Lord of Shadows
Page 35
The figure on the path before them had drawn closer. It was a tall faerie, dressed in ragged trousers held up by a belt of rope. Thin strands of gold were woven into his long dark hair and gleamed against his dark skin. His feet were bare.
He spoke, and his voice sounded like the tide at sunset. “Seek you to enter through the Gate of Lir?”
“Yes,” said Mark.
Metallic gold eyes without irises or pupils passed over Mark, Cristina, Julian, and Emma. “Only one of you is fey,” the phouka said. “The others are human. No—Nephilim.” Thin lips curled into a smile. “That is a surprise. How many of you wish passage through the gate to the Shadow Lands?”
“All of us,” said Emma. “The four.”
“If the King or Queen finds you, they will kill you,” said the phouka. “The Fair Folk are not friendly to the angel-blooded, not since the Cold Peace.”
“I am half-faerie,” said Mark. “My mother was the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie Court.”
The phouka raised his eyebrows. “Her death grieved us all.”
“And these are my brothers and sisters,” Mark continued, pressing his advantage. “They would accompany me; I will protect them.”
The phouka shrugged. “It is not my concern what befalls you in the Lands,” he said. “Only that first you must pay a toll.”
“No payments,” said Julian, his hand tightening on his dagger hilt. “No tolls.”
The phouka smiled. “Come here and speak to me a moment, in private, and then decide if you would pay my price. I will not force you.”
Julian’s expression darkened, but he stepped forward. Emma strained to hear what he was saying to the phouka, but the sound of wind and waves slid between them. Behind them, the air swirled and clouded: Emma thought she could see a shape in it, arched like the shape of a door.
Julian stood motionless as the phouka spoke, but Emma saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. A moment later, he unsnapped his father’s watch from around his wrist and dropped it into the phouka’s hand.
“One payment,” said the phouka loudly, as Julian turned away. “Who would come next?”
“I will,” said Cristina, and moved carefully across the path toward the phouka. Julian rejoined Mark and Emma.
“Did he threaten you?” Emma whispered. “Jules, if he threatened you—”
“He didn’t,” Julian said. “I wouldn’t let Cristina near him if he had.”
Emma turned to watch as Cristina reached up and pulled the jeweled clip from her hair. It cascaded down over her back and shoulders, blacker than the night sea. She handed the clip over and began to walk back toward them, looking dazed.
“Mark Blackthorn will go last,” said the phouka. “Let the golden-haired girl come to me next.”
Emma could feel the others watching her as she went toward the phouka, Julian more intensely than the rest. She thought of the painting he’d done of her, where she’d risen above the ocean with a body made of stars.
She wondered what he’d done with those paintings. If he’d thrown them all out. Were they gone, burned? Her heart ached at the thought. Such lovely work of Jules’s, every brushstroke a whisper, a promise.
She reached the faerie, who stood slyly smiling as his kind did when they were amused. All around them the sea stretched, black and silver. The phouka bent his head to speak to her; the wind rushed up around them. She stood with him inside a circle of cloud. She could no longer see the others.
“If you’re going to threaten me,” she said, before he could speak, “understand that I will hunt you down for it, if not now, then later. And I will make you die for a long time.”
The phouka laughed. His teeth were also gold, tipped in silver. “Emma Carstairs,” he said. “I see you know little about phoukas. We are seducers, not bullies. When I tell you what I tell you, you will wish to go to Faerie. You will wish to give me what I ask for.”
“And what do you ask for?”
“That stele,” he said, pointing at the one in her belt.
Everything in Emma rebelled. The stele had been given to her by Jace, years ago in Idris, after the Dark War. It was a symbol of everything that had marked her life after the War. Clary had given her words, and she treasured them: Jace had given her a stele, and with it given a grief-stricken and frightened girl a purpose. When she touched the stele, it whispered that purpose to her: The future is yours now. Make it what you will.
“What use could a faerie have for a stele?” she asked. “You don’t draw runes, and they only work for Shadowhunters.”
“No use for a stele,” he said. “But for the precious demon bone of the handle, quite a lot.”
She shook her head. “Choose something else.”
