Chain of Iron Read online

  But that love had to go somewhere, or Grace might explode, like a river bursting a dam. So she poured all her love into Jesse. Jesse, who taught her to climb trees, to speak and read French, who finished every evening by her bedside, reading to her from works as diverse as the Aeneid of Virgil and Treasure Island.

  When their mother was distracted by other matters, they would meet in the disused study at the end of the hall, where there were bookshelves floor-to-ceiling on all sides and several large decaying armchairs. This, too, was part of their training, Jesse told her, and they would read together. Grace never knew just why Jesse was so kind to her. She thought perhaps that he understood from the start that he and Grace were each other’s only true allies, and that their survival depended on one another. Apart they might fall into the same pit that had claimed their mother; together they might even thrive.

  When Grace was ten, Jesse convinced his mother to allow him, at long last, to take a rune. It was unfair, he said, to live in Idris without even so much as a Voyance rune for the Sight. It was understood that anyone who lived in Idris was Sighted, and it might even be dangerous for him not to be. Their mother scowled, but she gave in. Two Silent Brothers came. Grace barely recalled her own rune ceremony, and the sight of the scarred, drifting figures in the dark halls of Blackthorn Manor made her skin crawl. But she summoned her courage and was with Jesse when a Silent Brother inscribed the Voyance rune on the back of Jesse’s right hand. She was there to see him hold up his hand, to regard it in wonder, to thank the Brothers profusely.

  And she was there that night to see him die.

  3 BITTER AND SWEET

  Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled

  By some coquettish deceit.

  Yet, if she were not a cheat,

  If Maud were all that she seem’d,

  And her smile were all that I dream’d,

  Then the world were not so bitter

  But a smile could make it sweet.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Maud”

  You don’t have to marry a man who doesn’t love you.

  The faerie’s voice echoed in Cordelia’s mind as she turned to face the mirror in her bedroom. She appeared almost a ghost to herself, despite the vivid gold of her wedding dress—a floating spirit, tethered to this reality by a thin ribbon. She wasn’t the one about to marry a man who didn’t love her. This day couldn’t be the last time she’d stand in this bedroom, rise from sleeping under the same roof as her mother and brother, look out her window on the row houses of South Kensington, pale in the winter sun. Her life couldn’t be about to change that much at just seventeen.

  “Dokhtare zibaye man. My beautiful daughter,” said her mother, wrapping her arms around Cordelia from behind in an awkward hug, careful of her pregnant belly. Cordelia regarded them both in the mirror: the similar shapes of their hands, their mouths. She wore a gold necklace that had been part of her mother’s own dowry. Her skin was a few shades lighter than her mother’s, but their eyes were the same black. And when had she gotten taller than Sona?

  Sona clucked. A lock of hair had escaped the jeweled golden bandeau that encircled Cordelia’s head; she moved to smooth it back in place. “Layla, azizam. You seem worried.”

  Cordelia exhaled slowly. She couldn’t even imagine Sona’s reaction if she told her the truth. “It is just quite a big change, Mâmân. To move out of this house—and not back to Cirenworth, but to quite a strange house—”

  “Layla,” Sona said. “Don’t fret. It is always difficult to face a change. When I married your father, I was terribly nervous. Yet all anyone talked about was how lucky I was, because he was the dashing hero who had slain the demon Yanluo. But my mother took me aside and told me, ‘He’s indeed very dashing, but you must not forget your own heroism.’ So all will be well. Only do not forget your own heroism.”

  The words gave Cordelia a start. Sona rarely mentioned her family, except as an ideal of heroism—a family whose lineage stretched far back among the Shadowhunters of Persia. Cordelia knew that her grandparents were no longer living—they had died before her birth—but there were aunts and uncles and cousins in Tehran. Sona barely spoke of them, and hadn’t invited them to James and Cordelia’s wedding, saying it would be rude to expect them to travel so far and that they did not trust Portals.

