A/N: I do not own Mortal Instruments, or the names of its characters. I do however own my characters as are written in this story, and this story itself. Thank you for reading! Please enjoy.
Chapter 7
"… the song of fear …"
The mighty fires of the setting moon painted the sky in streaks of flamboyant crimson, tie-dyed the clouds in coils of frangipani rose, as Clary and Simon stole covertly through the shadows it cast in the corridors of the castle, in the halls of the House of Valentine. As the song of dusk settled over the land, the song of fear settled over their hearts. There was no undoing what they were about to attempt. There was no going back after this. Knowing the King would be meeting with his ministers in Ilaro Court that evening, they made their way to his personal chambers, which would be unoccupied though not unguarded in the interim, at least until after the evening meal.
The atmosphere, saturated with spirals of the softest golden light, belied the unease and dread stalking them patiently throughout the passageways, leading towards Valentine's private apartments. The guard at the door, a hopelessly impenetrable wall of a man, definitively denied them entry, despite Clary being her undeniable impish best, and even when Simon managed to conjure the courage to say a winning "Please, we only want to do a bit of exploring ... if you would be only so kind as to allow us, sir."
Folded arms and a firm shake of the head was the only reply.
"Vagaroth Zenovardo, your presence is formally requested by the Queen of the House in her personal chambers."
Clary and Simon froze at the sound of Jace's patrician timbre, sliding disregard and denigration down the back of a young Zenovardo, before turning to face the prince. Zenovardo's eyes widened at the implication even as his face flushed beneath the harsh, cruel gaze of Jace's condescension. He had heard rumours ... but he had never thought ...
"My Prince I have been assigned to guard His Majesty's apartments for the evening. The Queen ..."
"... would not want you to keep her waiting," came the cold conclusion. Zenovardo respectfully acquiesced, although uncertainty still flickered across his face. Jace's derisive eyes swept towards the girls. Clary stiffened in answering disdain. "I will make certain they do the right thing."
Eyes narrowing in suspicion, it was all Clary could do to keep silent and not attract the attention of the guard, now walking away from them and down the passage, towards the chamber of the Queen on the other end of the wing. Jace had heard the rumours as well. The difference being he, however, knew the truth. He had just sent an innocent man on his way to a well-unmerited slap to the face.
Once he was out of sight, Jace turned abruptly towards the training rooms without so much as a single glance towards the girls.
"Aren't you making certain that we 'do the right thing' anymore?" Clary spat acidly.
Dismissive and cutting, Jace barely looked at her as he continued on his way. "I don't care what you do," was all he left them as he turned the corner.
Alarm bells ringing in her gut, Clary was still not about to allow this opportunity to pass them by. She turned the knob of garnet stone, pushed the heavy mahogany door wide open. They slipped inside. Around the corner, Jace waited and watched and attended to their thoughts.
Lavish ... Opulent ... From the ruby-encrusted chandelier and dark crimson of the draperies to deep scarlet upholstery and the rugs of burgundy wine, the King was clearly a man of refined taste. It only made Simon wonder aloud why the rest of the plantation-castle was so spartan and severe.
"Might just be because he spends all his barven oninvading spheres, you know. Slaughtering innocents, and all that. Got to be expensive," Clary intoned, a wry whisper. The red of the room just reminded her of blood and gore and death. It reminded her of her guardian's fiancé ... her family ... her friend. It reminded her of the bleeding Mage, and the great cousins Simon would never meet, and the people they would never know. It reminded her of Jace's legacy ... his heritage ... his birthright. And it made her heart bleed. And it made her see in that colour.
They infiltrated, careful not to disturb the displays of books and objects and works of art, searching the drawers of his escritoires and the shelves of his cabinets, searching the backs of his cubbyholes and the bottoms of his chests and trunks. They investigated, looking for signs and clues, papers and evidence, looking for anything concerning the hostile invasion of Jinnland nearly ten years ago, anything explaining how he survived the full blast of Maryse's Braegan Satyr, anything that could tell them why the bastard was not dead. And they discovered ... nothing at all.
"Dammit ... Something should be here ... must be here. Anything. If it's not kept here then where could it be?"
"Clary," Simon murmured, "Lower your voice, before you bring the might of the entire Vagaroth down upon our heads please."
An impudent tongue was Clary's only response as her rolling eyes landed idly on a tapestry to her right. Blood red. Gore red. Death red. They collided with the darkly woven chronicle of an amethyst planet, a diminutive and distance plum ripe for the picking, the once sovereign sphere of Jinnland. They collided with three million orbs without doubt manned by the Vagaroth of Lasan, the aphid vulture that once enshadowed Jinnland, talon poised and primed for the attack. They collided with the sorrow-spun conclusions of Mages and royals and jinnlanders alike, noble corpses fallen to the ground after that attack, now captured and frozen in their moment of death ...
"Si,"came the hiss. "Look at it."