The phouka leaned in. He smelled of salt and seaweed baking in the sun. “Listen,” he said. “If you enter Faerie, you will again see the face of someone you loved, who is dead.”
“What?” Shock stabbed through Emma. “You’re lying.”
“You know I cannot lie.”
Emma’s mouth had gone dry.
“You must not tell the others what I told you, or it will not happen,” said the phouka. “Nor can I tell you what it means. I am only a messenger—but the message is true. If you wish to look again upon one you have loved and lost, if you wish to hear their voice, you must pass through the Gate of Lir.”
Emma drew the stele from her belt. A pang went through her as she handed it over. She turned away blindly from the phouka, his words ringing in her ears. She was barely aware of Mark brushing past her, the last to speak to the water faerie. Her heart was pounding too hard.
One you have loved and lost. But there were many, so many, lost in the Dark War. Her parents—but she dared not even think of them; she would lose her ability to think, to go on. The Blackthorns’ father, Andrew. Her old tutor, Katerina. Maybe—
The sound of wind and waves died down. Mark stood before the phouka in silence, his face pale: All three of the others looked stricken, and Emma burned to know what the faerie had told them. What could compel Jules, or Mark, or Cristina, to cooperate?
The phouka thrust out his hand. “Lir’s Gate opens,” he said. “Take it now, or flee back toward the shore; the moon’s road begins to dissolve already.”
There was a sound like shattering ice, melting under spring sunlight. Emma looked down: The shining path below was riven with black where the water was springing up through cracks.
Julian grabbed her hand. “We have to go,” he said. Behind Mark, who stood ahead of them on the path, an archway of water had formed. It gleamed bright silver, the inside of it churning with water and motion.
With a laugh, the phouka leaped from the path with an elegant dive and slipped between the waves. Emma realized she had no idea what Mark had given him. Not that it seemed to matter now. The path between them was shattering rapidly: Now it was in pieces, like ice floes in the Arctic.
Cristina was on Emma’s other side. The three of them pushed forward, leaping from one solid piece of path to another. Mark was gesturing toward them, shouting, the archway behind him solidifying. Emma could see green grass through it, moonlight and trees. She pushed Cristina forward; Mark caught her, and the two of them vanished through the gate.
He spoke, and his voice sounded like the tide at sunset. “Seek you to enter through the Gate of Lir?”
“Yes,” said Mark.
Metallic gold eyes without irises or pupils passed over Mark, Cristina, Julian, and Emma. “Only one of you is fey,” the phouka said. “The others are human. No—Nephilim.” Thin lips curled into a smile. “That is a surprise. How many of you wish passage through the gate to the Shadow Lands?”
“All of us,” said Emma. “The four.”
“If the King or Queen finds you, they will kill you,” said the phouka. “The Fair Folk are not friendly to the angel-blooded, not since the Cold Peace.”
“I am half-faerie,” said Mark. “My mother was the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie Court.”
The phouka raised his eyebrows. “Her death grieved us all.”
“And these are my brothers and sisters,” Mark continued, pressing his advantage. “They would accompany me; I will protect them.”
The phouka shrugged. “It is not my concern what befalls you in the Lands,” he said. “Only that first you must pay a toll.”
“No payments,” said Julian, his hand tightening on his dagger hilt. “No tolls.”
The phouka smiled. “Come here and speak to me a moment, in private, and then decide if you would pay my price. I will not force you.”
Julian’s expression darkened, but he stepped forward. Emma strained to hear what he was saying to the phouka, but the sound of wind and waves slid between them. Behind them, the air swirled and clouded: Emma thought she could see a shape in it, arched like the shape of a door.
Julian stood motionless as the phouka spoke, but Emma saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. A moment later, he unsnapped his father’s watch from around his wrist and dropped it into the phouka’s hand.
“One payment,” said the phouka loudly, as Julian turned away. “Who would come next?”
“I will,” said Cristina, and moved carefully across the path toward the phouka. Julian rejoined Mark and Emma.
“Did he threaten you?” Emma whispered. “Jules, if he threatened you—”
“He didn’t,” Julian said. “I wouldn’t let Cristina near him if he had.”
