Pale Kings and Princes Page 3

  "They didn't even want to let us come back at all," Helen said bitterly. "They wanted us to have the wedding on Wrangel Island. If you can even call that a wedding, in a frozen hellhole without anyone you love there with you. I guess I should feel lucky I got this much out of them."

  Less lucky than disgusted, or maybe enraged, Simon thought, but it didn't seem like it would be helpful to say so out loud. "I'm surprised they care so much about one lecture," he said instead. "I mean, not that it wasn't educational, but Professor Mayhew could have just told us the story himself."

  Helen turned away from her kitchen busywork and met Simon's gaze. "They don't care about the lecture. This isn't about your education. It's about humiliating me. That's all." She gave herself a little shake, then smiled too brightly, her eyes shining. "Forget about all that. You came here to get something from me--here it is." Helen slipped an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Simon.

  Curious, he tore it open and pulled out a small piece of thick ivory stationery, inscribed with a familiar hand.

  Simon stopped breathing.

  Dear Simon, Izzy wrote.

  I know I've developed a habit of ambushing you at school.

  This was true. Isabelle had popped up more than once when he'd least expected her. Every time she showed up on campus, they fought; every time, he was sorry to see her go.

  I promised myself I'm not going to do that anymore. But there's something I'd like to talk to you about. So this is me, giving you advance warning. If it's okay for me to come for a visit, you can let Helen know, and she'll get word to me. If it's not okay, you can tell her that too. Whatever.--Isabelle

  Simon read the brief note several times, trying to intuit the tone behind the words. Affectionate? Eager? Businesslike?

  Until this week he'd been only an e-mail or a phone call away--why wait until he was back at the Academy to reach out? Why reach out at all?

  Maybe because it would be easier to reject him for good when he was safely on another continent?

  But in that case, why Portal all the way to Idris to do it face-to-face?

  "Maybe you need some time to think about it?" Helen said finally.

  He'd forgotten she was there. "No!" Simon blurted out. "I mean, no, I don't need time to think about it, but yes, yes, she can come visit. Of course. Please, tell her."

  Stop babbling, he ordered himself. Bad enough he turned into a driveling fool every time Isabelle was in the room with him these days--was he now going to start doing so at the sound of her name?

  Helen laughed. "See, I told you so," she said loudly.

  "Er, you told me what?" Simon asked.

  "You heard him, come out!" Helen called, even louder, and the bedroom door creaked open.

  Isabelle Lightwood didn't have it in her to look sheepish. But her face was doing its best. "Surprise?"

  When Simon had regained his power of speech, there was only one word available in his brain. "Isabelle."

  Whatever crackled and sizzled between them was apparently so palpable that Helen could sense it too, because she swiftly slid past Isabelle into the bedroom and shut the door.

  Leaving the two of them alone.

  "Hi, Simon."

  "Hi, Izzy."

  "You're, uh, probably wondering what I'm doing here." It wasn't like her to sound so uncertain.

  Simon nodded.

  "You never called me," she said. "I saved you from getting decapitated by an Eidolon demon, and you didn't even call."

  "You never called me, either," Simon pointed out. "And . . . uh . . . also, I kind of felt like I should have been able to save myself."

  Isabelle sighed. "I thought you might be thinking that."

  "Because I should have, Izzy."

  "Because you're an idiot, Simon." She brightened. "But this is your lucky day, because I've decided I'm not giving up yet. This is too important to give up just because of a bad date."

  "Three bad dates," he pointed out. "Like, really bad dates."

  "The worst," she agreed.

  "The worst? Jace told me you once went out with a merman who made you have dinner in the river," Simon said. "Surely our dates weren't as bad as--"

  "The worst," she confirmed, and broke into laughter. Simon thought his heart would burst at the sound of it--there was something so carefree, so joyous in the music of her laugh, it was almost like a promise. That if they could navigate a path through all the awkwardness and pain and burden of expectations, if they could find their way back to each other, something that pure and joyful awaited them.

  "I don't want to give up either," Simon said, and the smile she rewarded him with was even better than the laughter.

  Isabelle settled beside him on the small couch. Simon was suddenly extremely conscious of the inches separating their thighs. Was he supposed to make a move right now?

