“I swear on the Angel,” said Julian. He knew how powerful an oath on the Angel was, and Annabel would know it too. But he was speaking only the truth, after all.

His heart was beating in swift and powerful hammer-blows. He was blinded by the light of what he could imagine, what the Queen could do for them if they gave her the Black Volume: Helen, Helen could come back, and Aline, and the Cold Peace could end.

And the Queen knows. She knows . . .

He forced the thought back. He could hear Emma’s voice, a whisper in the back of his mind. A warning. But Emma was good in her heart: honest, straightforward, a terrible liar. She didn’t understand the brutality of need. The absoluteness of what he would do for his family. There was no end to its depth and breadth. It was total.

“Very well,” Annabel said. Her voice was strong, forceful: He could hear the unbreakable cliffs of Cornwall in her accent. “I will come with you to the City of Glass and speak before the Council. And if I am acknowledged, then the Black Volume will be yours.”

29

ULTIMA THULE

The sun was shining in Alicante.

The first time Emma had been in Idris, it had been winter, cold as death, and there had been death all around—her parents had just been killed, and the Dark War had ravaged the city. They hadn’t been able to burn the bodies of Shadowhunters killed in the streets fast enough, and the corpses had stacked up in the Hall like discarded children’s toys.

“Emma.” Julian was pacing the long corridor in the Gard, lined with doors, each leading to the office of a different official. Alternating between the doors were windows letting in the bright light of late summer, and tapestries depicting significant events in Shadowhunter history. Most had small woven banners across the tops, describing what they were: THE BATTLE OF THE BUND, VALENTINE’S LAST STAND, THE PARIS ENGAGEMENT, THE UPRISING. “Do you remember . . . ?”

She did remember. They’d stood in this exact place five years ago, listening to Lucian Graymark and Jia Penhallow discuss the exile of Mark and Helen, before Emma had thrown open the door to shout at them. It was one of the few times she’d seen Julian lose control. She could hear his voice in her head, even now. You promised the Clave would never abandon Mark while he was living—you promised!

“Like I could forget,” she said. “This is where we told the Consul we wanted to be parabatai.”

Julian touched her hand with his. It was only a brush of fingers—they were both conscious anyone could come down the corridor at any moment.

Getting to Alicante had been difficult—Magnus had managed the Portal, though it seemed to have taken the last of his energy in a way that frightened Emma. He had been kneeling by the time the familiar swirling lights had formed, and he’d had to lean on Mark and Julian to rise.

Still he had brushed off all concerns and informed them that they needed to go through the Portal quickly. Idris was warded and Portaling there was a complex business, since someone had to be on the other side to receive you. It was doubly complex now since Kieran was with them, and though Jia had waived the anti-Faerie protections on the Gard temporarily, the window for safe travel was short.

Then the Portal had terrified Annabel.

She had never seen one before, and despite everything she had been through, despite all the awful magic she had seen Malcolm wreak, the sight of the whirling chaos inside the doorway made her scream.

In the end, after the Shadowhunters had all entered the Portal, she went through with Magnus, clutching the Black Volume in her hands, her face hidden against his shoulder.

Only to be met on the other side by a crowd of Council members and the Consul herself. Jia had blanched when she saw Annabel and said in an astonished voice, “Is that really her?”

Magnus had locked eyes with the Consul for a moment. “Yes,” he said firmly. “It is. She is.”

There was a babble of questions. Emma couldn’t blame the assembled Council members. There had been quite a few questions for Julian when he’d emerged from the library and told a waiting Magnus and Emma that Annabel was coming with them to Idris.

As he’d outlined his plan, Emma had caught sight of the expression on Magnus’s face. The warlock had looked at Julian with a mixture of astonishment, respect, and something that might have looked a little like horror.

But it had probably just been surprise. After all, Magnus had seemed sanguine enough, and had immediately set about sending a fire-message to Jia to let her know what to expect.

Emma had drawn Julian aside while blue sparks flew from Magnus’s fingers. “What about the book?” she’d whispered. “What about the Queen?”

Julian’s eyes glittered. “If this works, Annabel will give us the Black Volume,” he’d replied in a whisper, and he’d been looking at the library door as if Annabel, behind it, were the answer to all their prayers. “And if not—I have a plan for that, too.”

There’d been no chance to ask him what the plan was: Annabel had stepped out of the library, looking fearful and shy. She looked even more fearful now as the hubbub rose around her: Kieran drew some of the fire by stepping up to announce himself as the envoy of the Seelie Queen, sent to speak on the behalf of the Seelie Court to the Council of Shadowhunters. He’d been expected, but there was still a burst of more excited talking.

“Put the wards back up,” said the Consul, inclining her head to Kieran. Her expression was polite, but the message was clear: Though Kieran was there to help them, all full-blood faeries were still going to be treated with extreme suspicion by the Clave.

Mark and Cristina moved to Kieran’s side protectively, while Magnus spoke quietly with the Consul. After a moment, she nodded, and gestured at Emma and Julian.

“If you want to speak to Robert, go ahead,” she said. “But keep it short—the meeting is soon.”

Emma was unsurprised, as she and Julian headed toward the Gard’s offices, to see that Livvy, Ty, Kit, and Dru had flanked Annabel protectively. Ty, especially, had his chin jutting out, his hands in fists. Emma wondered if he felt responsible for Annabel because his letter had brought her to them, or if he felt some kind of kinship for those at odds with the Clave’s standards for “normalcy.”

A door swung open. “You can come in now,” said a guard. It was Manuel Villalobos, wearing his Centurion uniform. His start of surprise at seeing them was quickly hidden by a smirk. “An unexpected pleasure,” he said.

“We’re not here to see you,” said Julian. “Though nice to know you’re opening doors for the Inquisitor these days. Is he here?”

“Let them in, Centurion,” Robert called, which was all the permission needed for Emma to shove by Manuel and stalk down the hallway. Julian followed her.

The short hall ended in the Inquisitor’s office. He was sitting behind his desk, looking much the same as he had the last time Emma had seen him at the Los Angeles Institute. A big man only now beginning to show the marks of age—his shoulders were a little hunched, his dark hair woven thickly with gray—Robert Lightwood cut an imposing figure behind his massive mahogany desk.

The room was largely unfurnished aside from the desk and two chairs. There was an unlit fireplace, above whose mantel hung one of the series of tapestries on display in the hall outside. This one said THE BATTLE OF THE BURREN. Figures in red clashed with figures in black—Shadowhunters and the Endarkened Ones—and above the melee, a dark-haired archer was visible standing on a tipped boulder, holding a drawn bow and arrow. To anyone who knew him, it was very clearly Alec Lightwood.