City of Heavenly Fire (The Mortal Instruments #6)(10)
Author: Cassandra Clare

He let her draw him aside. Clary described the conversation she had overheard between her mother and Luke about the box. “It’s definitely the box I remember. It’s the one my mother had when I was growing up, and the one that was in Sebastian’s apartment when I was there.”

Jace raked a hand through the light strands of his hair. “I thought there was something,” he said. “Maryse got a message from your mother this morning.” His gaze was inward. “Sebastian Turned Luke’s sister,” he added. “He did it on purpose, to hurt Luke and hurt your mother through Luke. He hates her. He must have come to Alicante to get Amatis, that night we fought at the Burren. He as much as told me he was going to do it, back when we were bound. He said he was going to kidnap a Shadowhunter from Alicante, just not which one.”

Clary nodded. It was always strange to hear Jace talk about the self he had been, the Jace who had been Sebastian’s friend—more than his friend, his ally. The Jace who had worn her Jace’s skin and face but had been someone else entirely.

“He must have brought the box with him then, left it in her house,” Jace added. “He would have known that your family would find it one day. He would have thought of it as a message, or a signature.”

“Is that what the Clave thinks?” Clary asked.

“It’s what I think,” Jace said, focusing on her. “And you know we both can read Sebastian better than they can, or ever will. They don’t understand him at all.”

“Aren’t they lucky.” The sound of a bell echoed through the air, and the gates slid open. Clary and Jace joined the Lightwoods, Luke, and Jocelyn in the tide of Shadowhunters pouring through. They passed through the gardens outside the fortress, up a set of stairs, then through another set of doors into a long corridor that ended at the Council chamber.

Jia Penhallow, in Consul robes, stood at the entrance to the chamber as Shadowhunter after Shadowhunter came through. It was built like an amphitheater: a half circle of tiered benches facing a rectangular raised dais in the front of the room. There were two lecterns on the dais, one for the Consul and one for the Inquisitor, and behind the lecterns two windows, massive rectangles, looked out over Alicante.

Clary moved to sit with the Lightwoods and her mother, while Robert Lightwood broke away from them and headed down the center aisle to take up the place of the Inquisitor. On the dais, behind the lecterns, were four tall chairs, the back of each inscribed with a symbol: spell book, moon, arrow, star. The seats for the Downworlders of the Council. Luke eyed his but seated himself next to Jocelyn. This was not a full Council meeting, with Downworlder attendance. Luke wasn’t here in an official capacity. In front of the seats a table had been erected, draped with blue velvet. Atop the velvet lay something long and sharp, something that glimmered in the light from the windows. The Mortal Sword.

Clary glanced around. The flood of Shadowhunters had slowed to a trickle; the room was nearly filled to its echoing roof. There had once been more entrances than through the Gard. Westminster Abbey had had one, she knew, as had the Sagrada Família and Saint Basil the Blessed, but they had been sealed when Portals were invented. She couldn’t help but wonder if some kind of magic kept the Council room from overflowing. It was as full as she had ever seen it, but there were still empty seats when Jia Penhallow stepped up onto the stage and clapped her hands sharply.

“Will the Council please come to attention,” she said.

Silence fell quickly; many of the Shadowhunters were straining forward. Rumors had been flying around like panicked birds, and there was an electricity in the room, the crackling current of people desperate for information.

“Bangkok, Buenos Aires, Oslo, Berlin, Moscow, Los Angeles,” said Jia. “Attacked in quick succession, before the attacks could be reported. Before warnings could be given. Every Conclave in these cities has had its Shadowhunters captured and Turned. A few—pitifully few, the very old or very young—were simply killed, their bodies left for us to burn, to add to the voices of lost Shadowhunters in the Silent City.”

A voice spoke from one of the front rows. A woman with black hair, the tattooed silver design of a koi fish standing out on the dark skin of her cheek. Clary rarely saw Shadowhunters with tattoos that weren’t Marks, but it wasn’t unheard of. “You say ‘Turned,’ ” she said. “But do you not mean ‘slain’?”

