The Fiery Trial Read online

  Clary laughed. "So what are we supposed to wear?" she said. "As witnesses, I mean."

  "For the ceremony, formal gear. For the dinner afterward, regular clothing. Something nice."

  "Wedding stuff," Catarina finally said. "It's a lot like a wedding but . . ."

  ". . . without the romance and flowers."

  That was Jem.

  Magnus was now eying them intently, his cat eyes glistening in the dark. The room had gotten very dark indeed. Simon gave Clary a look that was supposed to mean: This is weird. She responded with a very clear look of response that said: Superweird.

  Simon drank his tea down in a few large gulps and returned the cup to the table.

  "It's funny," he said. "There was just another parabatai announcement at dinner. Two students from the elite track."

  "That's not uncommon for this time of year," Jem said. "As the year draws to a close, people reflect, they make decisions."

  The room suddenly got warmer. Had the fire gotten higher? Had it sneaked closer? It was definitely crackling loudly, but now it didn't sound like laughter--it sounded like breaking glass. The fire was speaking to them.

  Simon caught himself. The fire was speaking? What was wrong with him? He looked around the room fuzzily, and heard Clary make an odd, surprised sound, as if she'd seen something she hadn't expected.

  "I think it's time to begin," said Jem. "Magnus?"

  Simon could hear Magnus sigh as he stood up. Magnus was really tall. This, Simon had always known. Now he looked like he might hit the ceiling. He opened a door that Simon hadn't noticed was there.

  "Come through here," Magnus said. "There are some things you need to see."

  Clary got up and went over to the door. Simon followed. Catarina caught his eye as he went. Everything was unsaid in this room. She didn't quite approve of what was happening. Neither did Magnus.

  Whatever was on the other side of the doorway was utterly dark, and Clary hesitated for a second.

  "It's fine," Magnus said. "It's just a bit cold in there. Sorry."

  Clary went in, and Simon followed a step behind. They were in a shadowy space, definitely cold. He turned, but could no longer see the door. It was just him and Clary. Clary's hair shone bright red in the dark.

  "We're outside," Clary said.

  Sure enough. Simon blinked. His thoughts were a little slow and stretched. Of course they were outside.

  "They maybe could have said we were going outside," Simon said, shivering. "No one here believes in coats."

  "Turn around," Clary said.

  Simon turned. The door they had just come through--in fact, the entire building they had just come from--was gone. They were simply outdoors, surrounded by just a few trees. The sky above was a purple-gray parchment that seemed to be lit by a low haze of lights on the horizon, just out of sight. There was a web of brick paths all around, dotted with fenced-off areas of trees and urns that probably contained flowers in better weather and now stood as reminders of the season.

  It was familiar, and yet, it was like nowhere Simon had ever been.

  "We're in Central Park," Clary said. "I think . . ."

  "What? We . . ."

  But as soon as he said it, it became clear. The low metal fences that marked off the brick paths. But there were no benches, no trash cans, no people. There was no view of the skyline in any direction.

  "Okay . . . ," said Simon. "This is weird. Did Magnus just completely screw up? Can that happen? You guys just came from New York. Did he just open up the same Portal?"

  "Maybe?" Clary said.

  Simon took a deep breath of the New York air. It was bitterly cold and burned the inside of his nose, waking him up.

  "They'll realize in a second," Clary said, shivering in the cold. "Magnus doesn't make mistakes."

  "So maybe it wasn't a mistake. Maybe we just got a free trip to New York. Or, I did. I'm going to assume that we go wherever we want until they come and get us. You know they have their ways. Might as well take advantage!"

  This unexpected and utterly sudden trip home had completely reinvigorated Simon.

  "Pizza," he said. "Oh my God. They stir-fried pizza tonight. It was the worst. Maybe coffee. Maybe there's time to get to Forbidden Planet? I just . . ."

  He patted his pockets. Money. He had no money.

  "You?" he asked.

  Clary shook her head.

  "In my bag. Back there."

