Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices 3)

Mark fumbled for his stele as Winter shouted aloud. “King Oban!”

Cristina turned her head to the side. Winter stood over Kieran, who was crumpled on the ground, his sword lying shattered at his side. Cristina’s heart sank even as Mark drew a swift iratze on her skin.

She barely noticed the pain depart. Oh, Kieran.

“General Winter!” Oban cried, waving his hands at the redcap standing over Kieran as if he were swatting at a fly. Stained lace flew from his sleeves and his velvet breeches were crushed beyond repair. “I command you to kill the traitor!”

Winter shook his head slowly. He was a massive figure, his shoulders almost splitting the seams of his blood-dyed uniform. “You must do this, sire,” he said. “It is the only way to render your claim on the throne a true one.”

With a petulant frown, Oban, sword at his side, stalked forward, crossing the swatch of grass between himself and Kieran. Mark looked down at Cristina. She nodded, yes, and he thrust out a hand, raising her to her feet.

They looked at each other once. Then Mark broke to the right, darting toward Winter and Kieran.

Cristina strode to the left and stepped directly in front of Oban. “You will not touch Kieran,” she said. “You will not take another step.”

She heard Winter cry out in surprise. Mark had thrown himself on the redcap general’s back. Winter flung him off, but not before Kieran had staggered to his feet.

Oban looked at Cristina with exasperation. “Do you know who I am, Shadowhunter girl?” he demanded. “Do you dare to cross the path of the Unseelie King? You are no one and nothing important.”

Cristina raised her sword between herself and Oban. “I am Cristina Mendoza Rosales, and if you hurt or kill Kieran, then you will have to deal with me.” She saw the flicker in Oban’s silvery eyes and wondered why she had thought he looked like Kieran. They were nothing alike. “You are not such stuff as Kings are made of,” she said in a low voice. “Run, now. Leave this behind you and live.”

Oban glanced at Winter, who was battling both Mark and Kieran; they were pressing him back, and back. Dead redcaps lay scattered around the field; the grass was slippery with blood. In the distance, Gwyn and Diana circled on Orion.

In Oban’s eyes Cristina saw his horror, not at the death around him but at the vision of all of it slipping away—kingship, riches, power.

“No!” he cried, and lunged at her with his sword.

Cristina met Oban’s blow with her own, swinging her sword in a savage arc. Surprise flickered in his eyes as their blades rang together. He fell back in surprise, but recovered quickly. He was a drunk and a wastrel, but still a prince of Faerie. When he lunged again, teeth bared, his sword clanged against hers hard enough to ring down through her bones. She stumbled, caught herself, and slashed at him again—and again. He met her blows, his own sword swift and furious. The tip of it nicked her shoulder and she felt the blood begin to flow.

Cristina began to pray.

Blessed be the Angel, my strength, who teaches my hands for war, and my fingers to fight.

All her life she had wanted to do something to ease the pain of the Cold Peace. Here was her chance. Raziel had brought it to her. She would do this for Emma, for the Blackthorns, for Diego and Jaime, for Mark and Kieran, for all the Rosaleses. For everyone harmed by the peace that was truly a war.

A calm stillness filled her heart. She raised her blade as if it were Glorious, as if it were a shining blade of heaven. She saw fear in Oban’s eyes, even as he moved to strike out at her again, bringing his sword around in a sideways arc. She spun in a full circle, avoiding his blow, and as she turned she drove her blade between his ribs.

A sigh seemed to pass through the world. She felt the metal of her sword grind against bone, felt hot blood splash over her fist. She jerked the sword back; Oban staggered, gazing down in disbelief at the blood spreading across the front of his doublet.

“You,” he breathed, still in disbelief. “Who are you?”

No one important.

But there was no point speaking. Oban had slumped to the ground, his hands falling loose at his sides, his eyes filming over. He was dead.

Mark and Kieran were battling desperately and heedlessly on. Cristina knew they were fighting not for their own lives but for each other.

“Prince Oban is dead!” she shouted. “Oban is dead!”

She stepped forward on the blood-wet grass, calling to Winter, to Mark and Kieran, to everyone who could hear.

It was General Winter who heard her cry. He stood, as tall and forbidding as a wall between Cristina and the boys she loved. His red-capped head turned. His red eyes took in Cristina, and then what lay behind her, a heap of blood and velvet.

