“Face them?” Horace said, his mouth working in disgust. “And how do you suggest I do that when I have not yet arranged for justice? Would you simply forget those brave Shadowhunters, the ones who you claim as friends, who have died at the hands of Downworlders? I will not abandon them! I will speak for them—”
“Or you could let them speak for themselves,” Alec said mildly. “Since, you know, here they are.”
“Oh, look, and there’s Manuel,” said Emma. “We were awfully sorry to miss him, but I see he was . . .”
“Don’t say it,” warned Julian.
“. . . tied up.” Emma grinned. “Sorry. Can’t resist a bad pun.”
And tied up he was: Manuel, along with a group of fifty or more Cohort members, was being marched firmly across the Fields from the edge of Brocelind Forest. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were being propelled forward by a crowd of Shadowhunters—Aline and Helen, Isabelle and Diana and Simon.
Walking alongside them, as casually as if they were out for a morning stroll, were Jace and Clary. Above them fluttered the banner of Livia’s Watch, Clary holding the stanchion from which the banner flew. Emma’s eyes stung—Livvy’s locket and saber, flying high above the Imperishable Fields.
And behind them—behind them came a wave of all the Downworlders who had waited in the woods through the night: warlocks and werewolves and fey of all sorts, leaping and striding and stalking out from between the trees. Brocelind Forest was full of Downworlders once more.
Horace had gone still. Zara shrank in against his bulk, glaring through her tangled hair.
“What is happening?” said Zara in a dazed voice. Emma almost felt sorry for her.
Julian reached up and unbuckled the clasp holding on his cloak. It slid from his shoulders, revealing the hilt of the Mortal Sword, blackly burnished silver with angel wings outspread.
Horace stared at him, wheezing slightly. Emma couldn’t tell if he recognized the Mortal Sword or not yet; he seemed beyond that.
“What have you done, you stupid boy?” he hissed. “You have no idea—the careful planning—all we have done in the name of Nephilim—”
“Well, hello there, Dearborn.” Horace jerked back, as if the sight of Jace and Clary so close burned him. Jace held Manuel in front of them by the back of his uniform, the Centurion’s expression sulky and annoyed. “It seems the rumors of our death have been greatly exaggerated. By you.”
Clary thrust the stanchion she was holding into the earth, so the banner fluttered upright. “You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?” she asked Jace.
Alec looked at them both and shook his head. The rest of the Shadowhunters and Downworlders had spread themselves out across the field between the parley area and the walls of Alicante. Familiar faces were mixed into the crowd: Simon and Isabelle stood close by, and near them Emma recognized Catarina, Diana, Maia, and Bat; she looked for Magnus and finally found him standing near the edge of Brocelind Forest. What was he doing so far away?
“Dearborn,” Alec said. “This is your last chance. Call off this meeting and return with us to the Council Hall.”
“No,” Horace said. Some of the color had come back into his face.
“But everyone can see you lied,” Emma said. “You lied to every Shadowhunter—tried to frighten us all into obedience—”
“That’s not Jace and Clary.” Horace pointed at them with shaking fingers. “These are some—some imposters—some warlock magic meant to trick and deceive—”
“The Iron Sisters predicted you would say that,” Julian said. “That’s why they gave me this.” He reached behind him and drew the Mortal Sword from its scabbard. The metal seemed to sing as the blade arced across the sky, scattering sparks. An audible gasp went up from the Cohort and the Unseelie faeries; Emma could only imagine the commotion occurring in the city. “The Mortal Sword, reforged.”
Silently, Julian thanked Sister Emilia and her willingness to deceive the Cohort.
Horace’s mouth worked. “A fake—a falsity—”
“Then you won’t mind if Manuel holds it,” said Julian. “Order him to take it.”
Horace froze. His eyes darted from the Sword to Manuel and back again; it was, startlingly, Oban who broke the silence.
“Well, if it is a falsity, let the boy take it,” he said. “Let us suffer this farce only briefly.” His silvery eyes flicked to Manuel. “Take the Sword, Centurion.”
Tight-lipped, Manuel reached out his hands, and Julian placed the Mortal Sword in them, the blade across his palms. Emma saw Manuel jerk as if in pain, and felt a cold relief. So the Sword’s power was working. It was painful to be forced to tell the truth. The Sword’s power hurt, and not just those who lied but any who wished to protect their secrets.