  That didn't matter. It was enough to be home. The suddenness of it only made it more wonderful. Now that he looked more carefully, Simon could see clearly the outlines of the skyscrapers that lined the south end of the park. They looked like the blocks he used to play with as a kid--just a series of rectangles of various sizes set side to side. Some had the faint glow of signs above them, but he couldn't read the writing. He could, however, see the colors of the signs with an unusual clarity. One sign was a pink rose, a bright bloom. The next was the color of electricity. It wasn't just the colors that were sharp. He could smell everything in the air. The metallic tang of the cold. The sea funk of the East River, blocks away. Even the jutting bits of bedrock that reached up and made the many tiny mountains of Central Park seemed to have an odor. There was no garbage, though, and no smells of food or traffic. This was elemental New York. This was the island itself.

  "I feel a little weird," Simon said. "Maybe I should have finished dinner. And now that I've just said that, I know there must be something wrong with me."

  "You need to eat," Clary said, giving him a light punch. "You're turning into a big muscle man."

  "You noticed?"

  "It's hard not to notice, Superman. You're like the after photo on some commercial for home workout equipment."

  Simon blushed and looked away. It wasn't snowing anymore. It was just dark and open, with many trees around. There was a bright bitterness to the cold.

  "Where do you think we are?" Clary said. "I'm guessing about . . . midway?"

  Simon knew it was possible to walk for some time in Central Park without really having a sense of where you are. The paths wind. The trees create a canopy. The land goes up and down in sharp inclines and declines.

  "Over there," he said, pointing at a low pattern of shadows. "It opens up over there. It's the entrance to something. Let's go that way and look."

  Clary rubbed her hands together and huddled against the cold. Simon wished he had a coat to offer her, almost more than he wished he had a coat to offer himself. Still, being cold in New York was better than being cold in the Academy. He had to admit, though, that Idris was more temperate. New York weather went to more extremes. This was the kind of cold that would give you frostbite if you stayed out in it too long. They probably needed to figure out where they were and get out of the park and into a building--any building. A store, a coffee shop, whatever they could find.

  They walked toward the opening, which revealed itself to be a collection of elaborately carved stone plinths. There were several of these, in sets. Eventually they led to an equally elaborately carved staircase that bent on its way down to a wide terrace with a massive fountain. There was a lake just beyond, covered in ice.

  "Bethesda Terrace," Simon said, nodding. "That's where we are. That's in the Seventies, right?"

  "Seventy-Second," Clary said. "I've drawn it before."

  The terrace was just a large, ornamental area inside of the park and not really somewhere to be on a cold night--but it seemed to be the only place to be. If they walked toward it, at least they would know where they were, as opposed to wandering around in the trees and looping paths. They walked down the stairs together. Strangely, the fountain was going tonight. It was often turned off in the winter, and certainly when it was freezing cold. But the water flowed freely, and there was no ice on the water in the fountain base. The lights were on and all focused on the statue of the angel that stood in the middle of the fountain on top of two layered tiers and four tiny cherubs.

  "Maybe Magnus did mess up," she said.

>   Clary walked right up to the low edge of the fountain, sat down, and wrapped her arms around herself. Simon stared at the fountain. Funny, he thought, how they hadn't noticed any lights a few minutes ago as they approached. Maybe they'd just come on. The angel of the Bethesda Fountain was one of the most famous statues in all of Central Park--wings extended, water pouring off her outstretched hands.

  He turned his head back down to tell Clary to look at the statue, but Clary was gone. He spun around, a full rotation. She was nowhere in sight.

  "Clary?" he called.

  There were no real places to conceal yourself on the terrace, and he'd looked away for only a moment. He walked halfway around the base of the fountain, calling her name several times. He looked up at the statue again. Same statue, looking down benevolently, water still dripping from her hands.

  Except the statue was facing him. And he'd walked to the other side. He should have been looking at the back of it. He took a few more steps. While he never saw anything move, with every step the statue was still facing him directly, her stone expression soft and blank and angelic.

  Something clicked in Simon's head.

  "Pretty sure this isn't real," he said. "Pretty sure."

  The evidence now seemed ridiculously obvious. The geography of the park was subtly wrong. He considered the bright, glowing sky for a moment, which was now filled with bleached-white clouds the size of entire states. They slid along the firmament, as if watching his progress in an embarrassed drive-by fashion. He was certain he could smell the Atlantic Ocean, and the rocks and stones.