His knuckles where he held his sword went white. For a moment Cristina pictured him taking his revenge for his King on Kieran and Mark. Her breath caught in her throat.

Ponderous and terrifying as an avalanche, Winter sank slowly to his knees. He bowed his blood-darkened head. His voice boomed like thunder as he said, “My liege lord, King Kieran.”

Kieran and Mark stood side by side, blades still held high, breathing in hard jolting unison. Cristina walked across the blood-drenched earth to stand so she and Mark were flanking Kieran.

Kieran’s face was deadly pale. There was a forlorn, lost look about him, but his eyes searched Cristina’s face as if he might find himself there. She clasped his hand. Kieran’s eyes traveled from Cristina to Mark, and his chin lifted. He stood with his back straight as a blade. Cristina watched him set his slender shoulders as if preparing to bear a heavy burden.

She swore an oath silently to herself: She and Mark would help him bear it.

“Prince Oban is dead,” Mark said. His voice lifted to the skies, to Diana and Gwyn circling high above their heads. “Kieran Kingson is the new King of Unseelie! Long live the King!”

* * *

They had made it to the edge of the forest, half-running the whole way, tripping over tree roots in their haste to get to the Imperishable Fields. There was no defined border between the Fields and the forest: The trees thinned out and Ty stopped dead, his breath catching. Kit stopped beside him, staring.

It looked like a movie. He couldn’t help the thought, though he felt vaguely ashamed of it—like a movie with incredible effects and attention to every detailed piece. He had thought of battles as organized, two lines of soldiers advancing on each other. Instead, this was chaos—less a chess game than a collapsed Jenga tower. Soldiers fought in clumps, rolled into ditches, spread in haphazard patterns across the Fields. The air stank of blood and roiled with noise—the clang of metal on metal, soldiers shouting, the howl of wolves, the screams of the wounded.

The noise. Kit turned to Ty, who had gone pale. “I can’t—I didn’t bring my headphones,” Ty said.

Kit hadn’t remembered them either, but then he hadn’t really expected to be in the fight. He hadn’t even imagined there would be a fight on this scale. It was massive. The gates of the city of Alicante were open, and more Shadowhunters were pouring out, adding to the noise and chaos.

Ty couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t survive being at the center of that with nothing to protect his ears, his eyes.

“Do you see Julian?” Kit asked. Maybe if Julian was nearby, if they could just get to him—

Ty’s expression cleared slightly. “Hold on.” He checked the inside of his jacket, where he’d stashed several knives and a slingshot. He had a pocketful of stones as well; Kit had seen them earlier.

Ty jogged to the nearest tree—a big, spread-branched oak—and began to shinny up it.

“Wait!” Kit ran to the base of the trunk and looked up. Ty was already vanishing among the leaves. “What are you doing?”

“I might be able to see the others from a higher vantage,” Ty called down. A branch rattled. “There they are—I see Alec. And Jace; he’s fighting some of the Cohort. Mark and Cristina are over by the redcaps. There’s Helen—a troll is coming up on her f

rom behind—” There was a whistling rattle and a rustle of leaves. “Not anymore,” Ty added in a pleased voice, and Kit realized he must have used his slingshot. “Kit, come up here—you can see everything.”

There was no answer.

Ty leaned down through the branches, searching the forest floor below the oak. It was bare. Kit was gone.

* * *

Alec had found himself a rock, one of the few on the Fields. This was a good thing, because he was at his best from a slight elevation—as Jace jogged toward him, weaving through Unseelie soldiers and friendly Downworlders alike, he watched with brotherly admiration as Alec let arrow after arrow fly with deadly speed and more deadly precision.

“Alec.” Jace reached Alec. A troll was running toward them, its tusks stained with blood, its ax raised. Its eyes gleamed with hate. Jace tugged a knife from his belt and flung it and the troll went down, gurgling, the blade in its throat.

“What is it?” Alec didn’t glance at him. He nocked his bow again, drew, and impaled a glass-toothed goblin that had been running toward Simon. Simon gave him an offhand salute and went back to fighting a mossy thing Jace suspected was a dryad gone wrong.

“The gates of the city are open—”

“I noticed.” Alec shot the dryad. It ran off toward the trees.

“More Cohort members are coming onto the field.”