* * *
The Imperishable Fields.
That was what they were called, though most people called them simply the Fields. They stretched across the flat plains outside Alicante, from the city walls that had been built after the Dark War to the trees of Brocelind Forest.
The breeze was soft and unique to Idris; in some ways Emma preferred the wind off the ocean in Los Angeles, with its sideways bite of salt. This wind felt too gentle for the day of Livvy’s funeral. It lifted her hair and blew her white dress around her knees; it made the white banners that were raised on either side of each pyre drift like ribbons across the sky.
The ground sloped down from the city toward the woods, and as they neared the funeral pyres Cristina took Emma’s hand. Emma squeezed back gratefully as they came close enough to the crowd for Emma to see people staring and hear the mutters rise around them. There was sympathy for the Blackthorns, certainly, but also glares for her and Julian; Julian had brought Annabel into Idris, and Emma was the girl who had broken the Mortal Sword.
“A blade as powerful as Cortana has no business in the hands of a child,” said a woman with blond hair as Emma passed by.
“The whole thing smacks of dark magic,” said someone else.
Emma decided to try not to listen. She stared straight ahead: She could see Jia standing between the pyres, all in white. Memories of the Dark War flooded over her. So many people in white; so very many burning pyres.
Beside Jia stood a woman with long red hair who Emma recognized as Clary’s mother, Jocelyn. Beside her was Maryse Lightwood, her black hair loose down her back. It was liberally threaded with gray. She seemed to be speaking intently to Jia, though they were too far away for Emma to hear what they were saying.
Both pyres were finished, though the bodies had not been brought from the Silent City yet. Quite a few Shadowhunters had gathered—no one was required to attend funerals, but Robert had been popular, and his and Livvy’s deaths shocking in their horror.
Robert’s family stood close to the pyre on the right—the ceremonial robes of the Inquisitor had been draped across the top. They would burn with him. Surrounding the kindling were Alec and Magnus, Simon and Isabelle, all in ritual mourning clothes, even little Max and Rafe. Isabelle looked up at Emma as she approached and waved a greeting; her eyes were swollen from crying.
Simon, beside her, looked tense as a drawn bowstring. He was glancing around, his gaze darting among the people in the crowd. Emma couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking for the same people she was—the people who by all rights ought to be here when Robert Lightwood was laid to rest.
Where were Jace and Clary?
* * *
The Shadowhunters had rarely seemed as alien to Kit as they did now. They were everywhere, dressed in their white, a color he associated with weddings and Easter. The banners, the runes, the glittering demon towers in the distance—all of it combined to make him feel as if he were on another planet.
Not to mention that the Shadowhunters didn’t cry. Kit had been to funerals before, and seen them on TV. People held handkerchiefs and sobbed into them. But not here; here they were silent, pulled taut, and the sound of birds was louder than the sound of talking or crying.
Not that Kit was crying himself, and not that he had cried when his father died. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but his father had always made it sound like to break down in grief meant you would be broken forever. Kit owed too much to the Blackthorns, especially Ty, to let himself shatter over Livvy. She wouldn’t have wanted that. She would have wanted him to be there for Ty.
One after another the Nephilim came up to the Blackthorns and offered their condolences. Julian had placed himself at the head of his family like a shield and was coolly fending off all cordial attempts to talk to his brothers and sisters, who stood in a group behind him. Julian seemed colder and more removed than usual, but that wasn’t surprising. Grief hit everyone in different ways.
It did mean he’d let go of Tavvy’s hand, though, so Tavvy had gone over to stand next to Dru, pressing himself into her side. It also left Ty on his own, and Kit made his way over to the other boy, feeling resplendently silly in white leather pants and jacket. He knew it was a formal mourning outfit, but it made him feel like he was cosplaying someone in an eighties music video.
“Funerals are always so sad,” said a woman who had introduced herself as Irina Cartwright, staring at Julian with a deep pitying stare. When he didn’t respond, she shifted her gaze to Kit. “Don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Kit. “My father was eaten by demons.”
Irina Cartwright looked discomfited and hurried away after a few more trite phrases. Julian raised an eyebrow at Kit before greeting the next mourner.
“Do you still have . . . the phone?” Kit asked Ty, and felt immediately like an idiot. Who went up to someone at their twin sister’s funeral and asked them if they had their phone? Especially when there was no signal anywhere in Idris? “I mean. Not that you can call. Anyone.”
“There’s one phone in Idris that works. It’s in the Consul’s office,” said Ty. He didn’t look like he was cosplaying an eighties music-video star; he looked icy and striking and—
The word “beautiful” blinked on and off in Kit’s head like a flickering neon sign. He ignored it.
Elegant. Ty looked elegant. People with dark hair probably just looked naturally better in white.
“It’s not the phone signal I need,” said Ty. “It’s the photos on the phone.”
“Photos of Livvy?” Kit asked, confused.
Ty stared at him. Kit remembered the days in London, in which they’d been working together, solving—well, solving mysteries. Like Watson and Holmes. He hadn’t ever felt like he didn’t understand Ty. But he felt it now.
“No,” Ty said.
He glanced around. Kit wondered if the growing number of people was bothering Ty. He hated crowds. Magnus and Alec were standing with their kids near the Consul; they were with a beautiful black-haired girl with eyebrows just like Alec’s and a boy—well, he was probably in his twenties—with untidy brown hair. The boy gave Kit a considering look that seemed to say you look familiar. Several people had done the same. Kit guessed it was because he looked like Jace, if Jace had suffered a sudden and unexpected height, muscle, and overall hotness reduction.
“I need to talk to you, later,” Ty said, his voice low, and Kit wasn’t sure whether to be worried or grateful. A
s far as he knew, Ty hadn’t really talked to anyone since Livvy died.
“You don’t—want to talk to your brother? To Julian?”
“No. I need to talk to you.” Ty hesitated, as if he was about to say something else.
There was a low, mournful sound as if of a horn blowing, and people turned to stare back at the city. Kit followed their gazes and saw that a procession was leaving the gates. Dozens of Silent Brothers in their parchment uniforms, walking in two lines on either side of two biers. The biers were carried at shoulder height by Council guards.
They were too distant for Kit to see which bier was Livvy’s: He could see only a body lying on each platform, wrapped in white. And then they came closer, and he saw that one body was much smaller than the other, and he turned to Ty without being able to stop himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
Ty was looking toward the city. One of his hands was opening and closing, his long fingers curling under, but other than that he showed no signs of any emotion. “There really isn’t any reason for you to be sorry,” he said. “So please don’t be.”
Kit stood without speaking. There was a cold tension inside him, a fear he couldn’t shake—that he had lost not just Livvy but Ty as well.
* * *
“They haven’t come back yet,” Isabelle said. She was composed, immaculate in gear, a white silk band holding back her hair. She was holding Simon’s hand, her knuckles as white as the flower in her lapel.
Emma had always thought of grief as a claw. The claw of a massive monster you couldn’t see, that reached down out of the sky and seized hold of you, punching out your breath, leaving only a pain you couldn’t wriggle away from or avoid. You just had to endure it for as long as the claw had you in its grasp.
She could see the pain of it in Isabelle’s eyes, behind her calm exterior, and part of her wanted to reach out and hug the other girl. She wished Clary were here—Clary and Isabelle were like sisters, and Clary could comfort Izzy in the way only a best friend could.