Simon quietly closed the door of the cupboard on the opposite side of the room and crossed the floor to stand by Clary before the tapestried wall.
"El that's morbid," he said, voice low. Clary impatiently swung away from the wall-hanging, barely checking her need to kick something as she dragged her short nails along the wall in frustration. Curious, Simon half-lifted, half-pulled the drapery up and to the side, catching glimpse of a ledge as far above his head as he could reach standing on his toes, and something else just below it just before the heavy material fell back down into place.
"Clar, help me with this quickly."
He cast an uneasy look towards the door, hoping it would urge his friend to move faster. Together they managed to secure the tapestry out of the way long enough to explore without disruption Simon's discovery. Just below the lip of the ledge someone had engraved the crest of Jinnland, and had struck it through with a sharp tip of some kind ... like some kind of spear. Excited, Clary looked at Simon, who was at least three inches taller than she was,
"You can reach it?"
Simon rose onto the very tips of his toes, stretching, reaching, trying to find anything ... a catch ... a key ... a clue as to the significance of the tapestry and the wall and the carving of Jinnland's insignia.
Right there. On the rim. Centred over the crest. Frowning in concentration, Simon tried to decipher what he was feeling for, tried to grasp it, tried to draw it down towards him as a fastening gave way and a clasp came undone. He met the apprehension in Clary's eyes with his own, waiting for something hidden to be exposed. Still, nothing ... nothing at all. Relaxing his skinny frame for an instant against the wall, Simon smashed his fist, an uncharacteristic outburst of temper, straight into the carven crest with a silent sigh. Clary's mouth shaped a perfect little O at the display, her wide eyes making a second-natured sweep towards the door once again.
"Should probably get going before that Vagaroth returns," she said about to let the tapestry fall.
The wall rumbled and shuddered and slid soundlessly away, revealing a narrow, lantern-lit room of natural limestone. The flickering flame of dim lanterns lit surfaces with their dusky, muted glow, and despite being on the ninth storey of an ancient plantation house, evoked the warm, bronzed atmosphere of deep, underground caverns. Before them five daises rose up from the stone floor, their pedestals of burnished gleaming gold and lustrous emerald greens and bright titian auburns reflecting strange fire in the lantern light. On each pedestal sat a pillow and on each pillow, save one, sat a royal crown of His Highness Valentine, King of the island-sphere Lasan.
"Sick," Clary breathed, a puckish grin breaking out on her face. She tossed Simon a triumphant look.
Eyes wide and awed speechless, Simon returned the grin as they approached the first plinth. A spiked semi-sphere of pearlescent scarlet steel, trailing swathes of deep, dark, scarlet cloth, and identical to the crown King Valentine wore every day, sat on a pale cream-coloured pillow. It mirrored the diadems on the other four daises, making the only discernable difference between the pedestals and their treasures the colours of the pillows on which they were placed. Pale cream ... Sparkling amethyst ... Sandy brown ... Deep emerald ... Midnight blue ... The royal colours of each of the six sovereign spheres of the spiral of Nescada ... save one; the dark blood red colour of the island-planet Lasan.
Simon paused thoughtfully before the sparkling purple of the cushion next in line, the one which bore no crown. With a sudden flash of insight, he looked at Clary,
"This must be the one he wears now," he murmured softly.
Nodding her head in agreement, Clary succumbed to her impulse and inquisitiveness, and before Simon could stop her, lifted the first crown from its dais. Alarm bells ringing in his heart, Simon hissed,
"What if you just set off a plantation-wide warning sign, Clar? You know as well as I do, there is no mercy with Valentine; and personally, unlike yourself, I've no desire to be breakfast for the Vagaroth come the dawning!"
Clary put a mocking forefinger to her lips, and after thoroughly inspecting the outer surface of it for any apparent alterations to the one the King currently wore, turned the crown upside down to peer inside.
A four-crossed frame of crystalline metal lay beneath the swathes of cloth and the orbicular, spiked steel of the crown's outer frame, following the curve and flow of its arc. Towards the back, where the swathes were gathered the thickest, a flat, angular, iron disc bore a crest, like a signature of some kind.
"That's the national crest of Sonmyst," Simon puzzled when Clary asked what it was. Heart in mouth, he carefully checked the other crowns to confirm they each bore an identical signature to the one in Clary's hand, making certain not to lift them completely off the daze, or disturb the pillows on which they sat or touch the pedestals at all.
"None of this makes any sense," she sighed, setting the last crown gently down.
"Not yet anyway," came the determined reply from Clary, a secret strength in every step she took as she strode without sound over to a small desk beyond the daises in the darkened back of the room. Through its drawer she sifted and sorted, scanning and seeking for but one reference to the contents of the room. Simon trailed behind her putting everything she moved back into place, their nerves worn and tattered and chafed raw with every fearful glance cast towards the back of the tapestry and the opening in the wall leading to the secret room.
"Clar." The tremulous tinge to Simon's voice caused Clary to look at her friend for a moment in concern. Then turning back to the task at hand, she asked, "What is it?"