Jia’s mouth tightened. “I do not mean ‘slain,’ ” she said. “I mean ‘Turned.’ We speak of the Endarkened, the ones Jonathan Morgenstern—or as he prefers to be known, Sebastian—Turned from their purpose as Nephilim using the Infernal Cup. Every Institute was issued reports of what happened at the Burren. The existence of the Endarkened is something we have known of now for some time, even if there were perhaps those who did not want to believe it.”

A murmur went around the room. Clary barely heard it. She was aware that Jace’s hand was around hers, but she was hearing the wind on the Burren, and seeing Shadowhunters rising from the Infernal Cup to face Sebastian, the Marks of the Gray Book already fading from their skin. . . .

“Shadowhunters don’t fight Shadowhunters,” said an older man in one of the front rows. Jace murmured into her ear that he was the head of the Reykjavík Institute. “It is blasphemy.”

“It is blasphemy,” Jia agreed. “Blasphemy is Sebastian Morgenstern’s creed. His father wanted to cleanse the world of Downworlders. Sebastian wants something very different. He wants Nephilim reduced to ashes, and he wants to use Nephilim to do it.”

“Surely if he was able to turn Nephilim into—into monsters, we ought to be able to find a way to turn them back,” said Nasreen Choudhury, the head of the Mumbai Institute, regal in her rune-decorated white sari. “Surely we should not give up so easily on our own.”

“The body of one of the Endarkened was found at the Berlin site,” said Robert. “He was injured, probably left for dead. The Silent Brothers are examining him right now to see if they can glean any information that might lead to a cure.”

“Which Endarkened?” demanded the woman with the koi tattoo. “He had a name before he was Turned. A Shadowhunter name.”

“Amalric Kriegsmesser,” said Robert after a moment’s hesitation. “His family has already been told.”

The warlocks of the Spiral Labyrinth are also working on a cure. The whispered omnidirectional voice of a Silent Brother echoed in the room. Clary recognized Brother Zachariah standing with his hands folded near the dais. Beside him was Helen Blackthorn, dressed in white mourning clothes, looking anxious.

“They’re warlocks,” said someone else in a dismissive tone. “Surely they won’t do any better than our own Silent Brothers.”

“Can’t Kriegsmesser be interrogated?” interrupted a tall woman with white hair. “Perhaps he knows Sebastian’s next move, or even a manner of curing his condition—”

Amalric Kriegsmesser is barely conscious, and besides, he is a servant of the Infernal Cup, said Brother Zachariah. The Infernal Cup controls him completely. He has no will of his own and therefore no will to break.

The woman with the koi tattoo spoke out again: “Is it true that Sebastian Morgenstern is invulnerable now? That he can’t be killed?”

There was a murmur in the room. Jia spoke, raising her voice, “As I said, there were no Nephilim survivors from the first of the attacks. But the last attack was on the Institute in Los Angeles, and six survived. Six children.” She turned. “Helen Blackthorn, if you please, bring the witnesses out.”

Clary saw Helen nod, and disappear through a side door. A moment later she returned; she was walking slowly now, and carefully, her hand on the back of a thin boy with a mop of wavy brown hair. He couldn’t have been older than twelve. Clary recognized him immediately. She had seen him in the nave of the Institute the first time she had met Helen, his wrist clamped in his older sister’s grip, his hands covered in wax where he had been playing with the tapers that decorated the interior of the cathedral. He had had an impish grin and the same blue-green eyes as his sister.

Julian, Helen had called him. Her little brother.

