. “What letter?”
“It was written on a leaf,” Arthur said. “A leaf that crumbled.” He was sweating; he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped at his forehead. “There were words on it about killings. About Mark. I didn’t believe it was real. I was—”
Julian stepped forward, half-blocking his uncle from view. “Killings?”
Kieran looked at Julian, and his bicolored eyes darkened. Emma felt the uncomfortable sensation that Kieran thought he knew something about her parabatai, something she didn’t know herself. “You know of the murders,” he said. “Emma Carstairs found one of the bodies. We know you are aware there have been others.”
“Why do you care?” said Julian. “Faeries do not normally involve themselves in the bloodshed of the human world.”
“We do if the blood being shed is faerie blood,” said Kieran. He looked around at their surprised faces. “As you know, the killer has been murdering and mutilating faeries, too. That is why Iarlath was at the Sepulchre. That is why Emma Carstairs encountered him. You were hunting the same prey.”
Iarlath reached into his cloak and drew out a handful of glittering mica. He tossed it into the air, where the particles hung and separated, coalescing into three-dimensional images. Images of bodies, faerie bodies—human-looking gentry faeries, all dead. All had skin carved with the spiky dark markings that had adorned the body Emma had found in the alley.
Emma found herself unconsciously leaning forward, trying to get a better view of the illusion. “What are these? Magic photographs?”
“Memories, preserved with magic,” said Iarlath.
“Illusions,” said Julian. “Illusions can lie.”
Iarlath turned his hand to the side, and the images changed. Emma was suddenly looking at the dead man she’d found in the alley three nights ago. It was an exact image, down to the twisted look of horror on his face. “Does this lie?”
Emma stared at Iarlath. “So you saw him. You must have come across him before I did. I wondered.”
Iarlath closed his hand, and the glittering pieces of mica fell to the floor like drops of rain, the illusion vanishing. “I did. He was already dead. I could not have helped him. I left him for you to find.”
Emma said nothing. It was quite evident from the picture that Iarlath was telling the truth.
And faeries didn’t lie.
“Shadowhunters have been killed too, we know,” Kieran said.
“Shadowhunters are often killed,” said Uncle Arthur. “There is no safe place.”
“Not so,” said Kieran. “There is protection where there are protectors.”
“My parents,” Emma said, ignoring Julian, who was shaking his head at her, as if to say, Don’t tell them, don’t share, don’t give them anything. She knew he was likely right—it was in the nature of faeries to take your secrets and turn them against you. But if there was the chance, the smallest chance that they knew something . . . “Their bodies were found with those same markings on them, five years ago. When the Shadowhunters tried to move them, they crumbled to ashes. The only reason we know about the markings was because the Nephilim took photos first.”
Kieran glanced at her with shimmering eyes. Neither looked quite human: The black eye was too dark, the silver too metallic. And yet the overall effect was haunting, inhumanly beautiful. “We know about your parents,” he said. “We know of their deaths. We know of the demon language with which their bodies were inscribed.”
“Mutilated,” Emma said, her breath catching, and felt Julian’s eyes on her, a reminder that he was there, a silent support. “Disfigured. Not inscribed.”
Kieran’s expression didn’t change. “We understand as well that you have tried for years to translate or understand the markings, with no success. We can help you change that.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” Julian demanded. His eyes were guarded; his whole posture was. The tension in his body kept Emma from bursting out with questions.
“The scholars of the Unseelie Court have studied the markings,” said Iarlath. “It looks like a language from an ancient time of Faerie. One long before your human memory. Before there were Nephilim.”
“Back when faeries were more closely tied to their demonic ancestry,” said Arthur hoarsely.
Kieran’s lip curled as if Arthur had said something distasteful. “Our scholars began to translate it,” he said. He drew several sheets of thin, parchment-like paper from his cloak. Emma recognized on them the markings she was so familiar with. Below the markings were more words, written in a spidery script.
Emma’s heart started to pound.
“They translated the first line,” he said. “It does appear to perhaps be part of a spell. There our knowledge fails us—the Fair Folk do not deal in spells; that is warlock territory—”