"Promise me that if Valentine appears in that entry, you'll smother me to my death with the crownless pillow before he sentences me to it."
"I'm more likely to smother him if it came to that," Clary muttered. She sensed their sleuthing was taking its toll on her best friend, and felt a surge of sympathy welling from within her. "Look, no worries alright? We'll leave here soon; and no, we won't get caught. I promise," she said with an easy smile. Everything Clary Fray did was easy.
The barren drawer bore no fruit. Shoving it in, Clary refused to feel the damp of empty hands, the dread of being caught. She felt beneath the drawer instead, detecting a slight distension of its base. It must be here. It must be here. It must be here. She opened the drawer once again, hurling its contents helter-skelter across the top of the table, as she felt carefully along the seams of the drawer for a depression of sorts about the peripheral edges of its woodwork. A small catch in the back corner, snagging her fingers as they passed it over, finally rewarded her hands.
Lifting the false base out of the compartment, Clary set it onto the scattered documents, as her eyes fell to the elegant envelope inside. Lavishly embossed in a shell of silvery filigree, it was heavy to lift, beautiful to behold. The national crest of Sonmyst, with the embellished detailing of its design, was the crowning glory of the case, exquisite to the eye. Behind its silvery shield the paper of the packet was sandy brown, the national colour of Sonmyst. Cautious and quick, Clary extracted the envelope from its recess and opened it, removing the brief note inside, which read thus:
To His Most Imperial Highness and Royal Majesty King Valentine, of the House of Valentine, Capital-Kingdom of the island-sphere Lasan,
As commissioned for his exalted Excellency for the price of 8 000 000 000 barven paid in full, a pentad of diadems meeting the requested specification of protection against attacks of divine, astral, psychic and technological nature. These bespoken headdresses do not protect against physical attacks, however as a supplementary bonus free of charge to compensate for this limitation, you shall find upon wearing them, they will increase your own physical strength exponentially. Also for the sake of self-interest and protection, they will not work against all technologies originating from the sphere of Sonmyst. Indeed they will not operate within 1000 light-years of our atmosphere, or within the climate of our planet at all. On all other spheres however, the crowns you have commissioned are fully functional, and might I also add, made from the finest metals and materials our privileged planet has to offer.
May your crops be well yielded, your harvest greatly reaped.
Ever earnestly, gratefully and with utmost honour and thraldom,
Poroh, Head Engineer of the Guelph Armament Laboratories, in care of His Most Imperial Highness and Royal Majesty King Tardes, of Fortress Duval, Capital-Kingdom of Sonmyst.
"Si." Clary's stunned whisper sounded strange to her ears. She looked her friend in the eye as she passed the note to him, "It's the crown."
"What?" Simon's eyes widened as he swiftly read through the note. "Is that even possible?"
Clary snorted. "For eight thousand million barven, what isn't?"
Without warning the hand that held the note fell slack and a vacant expression slipped into Simon's eyes. He inhaled, a sharp gasp.
"If we leave right now we might not get caught."
An instant. A moment. A tiny forever.
"Shit!" Clary burst into action, sliding the note into its silver-encased envelope, the envelope into its recess, the false base into its compartment. Simon hastily made his way to the back of the tapestry. Hurling the contents of the drawer helter-skelter back into it, in much the same way she had hurled them out, Clary closed it quietly and raced past the daises and their diadems to Simon's side.
"How the hell do we close it?", came the fierce hiss.
"That is what I've been trying to figure out," Simon whispered back, eyes still vacant.
"Well undo whatever you did. Reverse it."
"I'm not sure what I did, Clar." Fear broke and beaded on his brow. "Our time is running out."
"Do something! Hit the wall, fiddle with the ledge, anything!"
Clary turned to face the door, back to Simon, body braced and ready to defend them should it be opened from the other side. She heard Simon's movements, the slight sound of his straining towards the ledge once again, the solid strike of his fist into the heart of the insignia, and then at last the soft thunder and tremble as the wall slid into place, shutting the secret room off from sight. Clary didn't dare take her eyes off the jewelled knob for one instant.
"We don't have much time." Simon all but pulled the tapestry down off the wall in his panic, trying to free it from where it had been secured out of the way.
Get out now! Clary stumbled as words and thought collided in her head.
"Did you hear that Si?"
"We don't have much time." Simon grabbed Clary's hand, dragging her towards the door on the far side of the crimson room.
"It sounded just like -"
"We don't have much time," came the insistent reply.
The children stole from the room just as the sound of castle-wide, alarm bells began ringing in their ears.
A/N: Today is a two-for-one special on The House of Valentine! I decided to add the two final chapters of this story arc today, rather than having you wait two weeks for the grand finale. Because I am kind. Lol. This will effective carry us up to the half-way point of the story line between Clary, Jace and Simon. More on this at the end of the next chapter. You're welcome! ^_^