  It was as though when she’d married Elias, she’d separated herself from her old life completely, and now Risa was the closest thing she had to her Persian family. And Sona’s isolation was not the only matter that troubled Cordelia. Elias, after all, had not been a dashing hero in many years. What did Sona think of that? What did she think of her heroism, put aside to raise her children and wander always, never settling down, because of her husband’s “health”?

  “Sona khanoom!” Risa suddenly appeared in the doorway. “He has come,” she went on, casting an urgent glance over her shoulder. “Just now—with no warning at all—”

  “Alastair! Cordelia!” a familiar voice bellowed up from downstairs. “Sona, my love!”

  Sona paled and laid a hand against the wall to steady herself. “Elias?”

  “It’s bâbâ?” Cordelia picked up the heavy skirts of her dress and rushed out into the hall. Risa was already headed downstairs, her expression stormy. Elias passed her without a glance, racing to the top of the steps with a smile on his face, a hand on the newel post.

  Cordelia came to a dead stop. A wave of joy had gone over her when she heard her father’s voice, but now—now she couldn’t move as her mother hurried past her to embrace Elias. Cordelia felt oddly far away, as her father embraced and kissed her mother, then stood back to lay a hand on her rounded stomach.

  Sona dipped her head, speaking softly and rapidly to Elias. Though he was smiling, he looked exhausted, deep grooves lining his face, gray stubble in patches on his jaw. His suit was threadbare, as if he’d been wearing it every day since he was taken away.

  He put his arms out. “Cordelia,” he said.

  She broke out of her paralysis. A moment later she was in her father’s embrace, and the familiar feel of him, the rough scrape of his stubble as he kissed her forehead, soothed her despite everything. “Bâbâ,” she said, tipping her head back to look up at him. He looked so old. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.”

  The scent of his clothes and hair—smoky, like tobacco—was familiar too. Or was there a sweet rot underneath? Was she smelling alcohol on him or imagining things?

  Elias held her at arm’s length. “I appreciate the welcome, my dear.” He looked her up and down and, with a twinkle in his eye, added, “Though you didn’t need to dress up so much just for me.”

  Cordelia laughed and thought, My father is back. He will be at my wedding. That is what matters. “It’s my wedding dress,” she started to say, just as Elias interrupted her with a smile.

  “I know, child. It’s why I returned today. I wouldn’t have dreamed of missing your wedding.”

  “Then why didn’t you return when the Basilias released you?” They all turned to see Alastair, who had just emerged from his room. He had clearly been in the process of getting dressed for the ceremony—his cuffs were unfastened and he was jacketless. He wore a black waistcoat, traced with golden runes for Love, Joy, and Unity, but his expression was anything but celebratory. “We know they let you out a week ago, Father. Had you returned earlier, it would have eased Mother’s mind. Layla’s, too.”

  Elias looked at his son. He did not hold out his arms, as he had to Cordelia, but his voice was thick with emotion when he spoke. “Come and greet me, Esfandiya¯r,” he said.

  It was Alastair’s middle name. Esfandiya¯r had been a great hero from the Shahnameh, a Persian book of ancient mythical kings who could bind any demon with an enchanted chain. Alastair had loved to hear stories from the Shahnameh when he was small; he and Cordelia would curl up by the fire with Elias while he read.

  But that had been a long time ago. Now Alastair didn’t move, and Elias began to frown.

/>   “Yes, they did release me some days ago,” he said. “But before I returned, I went into the wilds in France, west of Idris.”

  “To do penance?” Alastair’s voice was sharp-edged.

  “To fetch Cordelia’s wedding gift,” said Elias. “Risa!” he called down the stairs.

  “Oh, no, we can exchange gifts later,” protested Cordelia. She could feel the tension rising, her mother looking anxiously back and forth between her son and husband. “When I open them with James.”

  “Risa,” Elias called down the stairs again, “can you retrieve that oblong wooden box from my things? And nonsense,” he said to Cordelia. “It’s not a gift for your household. It’s a gift for you.”