  "I decided New York was too crowded," she said.

  "With demons?"

  "With memories," Isabelle clarified.

  "Too many memories is not exactly my problem."

  Isabelle elbowed him. Even that made a spark. "You know what I mean."

  He elbowed her back.

  To touch her like that, so casually, like it was no big deal . . .

  To have her back, so close, so willing . . .

  She wanted him.

  He wanted her.

  It should have been that easy.

  Simon cleared his throat and, without knowing why, rose to his feet. Then, like that wasn't enough distance, retreated safely to the other side of the room. "So what do we do now?" he asked.

  She looked thrown, but only for a moment. Then she barreled ahead. "We're going on another date," she said. Not a request; a command. "In Alicante. Neutral territory."

  "When?"

  "I was thinking . . . now."

  It wasn't what he expected--but then, why not? Classes were over for the day, and second-year students were allowed off campus. There was no reason not to go out with Isabelle immediately. Except that he'd had no time to prepare, no time to come up with a game plan, no time to obsess over his hair and his "casually rumpled" look, no time to brainstorm a list of discussion topics in case conversation flagged . . . but then, none of those things had saved their previous three dates from disaster. Maybe it was time to experiment with spontaneity.

  Especially since it didn't seem like Isabelle was giving him much of a choice.

  "Now it is," Simon agreed. "Should we invite Helen?"

  "On our date?"

  Idiot. He gave himself a mental slap upside the head.

  "Helen, you want to crash our romantic date?" Isabelle called.

  Helen emerged from the bedroom. "Nothing I would love more than being an awkward third wheel," she said. "But I'm not actually allowed to leave."

  "Excuse me?" Isabelle's fingers played at the electrum whip wrapped around her left wrist. Simon couldn't blame her for wanting to strike something. Or someone. "Please tell me you're kidding."

  "Catarina laid a circle of protection around the cabin," Helen said. "It won't stop you from coming and going, but I'm told it will be rather effective if I try to leave before I'm summoned."

  "Catarina wouldn't do that!" Simon protested, but Helen put out a hand to quiet him.

  "They didn't give her much of a choice," Helen said, "and I asked her to just go along. It was part of the deal."

  "That is unacceptable," Isabelle said with barely concealed fury. "Forget the date, we're staying here with you."

  She was lit up with a beautiful glow of righteous rage, and Simon wanted suddenly, desperately, to sweep her in his arms and kiss her until the end of the world.

  "You will most certainly not forget the date," Helen said. "You're not staying here a single second longer. No argument."

  There was, in fact, plenty more argument, but Helen finally convinced them that being stuck there with them, knowing she'd ruined their day, would be even worse than being stuck there alone. "Now please, and I say this with love, get the
hell out."

  She gave Izzy a hug, and then embraced Simon in turn. "Don't screw this up," she whispered in his ear, then pushed them both out the door and closed it behind them.

  There were two white horses neighing by the front path, as if they were waiting for Isabelle. Simon supposed they were; animals in Idris behaved differently from how they did back home, almost as if they could understand what their humans wanted and, if you asked nicely enough, were willing to deliver.

  "So, where exactly are we going on this date?" Simon asked. It hadn't occurred to him that they would ride into Alicante, but of course, this was Idris. No cars. No trains. Nothing but medieval or magical transportation, and he supposed a horse was better than a vampire motorcycle. Marginally.

  Isabelle grinned and swung herself up onto the saddle as easily as if she were mounting a bike. Simon, on the other hand, clumsily heaved himself onto his horse with enough grunting and sweating that he was afraid she'd take one look and call the whole thing off.

  "We're going shopping," Isabelle informed him. "It's time you get yourself a sword."

  *

  "It doesn't actually have to be a sword," Isabelle said as they stepped into Diana's Arrow. The ride to Alicante had been like something out of a dream, or at least a cheesy romance novel. The two of them astride white stallions, galloping across the countryside, charging across emerald meadows and through a forest the color of flames. Isabelle's hair streamed behind her like a river of ink, and Simon had even managed not to fall off his horse--never a foregone conclusion. Best of all, between the rush of wind and the thunder of hoofbeats, it had been too loud for conversation. In motion, things felt easy between them--natural. Simon could almost forget that this was one of the most important moments of his life and anything he said or did could screw it up forever. Now, back at ground level, the weight settled back on his shoulders. It was hard to think of anything clever to say with his brain echoing the same four words over and over again.