  "Magnus!" Simon screamed. "Are you kidding me? Magnus! Jem! Catarina!"

  No Magnus. No Jem. No Catarina. No Clary.

  "Okay," Simon said to himself. "You have been in worse situations than this. This is just weird. That's all. Just weird. Just very, very weird. Weird's okay. Weird's normal.

  "I am in some kind of dream. Something has happened. And I'm going to figure this out. What would I do if this were D and D?"

  It was as good a question as any, except the answer had to do with rolling a D20, so maybe it wasn't actually that helpful.

  "Is this a trap? Why would they send us to a trap? It must be a game. It's a puzzle. If she was in trouble, I'd know."

  That was interesting. He had the sudden and complete knowledge that if Clary were hurt, he would absolutely know it. He didn't feel any hurt. He did feel an absence, a pull to locate her.

  As this thought occurred to him, a very unusual thing happened--namely, the great stone angel of Bethesda Fountain flapped her wings and flew straight up into the night sky. As she flew, the base of the fountain remained connected to her feet and pulled up the fountain like it was a plant. The massive reservoir of the fountain became unmoored and started to pull toward the sky. The bricks and mortar tore, and a root network of pipes was revealed, and a raw hole in the earth that rapidly filled with water. The ice on the lake cracked all at once, and the entire terrace started to flood. Simon backed up toward the steps as the water spilled out. He retreated slowly, step by step, until the water evened. The lake now incorporated the terrace, eight steps high. The fountain and the angel were gone.

  "That," Simon said, "was weirder than normal."

  As he spoke, a sound seemed to tear the night in two. It was a chord, a pure, thundering harmonic that rattled the tympanic bones in his head and physically shook him to his knees. The clouds scattered, as if in fear, and the moon shone clear and full above him. It was a bright yellow, so bright he could barely look at it. He had to shield his eyes and look down.

  There was a rowboat. This was not so mysterious--it had come loose from the boathouse, not far away. All of the boats were floating freely, excited to be out on their own for the evening. But this boat had come all the way over and bumped up next to where he was standing.

  Also, unlike all of the other rowboats, this one was shaped like a swan.

  "I take it I'm supposed to get in," he said, flinching, in case the sky decided to make any more terrifying noises. There was no reply from the sky, so Simon grabbed the neck of the swan with both hands and carefully stepped inside and sat in the middle. The water couldn't be very deep. He would certainly be able to stand in it if the boat capsized. But still--freezing night, flying fountain, magic boat, and missing Clary. No reason to add "falling into cold water" to the mix.

  As soon as he was in it, the little swan boat bobbed off, as if it knew it had somewhere to be. It drifted into the lake, avoiding the other loose boats. Simon huddled in, wrapping his arms around himself as he took his cold, gentle journey on the lake. The surface was utterly smooth, reflecting the moon and clouds. Simon hadn't ever done this before. The whole "boating in Central Park" thing seemed like it was meant for tourists. But in his recollection, the lake was fairly small and wide. He was surprised when it narrowed very suddenly and made itself into a channel under a thick canopy of trees. Once under the trees, there was absolutely no light at all for several minutes. Then everything lit up at once--rows of superbright bulbs lined the sides of the channel, and in front of him was a low tunnel with the words TUNNEL OF LOVE written around the arch in lights. Bright pink hearts bookended the word.

  "You're joking," Simon said for what felt like the millionth time.

  The air was now thick with the smell of popcorn and sea air, and there were sounds of fairground rides. The swan boat bumped, as if moving onto a track that would take it into the tunnel ride. Simon glided in. The light behind him faded, and the tunnel had a soft, blue glow. Some nondescript, classical-lite music played, full of violins. The boat settled into the track. The walls were painted in old-fashioned scenes of lovers--people sitting on porch swings kissing, women lounging on a depiction of a crescent moon, sweethearts leaning over an ice cream soda to kiss. The water was lit from underneath and glowed green, reflecting off the ceiling. Simon looked over the side of the boat to get a sense of how deep it was, or if there was something under him, but it looked shallow, like any normal water ride.