  Risa soon appeared with the box balanced on her shoulder, a thunderous look on her face. Ignoring her scowl, Elias took it from her and spun to present it to Cordelia. She looked at Alastair, leaning against the wall. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask him what he thought she should do. He only shrugged. She wanted to shake him a little: Would it hurt to pretend to be happy?

  She turned back to her father, who held the box as she unsnapped the brass latches and swung it open.

  She gasped.

  Laid on a bed of bright blue velvet was a scabbard—one of the most beautiful scabbards Cordelia had ever seen, worthy of being displayed in a museum. It was forged of fine steel, as bright as silver, its surface elaborately inlaid with gilt and etched with delicate patterns of birds, leaves, and vines. As she looked closer, she could glimpse tiny runes like butterflies among the leaves.

  “The only gift worthy of my daughter,” Elias said, “is the gift worthy of the sword that has chosen her.”

  “Where did it come from?” Cordelia asked. She couldn’t help but be moved. What Alastair had told her about the many times he had needed to rescue their father—and himself and Cordelia and their mother—from the consequences of his drinking… it had—she had been angry. How could her father be so selfish, so indifferent to his family’s needs?

  But he had also been there for her, many times, helping her to climb trees, to train, teaching her the significance of Cortana and the responsibility conferred on the one who wielded it. And he had come to her today, her wedding day, and brought this gift. Would it be so wrong to think he meant well?

  “The faerie folk of northern France are famed for their exquisite workmanship,” said Elias. “It is said this scabbard was made by Melusine herself. I knew it had to be yours. I hope you will accept it as a token of my love, child, and—as a promise to do better.”

  Sona smiled tremulously. Elias set the box carefully down on the hall table. “Thank you, Father,” Cordelia said, putting her arms around him. As he hugged her tightly, she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye, and glanced up to see Alastair head back to his room without a word.

  * * *

  The bloody bracelet was still on his wrist, James thought, as he paced up and down the carpet in his bedroom. He had been meaning to remove it for days. In fact, he was fairly sure he had tried to remove it, but the fastening had been stuck.

  He was halfway to his desk in search of a letter opener he could use to poke at the latch when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He stopped to make sure everything was in place; for Cordelia’s sake, he had to look his best.

  He smoothed down his hair—hopeless, as it sprang up again immediately—and did up the last button on the gold brocade frock coat made for him by his father’s tailor, an ancient man named Lemuel Sykes.

  He thought of his father’s excitement when he’d presented James to Lemuel: “My boy’s getting married!” Sykes had angrily muttered his congratulations. Given his amount of ear hair, James put it at even odds that he was a werewolf, but he thought it impolite to ask. In any event, Will turned out to have been right to overlook Sykes’s off-putting manner and the constant fear that he would drop dead of old age right in front of them. James felt he wasn’t the best judge of his own appearance, but even he was taken by the way his suit, rich gold coat and all, made him look serious. Like a young man with intent, who knew what he was doing. Given the situation, he could use even the illusion of confidence.

  He had just started toward the desk again when there was a knock on his door. James opened it to find his parents, elegant in their own formal attire. Like James, Will was dressed in a frock coat and black trousers, but his coat was cut from ebony wool. Tessa wore a simple dress of blush-colored velvet, adorned with tiny seed pearls. They both looked grave.

  James’s stomach dropped. “Is something wrong?”

  They’ve found out, he thought. About my burning down Blackthorn Manor—Cordelia stepping in to protect me—the sham of this marriage, meant to save us both.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Will said soothingly. “There’s a bit of news.”

  Tessa sighed. “Will, you’re terrifying the poor boy,” she said. “He probably thinks Cordelia’s broken off the engagement. She hasn’t,” she added. “Nothing like that. Only—her father’s come back.”

  “Elias is home?” James stepped out of the way, letting his parents into the room; the halls were full of maids and footmen rushing about getting the place ready, and this seemed the sort of discussion better had in private. “When did he return?”