  Don't. Screw. This. Up.

  "They have everything here," Izzy continued, presumably trying to fill the dull silence Simon's nerves left in their wake. "Daggers, axes, throwing stars--oh, and bows, of course. All kinds of bows. It's awesome."

  "Yeah," Simon said weakly. "Awesome."

  He had, in his year at the Academy, learned to fight almost as well as any beginning Shadowhunter, and had a proficiency with every weapon she'd named. But he'd discovered that knowing how to use a weapon was very different from wanting to. In his pre-Shadowhunter life, Simon had delivered many passionate rants on the subject of gun control, and would have loved nothing more than for every weapon in the city to be dumped into the East River. Not that a gun was the same as a sword, and not that he didn't love the feel of unleashing an arrow from his bow and watching it fly swiftly and surely into the heart of his target. But the way Isabelle loved her whip, the way Clary talked about her sword, like it was a member of the family . . . the Shadowhunter passion for deadly weapons still took some getting used to.

  Diana's Arrow, a weapons shop on Flintlock Street at the heart of Alicante, was full of more deadly objects than Simon had ever seen in one place--and that included the Academy weapons room, which could have supplied an army. But while the Academy arsenal was more like a storage closet, swords and daggers and arrows piled in haphazard stacks and crowded onto dangerously rickety shelves, Diana's Arrow reminded Simon of a fancy jewelry store. The weapons were on proud display, shining blades fanned across velvet cases, the better to show off their metallic gleam.

  "So, what kind of thing are you looking for?" The guy behind the counter had a spiky Mohawk and a faded Arcade Fire T-shirt and looked more suited to a comic book counter than this one. Simon assumed this probably wasn't Diana.

  "How about a bow?" Izzy said. "Something really spectacular. Fit for a champion."

  "Maybe not that spectacular," Simon said quickly. "Maybe something a little more . . . unobtrusive."

  "People often underestimate the importance of good battle style," Isabelle said. "You want to intimidate the enemy before you even make a move."

  "You don't think my intimidating wardrobe will do the job there?" Simon gestured at his own T-shirt, which featured an anime cat spewing green puke.

  Isabelle gave him what sounded like a pity laugh, then turned back to not-Diana. "What have you got in daggers?" she asked. "Anything gold plated?"

  "I'm not really a gold-plated kind of guy," Simon said. "Or, uh, a dagger kind of guy."

  "We have some nice swords," the guy said.

  "You do look hot with a sword," Isabelle said. "As I recall."

  "Maybe?" Simon tried to sound encouraging, but she must have heard the skepticism in his voice.

  She turned on him. "It's like you don't even want a weapon."

  "Well . . ."

  "So what are we doing here?" Isabelle snapped.

  "You suggested it?"

  Isabelle looked like she wanted to stomp her foot--or stomp his face. "Excuse me for trying to help you behave like a respectable Shadowhunter. Forget it. We can go."

  "No!" he said quickly. "That's not what I meant."

  With Isabelle, it was never what he meant. Simon had always considered himself a man of words, as opposed to a man of deeds. Or of swords, for that matter. His mother liked to say he could talk her into almost anything. All he could do with Isabelle, it seemed, was talk himself out of a girlfriend.

  "I'll, ah, just give the two of you some space to look around," the shopkeeper said, backing quickly away from the awkward. He disappeared into the back.

  "I'm sorry," Simon said. "Let's stay, please. Of course I want your help picking something out."

  She sighed. "No, I'm sorry. Choosing your first weapon is a really personal thing. I get it. Take your time, look around. I'll shut up."

  "I don't want you to shut up," he said.

  But she shook her head and zipped her lips shut. Then raised three fingers in the air--Scout's honor. Which didn't seem like a Shadowhunter thing, and Simon wondered who had taught her to do that.

  He wondered if it had been him.