The impish grin was gone now. He looked tired and dirty and frightened. Skinny wrists stuck out of the cuffs of a white mourning jacket, the sleeves of which were too short for him. In his arms he was carrying a little boy, probably not more than three years old, with tangled brown curls; it seemed to be a family trait. The rest of the children wore similar borrowed mourning clothes. Following Julian was a girl of about ten, her hand firmly clasped in the hold of a boy the same age. The girl’s hair was dark brown, but the boy had tangled black curls that nearly obscured his face. Fraternal twins, Clary guessed. After them came a girl who might have been eight or nine, her face round and very pale between brown braids. All of the Blackthorns—for the family resemblance was striking—looked bewildered and terrified, except perhaps Helen, whose expression was a mixture of fury and grief.

The misery on their faces cut at Clary’s heart. She thought of her power with runes, wishing that she could create one that would soften the blow of loss. Mourning runes existed, but only to honor the dead, in the same way that love runes existed, like wedding rings, to symbolize the bond of love. You couldn’t make someone love you with a rune, and you couldn’t assuage grief with it either. So much magic, Clary thought, and nothing to mend a broken heart.

“Julian Blackthorn,” said Jia Penhallow, and her voice was gentle. “Step forward, please.”

Julian swallowed and nodded, handing the little boy he was holding to his older sister. He stepped forward, his eyes darting around the dais. He was clearly scouring the space for someone. His shoulders had just begun to slump when another figure darted out onto the stage. A girl, also about twelve, with a tangle of dark blond hair that hung down around her shoulders. She wore jeans and a T-shirt that didn’t quite fit, and her head was down, as if she couldn’t bear so many people looking at her. It was clear that she didn’t want to be there—on the stage or perhaps even in Idris—but the moment he saw her, Julian seemed to relax. The terrified look vanished from his expression as she moved to stand beside Helen, her face tucked down and away from the crowd.

“Julian,” said Jia in the same gentle voice, “would you do something for us? Would you take up the Mortal Sword?”

Clary sat up straight. She had held the Mortal Sword; she had felt the weight of it. The cold, like hooks in your skin, dragged the truth out of you. You couldn’t lie holding the Mortal Sword, but the truth, even a truth you wanted to tell, was agony.

“They can’t,” she whispered. “He’s just a kid—”

“He’s the oldest of the children who escaped the Los Angeles Institute,” Jace said under his breath. “They don’t have a choice.”

Julian nodded, his thin shoulders straight. “I’ll take it.”

Robert Lightwood passed behind the lectern then and went to the table. He took up the Sword and returned to stand in front of Julian. The contrast between them was almost funny—the big, barrel-chested man and the lanky, wild-haired boy.

Julian reached a hand up and took the Sword. As his fingers closed around the hilt, he shuddered, a ripple of pain that was quickly forced down. The blond girl behind him started forward, and Clary caught a glimpse of the look on her face—pure fury—before Helen caught at her and pulled her back.

Jia knelt down. It was a strange sight, the boy with the Sword, bracketed on one side by the Consul, her robes spreading out about her, and on the other by the Inquisitor. “Julian,” Jia said, and though her voice was low, it carried throughout the Council room. “Can you tell us who is on the stage here with you today?”

In his clear boy’s voice Julian said, “You. The Inquisitor. My family—my sister Helen, and Tiberius and Livia, and Drusilla and Tavvy. Octavian. And my best friend, Emma Carstairs.”

“And they were all with you when the Institute was attacked?”

Julian shook his head. “Not Helen,” he said. “She was here.”

“Can you tell us what you saw, Julian? Without leaving anything out?”

Julian swallowed. He was pale. Clary could imagine the pain he was feeling, the weight of the Sword. “It was in the afternoon,” he said. “We were practicing in the training room. Katerina was teaching us. Mark was watching. Emma’s parents were on a routine patrol at the beach. We saw a flash of light; I thought it was lightning, or fireworks. But—it wasn’t. Katerina and Mark left us and went downstairs. They told us to stay in the training room.”

“But you didn’t,” Jia said.

“We could hear the sounds of fighting. We split up—Emma went to get Drusilla and Octavian, and I went to the office with Livia and Tiberius to call the Clave. We had to sneak by the main entrance to get there. When we did, I saw him.”