Julian crossed his arms and looked at Manuel. It was a hard, cold look, a look that went back generations of Blackthorns, to those who had been Inquisitors themselves. “Did you and the Cohort try to kill Clary and Jace just now?”
Manuel’s face was blotched white and red, his careful hair disarranged. “Yes,” he hissed. “Yes. I did.” He shot Horace a venomous look. “It was on the Inquisitor’s orders. When he found out they were still alive and would be in Brocelind Forest last night, he ordered us to slay them at dawn.”
“But that didn’t happen,” Julian said.
“No. They must have been warned. They were waiting for us, and the woods were full of Downworlders. They attacked. We had no chance.”
“So you were willing to kill fellow Nephilim and pin the blame on Downworlders,” said Julian. “Why? Why foment war?”
“I did what Horace ordered me to do.”
“And in Faerie,” said Julian. “When you helped Oban become King. When you brokered an alliance between the Cohort and the Unseelie Court. Was that because Horace asked you to do it?”
Manuel was biting his lip so hard blood was running down his chin. But the Sword was stronger than his will. “It was my idea,” he gasped. “But Horace embraced it—he loved the idea of pulling off a trick under the Clave’s noses—we put Oban on the throne because Oban was a fool who would do what we wanted—he would stage this parley with us, and we would pretend to reach a deal, a deal where both parties would get what they wanted. The Unseelie Court would get the Shadowhunters on their side against Seelie and other Downworlders—and the Cohort would be able to say that they had forced the Unseelie Court into a peace agreement, that they had agreed never to enter Idris again. Both sides would look strong to their people. . . .”
“Enough!” Oban shouted. He reached to seize the Mortal Sword from Manuel, but Mark moved in front of him, blocking his way. “Silence this brat!”
“Fine,” Julian said unexpectedly, and plucked the Sword from Manuel’s grasp. “Enough with the junior leagues. Dearborn, take the Sword.”
He walked toward Horace, holding the Sword. All around Horace drooped the members of the Cohort, looking alternately shocked and furious. It wasn’t too difficult to tell who had been surprised by Manuel’s revelations, and who hadn’t.
“It’s time you spoke to your people, Dearborn,” Julian said. “They can see you. They can hear you. You owe them an explanation.” He held the Sword out to him, level and ready. “Let yourself be tested.”
“We will be tested in battle!” Horace screamed. “I will prove myself! I am their leader! Their rightful Consul!”
“Consuls don’t lie to their Council members,” said Julian. He lowered the Mortal Sword so that the flat of the blade lay across his left palm, wincing slightly as the truth-telling compulsion took hold. “You blamed Dane Larkspear’s death on faeries. I killed Dane Larkspear.”
Emma felt her eyes widen. She hadn’t expected Julian to say that.
“Maybe a little too much radical honesty,” Simon muttered.
“I killed him because you sent him into Faerie to murder me and to murder my parabatai,” said Julian. “I’m holding the Mortal Sword. I’m not lying. You can see th
at.” He spoke as if he were addressing only Horace, but Emma knew he was addressing every Shadowhunter and Downworlder who could hear him. “Samantha Larkspear was hurt when she tried to torture Kieran Kingson at the Scholomance. Possibly also on your orders.” He gave a little gasp; the Sword was clearly hurting him. “You’ve set Shadowhunters against Shadowhunters and against innocent Downworlders, all in service of tricking the Council into adopting your bigoted reforms—all in service of fear—”
“Yes, I did!” Horace screamed. Zara flew to her father’s side and yanked on his empty sleeve; he seemed barely to notice her. “Because the Nephilim are fools! Because of people like you, telling them Downworlders are our friends, that we can live in peace beside them! You would have us stretch out our necks willingly to the slaughtering blade! You would have us die lying down, not fighting!” He flung his right arm toward Oban. “I wouldn’t have had to accept an alliance with this drunken fool if the Clave had not been so stupid and so stubborn! I needed to show them—show them how to protect ourselves honorably from Downworlders—”
“?‘Honorably’?” Julian echoed, raising the Mortal Sword so it no longer touched his palm. It was a weapon again now, not a test of the bearer’s veracity. “You drove the Downworlders out of Brocelind. You knew the Unseelie Court was spreading the blight that was killing warlocks and you did nothing. How is that honorable?”