Emma turned to watch as Cristina reached up and pulled the jeweled clip from her hair. It cascaded down over her back and shoulders, blacker than the night sea. She handed the clip over and began to walk back toward them, looking dazed.
“Mark Blackthorn will go last,” said the phouka. “Let the golden-haired girl come to me next.”
Emma could feel the others watching her as she went toward the phouka, Julian more intensely than the rest. She thought of the painting he’d done of her, where she’d risen above the ocean with a body made of stars.
She wondered what he’d done with those paintings. If he’d thrown them all out. Were they gone, burned? Her heart ached at the thought. Such lovely work of Jules’s, every brushstroke a whisper, a promise.
She reached the faerie, who stood slyly smiling as his kind did when they were amused. All around them the sea stretched, black and silver. The phouka bent his head to speak to her; the wind rushed up around them. She stood with him inside a circle of cloud. She could no longer see the others.
“If you’re going to threaten me,” she said, before he could speak, “understand that I will hunt you down for it, if not now, then later. And I will make you die for a long time.”
The phouka laughed. His teeth were also gold, tipped in silver. “Emma Carstairs,” he said. “I see you know little about phoukas. We are seducers, not bullies. When I tell you what I tell you, you will wish to go to Faerie. You will wish to give me what I ask for.”
“And what do you ask for?”
“That stele,” he said, pointing at the one in her belt.
Everything in Emma rebelled. The stele had been given to her by Jace, years ago in Idris, after the Dark War. It was a symbol of everything that had marked her life after the War. Clary had given her words, and she treasured them: Jace had given her a stele, and with it given a grief-stricken and frightened girl a purpose. When she touched the stele, it whispered that purpose to her: The future is yours now. Make it what you will.
“What use could a faerie have for a stele?” she asked. “You don’t draw runes, and they only work for Shadowhunters.”
“No use for a stele,” he said. “But for the precious demon bone of the handle, quite a lot.”
She shook her head. “Choose something else.”
The phouka leaned in. He smelled of salt and seaweed baking in the sun. “Listen,” he said. “If you enter Faerie, you will again see the face of someone you loved, who is dead.”
“What?” Shock stabbed through Emma. “You’re lying.”
“You know I cannot lie.”
Emma’s mouth had gone dry.
“You must not tell the others what I told you, or it will not happen,” said the phouka. “Nor can I tell you what it means. I am only a messenger—but the message is true. If you wish to look again upon one you have loved and lost, if you wish to hear their voice, you must pass through the Gate of Lir.”
Emma drew the stele from her belt. A pang went through her as she handed it over. She turned away blindly from the phouka, his words ringing in her ears. She was barely aware of Mark brushing past her, the last to speak to the water faerie. Her heart was pounding too hard.
One you have loved and lost. But there were many, so many, lost in the Dark War. Her parents—but she dared not even think of them; she would lose her ability to think, to go on. The Blackthorns’ father, Andrew. Her old tutor, Katerina. Maybe—
The sound of wind and waves died down. Mark stood before the phouka in silence, his face pale: All three of the others looked stricken, and Emma burned to know what the faerie had told them. What could compel Jules, or Mark, or Cristina, to cooperate?
The phouka thrust out his hand. “Lir’s Gate opens,” he said. “Take it now, or flee back toward the shore; the moon’s road begins to dissolve already.”
There was a sound like shattering ice, melting under spring sunlight. Emma looked down: The shining path below was riven with black where the water was springing up through cracks.
Julian grabbed her hand. “We have to go,” he said. Behind Mark, who stood ahead of them on the path, an archway of water had formed. It gleamed bright silver, the inside of it churning with water and motion.
With a laugh, the phouka leaped from the path with an elegant dive and slipped between the waves. Emma realized she had no idea what Mark had given him. Not that it seemed to matter now. The path between them was shattering rapidly: Now it was in pieces, like ice floes in the Arctic.
Cristina was on Emma’s other side. The three of them pushed forward, leaping from one solid piece of path to another. Mark was gesturing toward them, shouting, the archway behind him solidifying. Emma could see green grass through it, moonlight and trees. She pushed Cristina forward; Mark caught her, and the two of them vanished through the gate.