  Sometimes he hated before-Simon and all the things he'd shared with Isabelle, things today-Simon could never understand. It was weird and headache inducing, competing with yourself.

  They browsed the store, taking in the options: polearms, athames, seraph blades, elaborately carved crossbows, chakhrams, throwing knives, a full display case of golden whips, over which Isabelle nearly began to drool.

  The silence was oppressive. Simon had never had a good date--at least not that he could recall--but he was pretty sure they tended to involve some talking.

  "Poor Helen," he said, testing the heft and balance of a medieval-looking broadsword. At least this was one subject they were sure to agree on.

  "I hate what they're doing to her," Isabelle said. She was stroking a deadly-looking silver kindjal as if it were a puppy. "How was it, in class? Was it as bad as I imagine?"

  "Worse," Simon admitted. "The look on her face, when she was telling the story of her parents . . ."

  Isabelle's grip tightened around the kindjal. "Why can't they see how hideous it is to treat her like this? She's not a faerie."

  "Well, that's not really the point, is it?"

  Isabelle laid the kindjal down carefully in its velvet case. "What do you mean?"

  "Whether or not she's a faerie. It's beside the point."

  She fixed Simon with a fiery gaze. "Helen Blackthorn is a Shadowhunter," she spit out. "Mark Blackthorn is a Shadowhunter. If we can't agree on that, we have a problem."

  "Of course we agree on that." It made him love her all the more, seeing how angry she got on behalf of her friends. Why couldn't he just say that to her? Why was everything so hard? "They're as much Shadowhunters as you are. I just mean that even if they weren't, if we were talking about some actual faerie, it still wouldn't be right to treat her like she's the enemy, because of what she was, right?"

  "Well . . ."

/>   Simon was astonished. "What do you mean, 'well . . .'?"

  "I mean that maybe any faerie is potentially an enemy, Simon. Look what they did to us. Look how much misery they caused."

  "They didn't all cause that misery--but they're all paying for it."

  Isabelle sighed. "Look, I don't like the Cold Peace any more than you do. And you're right, not all faeries are the enemy. Obviously. Not all of them betrayed us, and it's not fair that they should all be punished for that. You think I don't know that?"

  "Good," Simon said.

  "But--"

  "I really don't see how there can be a 'but,'" Simon cut in.

  "But it's not as simple as you're trying to make it. The Seelie Queen did betray us. A legion of faeries did join Sebastian in the Dark War. A lot of good Shadowhunters got killed. You've got to see why that would leave people angry. And afraid."

  Stop talking, Simon told himself. His mother had once told him you should never discuss religion or politics on a date. He was never quite sure which one of those categories Clave policies fell into, but either way, this was like trying to defend J. J. Abrams to a hard-core Trekkie: hopeless.

  But inexplicably, and despite the sincere wishes of his brain, Simon's mouth kept moving. "I don't care how angry or scared you get, it's not right to punish all the faeries for a few faeries' mistakes. Or to discriminate against people--"

  "I'm not saying anyone should discriminate--"

  "Actually, that's exactly what you're saying."

  "Oh, great, Simon. So the Seelie Queen and her minions screw us over and enable the death of hundreds of Shadowhunters, not to mention the ones they slaughtered themselves, and I'm the terrible person?"

  "I didn't say you were a terrible person."

  "You're thinking it," she said.

  "Would you stop telling me what I think?" he barked, more harshly than he'd intended.

  Her mouth snapped shut.

  She took a deep breath.

  He counted to ten.

  Each waited the other out.

  When Isabelle spoke again, she sounded calmer--but also, somehow, angrier. "I told you, Simon. I don't like the Cold Peace. I hate it, for your information. Not just for what it's doing to Helen and Aline. Because it's wrong. But . . . it's not like I have a better idea. This isn't about who you or I want to trust; this is about who the Clave can trust. You can't sign accords with leaders who refuse to be bound by their promises. You simply can't. If the Clave wanted revenge"--Isabelle looked pointedly around the store, gaze resting on each weapons display in turn--"trust me, they could take it. The Cold Peace isn't just about the Fair Folk. It's about us. I may not like it, but I understand it. Better than you do, at least. If you'd been there, if you knew--"