  “Just this morning, apparently,” said Will. There were three chairs arranged near the window. James joined his parents there. Outside the glass, ice-laced tree branches shimmered in the winter wind. Pale sunlight streamed onto the carpet. “As you know, the Basilias let him out some time ago, but apparently he claims he went to get Cordelia a wedding present. Thus his delayed arrival.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you believe him,” said James. “Where do you think he’s been?”

  Will and Tessa exchanged a look. The fate of Elias Carstairs had become a lively part of Clave gossip only a week or two after he had been sent to the Basilias to be “healed.” Most knew, or suspected, that he had found his illness at the bottom of a bottle. Cordelia had been painfully honest about it with James: that she had not known, growing up, that her father had a problem with alcohol, and that she both hoped the Basilias would cure him and feared that they could not.

  When Tessa spoke, her words were careful. “He is Cordelia’s father,” she said. “We must trust he means what he says. Sona seems delighted to have him back, and Cordelia will no doubt be relieved that he’s at her wedding.”

  “So they’re here?” said James, with a pang of concern. “Cordelia and her family? Does she seem all right?”

  “She was smuggled up the back stairs to prevent anyone glimpsing her,” said Will. “She seemed—well, quite puffy and golden, from what I could see.”

  “You make her sound like a Yorkshire pudding,” said James darkly. “Should I go to her? See if she needs me?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Tessa. “Cordelia is a clever, brave, resourceful girl, but this is her father. I imagine the matter is quite sensitive, especially with so many of the Clave knowing about it. The best you can do is stand by her side, and by Elias’s side. Make it clear we are delighted he is here, and that it is an occasion for happiness.”

  “This is part of being a husband,” said Will. “You and Cordelia are one now. Your goals, your dreams, will all be shared, as well as your responsibilities. My understanding is that Elias hid his condition for many years; if he had not, things might be quite different. Might I give you a bit of marital advice?”

  “Would wild horses be able to stop you?” said James. Please, don’t, he thought. The last thing I want is for you to think my marriage failed because your advice was flawed.

  “That depends,” said Will. “Do you currently have access to any wild horses?”

  James had to smile. “Not at the moment.”

  “Then no,” said Will. “So here it is: always tell Cordelia what you feel.” He looked James in the eye. “You may fear what will happen if you speak your heart. You may wish to hide things because you fear hurting oth
ers. But secrets have a way of eating at relationships, Jamie. At love, at friendship—they undermine and destroy them until in the end you find you are bitterly alone with the secrets you kept.”

  Tessa laid her hand quietly over Will’s. James just nodded, feeling sick. Secrets. Lies. He was lying to his parents now—lying to everyone about his feelings. What would they say when he and Cordelia divorced in a year’s time? How would he explain? A picture rose to his mind of his father, striking through James’s marriage runes with a look of devastation on his face.

  Will looked as if he were about to say something more when a rattling, crunching sound came from outside: wheels on snow and stone. Someone shouted a greeting. The first of the guests had begun to arrive.

  They all rose, and Will reached out to brush a light hand through James’s hair. “Do you need a moment? You’re quite white-faced. It’s natural to have nerves before such an event, you know.”

  I owe Cordelia a better performance than this, James thought. Oddly, the thought of Daisy strengthened him: he forgot sometimes, it was Daisy he was marrying, Daisy with her light laugh, her gentle, familiar touch, her surprising strength. It was not some stranger. If it were not for the thought of how disappointed his parents would be when it all came apart, he might be quite content.

  “No need,” he said. “I am only excited—that is all.”

  His parents broke into relieved smiles. The three of them made their way downstairs, through the brightly decorated Institute. Will opened the door, letting in a gust of sparkling ice crystals along with the first of the guests, and as James prepared to greet them, he realized that he was still wearing Grace’s bracelet. Well, there was no time to remove it now. Cordelia would understand.

  * * *

  James was in the midst of greeting what seemed like every Shadowhunter in London (and a good number from elsewhere), when he saw Lucie appear across the room.