  "This is a weird place to meet," said a voice.

  Simon turned to see that he was now sharing his little swan with Jace. Jace was standing at the front of the boat, leaning against the swan's head. Being Jace, his balance was perfect, so the boat didn't rock to the side.

  "Okay," Simon said, "this is really taking a turn I didn't expect."

  Jace shrugged and looked around at the tunnel.

  "I suppose these things had a use at one time," he said. "It was probably risque to take this ride. You'd get a whole four minutes of unsupervised necking."

  The word "necking" was bad. Hearing Jace say it was a new kind of bad.

  "So," Jace said, "do you want to talk or should I?"

  "Talk about what?"

  Jace indicated the tunnel around them, as if this was very obvious.

  "I'm not going to kiss you," Simon said. "Ever."

  "I've never heard anyone say that before," Jace mused. "It was a unique experience."

  "Sorry." Simon didn't feel even a little guilty. "If I was into guys, I don't think you'd make the top ten."

  Jace released the swan's head and came to sit down by Simon's side. "I remember how we met. Do you?"

  "You're playing a game of what do you remember with me?" Simon asked. "That's classy."

  "It's not a game. I saw you. You didn't see me. But I saw. I saw it all."

  "This is fun," Simon said. "You and me and the tunnel of what the hell are you talking about."

  "You need to try to remember this," Jace said. "This is important. You need to remember how we met."

  Whatever this was--a dream, some kind of altered state--it was veering in a very odd direction.

  "How is it everything is about you?" Simon said.

  "This isn't about me at all. This is about what I saw. This is about what you know. You can get there. You need to get this one back. You need this memory."

  "You're asking me to remember somewhere I didn't see you?"

  "Exactly
. Why wouldn't you have seen me?"

  "Because you were glamoured," Simon said.

  "But someone did see me."

  That had to be Clary. Obvious choice. But . . .

  Now there was something rocking in the back of Simon's mind. He had been somewhere with Clary, and Jace was there . . . except Jace wasn't there.

  That was both in his memory and in the present. Jace was gone. The boat trundled on, turning a corner and plunging back into the dark. There was a short decline and a burst of fog, then the ooOoOOOoOOoo of a cartoon ghost and the mocked-up entryway of some kind of gothic mansion. The ride had gone from lovers' lane to haunted mansion. Simon rode along, through tableaux of the mansion's rooms. In the library, ghosts dangled from wires and a skeleton popped out of a grandfather clock.

  This fantasy, or whatever it was, seemed to be tapping into his memories of going to the Haunted Mansion at Disney World when he was a kid. And yet, as they moved from room to room, things looked more familiar--the cracking stone walls, the threadbare tapestries . . . the Haunted Mansion was turning into the Academy. There was a ghostly version of the cafeteria and the classrooms.

  "Over here, Simon."

  It was Maia, waving from what looked like an elegant, wood-paneled office. There was a sign on the wall behind her, some kind of verse of poetry. Simon only caught a line of it: "as old and as true as the sky." Maia wore an elegant suit, her hair clipped back, and gold bangle bracelets on her wrists. She looked sadly at Simon. "Are you really going to leave us?" she said. "Leave being a Downworlder? Become one of them?"

  "Maia," Simon said, a lump in his throat. He remembered only bits and pieces of his friendship with her--more than friendship, maybe? How brave she was, and how she'd been his friend when he'd desperately needed one.

  "Please," she said. "Don't go."

  The boat moved swiftly past, to another room, a completely standard apartment living room, with some cheap furniture. It was Jordan's apartment. Jordan stepped out of the bedroom doorway. There was a wound in his chest; his shirt was black with blood.

  "Hey, roomie," he said.

  Simon's heart felt like it stopped in his chest. He tried to speak, but before he could say a word, everything plunged into darkness. He felt the boat slide off its track with a soft bump, as if he had come to the end of the ride. Everything rushed forward. The tunnel opened out, and the boat lurched forward suddenly and began to speed up, as if carried on a current. Simon gripped the bench he sat on to hold himself steady.