Into the Fire
A/N: Well if you haven't recovered from the shock of this two in one update then neither have I. But technically the events of these chapters are really part one and two of one colossal chapter, which not even I am cruel enough to whack together in one go. But seriously- are the chapters too long? I know they take bloody forever to write. But it's a labour of "love" (translation: self doubt, cursing and general illiteracy) which I am happy enough to shoulder unless you guys are genuinely suffering your way through.
In the interest of fairness, I am morally obliged to warn you I experienced self-imposed Jalec feels with this one. Also, Jace makes a great Jerry Springer/Jeremy Kyle.
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The chamber Jace was ushered to next by Lucian Graymark was much more pleasant than the one he had previously occupied. In fact it was much nicer than any room he had ever occupied, buffering the astonishing promises Valentine had just made. After the declaration that it was Jace who would be his mouthpiece at the meeting due to take place Valentine had disbanded the entire Council. Then, once he was alone with only Jace and a chary Graymark and word arrived that Tiller had agreed to the proposed discussion, Valentine had made another proposal. Or rather a gift. In this, should Jace do as he was bid to perfection his reward was great. Studying Jace with a look that was partly proud delight and part challenge he had announced that he could not very well send a diplomat in the pay of France to speak on his behalf. So Jace would speak to the rebels as His Grace the Duke of Broceland.
Jace presently approached the low table his grand new abode housed as subtly as he could, running his fingertips over the gilded surface of a small box that rested there. He flipped it open curiously to find it empty, at which he deflated slightly. Luke was still listing orders to the wide-eyed maid who failed to peel her attention from Jace. The young man under scrutiny felt his cheeks pink at Luke's mention of some soap and water. True, it had been a while since he had enjoyed the luxury of a proper wash and the fresh clothes he heard talk of would also be extremely welcome. Not that any of this soothed the embarrassment of having sat through a whole Council session looking and possibly smelling like he had never heard of a bathtub. He pretended fascination at the various accoutrements scattered across this little desk even as his ears reddened.
Unlike the box the inkpot beside it was full, and Jace automatically stroked at the fine feather adorning the accompanying quill. The soft texture under his calloused touch was calming, and to cement his growing composure he counted to twenty in his head after the disinclined pattering of the servant girl's exit faded before turning to face Graymark.
"Will there be anything else you require- my lord?" With the final two words there was as much a question as lay in the first section, and Luke seemed less than jubilant at having to complete the query with the honorific. Jace was still too shocked to appreciate it. On a level he could empathise, should he survive the next day his would be the most incredible rise since- well Jocelyn Fairchild's.
"Let us not get too concerned with addresses and titles. None of them need stick until after tomorrow." He shifted his weight as Luke nodded, his lips pinched into a tight line. Graymark knew Valentine better than anyone, as well as anyone other than Valentine could comprehend what sped through that wicked, brilliant mind- and he had no idea what to make of this either. If Alec offered to hand a dukedom to an ambassador without warning Jace would probably look as though he had been kicked by a horse too.
Jace further suspected the lord knew not what to make of him either. He was as of yet an untested upstart on the verge of becoming the wealthiest noble in the Kingdom. For someone like Luke who had spent years clawing a life out at this court and bending over backwards to do Valentine's bidding it must indeed be jarring to watch. Sitting in on one Council session had been exhausting for Jace, trying to imagine the hundreds Luke must have participated in was difficult. He guessed that they were the source of many of the grey streaks in the courtier's hair.
"Is Alec- Lord Lightwood still here?"
Luke nodded, some emotion beginning to thaw on his face. As though that at least he could wrap his head around, "Aye. No one has been allowed to leave the court. Both the Lightwoods are still here."
"Might I see Alec? Just Alec." After weeks of doubt and his very life dangling up in the air with his position Jace longed for his friend's solidity, his reliability. Alec would help him untangle Valentine's intentions, then draw up a concrete plan or several and above all just be here. Alec was his rock and ever would be if Jace survived the coming hours. Besides, his friend was owed an apology.
"I will see to it," Luke agreed, before he began to say something else and then hesitated. He turned toward the door and Jace twisted away, back to his inspection of the new surroundings.
"Cease requests."
"What?" Jace's mind skidded back to the lord who had paused with his hand hovering over the doorknob. "Whether or not you remain the Duke of Broceland you may at least act it tonight. Should the title stay with you afterward then ensure you never ask for anything again. It is when you are most uncertain you must appear utterly assured. A lord demands what he would have."
The ghost of his old amicability dashed across his face then, "You will adjust quicker than I did. You have lived at Europe's greatest courts, so you ought to have more of an idea of how a duke behaves than anyone else elevated so might do."
"Graymark, I rarely know what the hell I am doing" the admission burst from him before Jace could measure the wisdom of making it. They had been allies in the conjuring if the Princess's betrothal but there had been no reason to think they were anything but that. The two men barely knew one another and were certainly not friends. But by God, if Jace had ever felt out of his depth before, those scenarios became a puddle when compared to the bottomless depths he was frantically floundering in now. So the closest thing he could conjure to reassurance was to be found in the way in which Luke looked at him, alongside the kind words he had just said and the prematurely greying beard and hair which made him look older and sager than he was. There was something so inherently fatherly about the man. It made Jace wonder why the man had never married.
Luke smiled in earnest now, albeit a touch wryly. "You see? You have already mastered it." He made to depart once again, but the kindness prompted Jace to ask one final question; "The Princess- you are certain she is safe here?"
Luke halted short of vanishing through the open door and peered back at Jace with the most serious expression that he had ever worn in the younger man's presence. "If I thought for a moment Clary were not the safest she might possibly be I would not tolerate her being her a second longer," he growled. He softened a tad before adding, "I should imagine at this hour Her Highness would be abed, but I could have one of her maids wake her before you and Tiller are due to meet..."
More than anything he had ever wanted in his short, wretched existence he wanted to look upon her face now, to see her one more time- but no. He had hurt Clary enough. Moreover, if he succeeded on the morrow then knowing she would be awaiting him here would sweeten the reward. Then he could look her in the eye- not as her equal- but as someone who would never leave her again, who could promise his service to her until his last breath and know the vow he could keep. One step closer.
He told Lucian none of that, of course, in spite of whatever spirit of solidarity had begun to grow between them. "I see no need to disturb or distress her," he said softly instead, "God willing I will see her tomorrow. But Alec Lightwood I need to see tonight."
Luke nodded resolutely, "Very well. Might I suggest you try to rest afterward? You will need all the sleep you can get for what is certain to be a long day ahead." Jace agreed, eyes raking over the vast, plush bed, adorned in blue grey and black. Herondale colours. Were it not for the imminent danger that lay in his early morning meeting with the man determined to put everyone who earned more than five pounds a year in ditch and set fire to them, it might have been the best night sleep he had ever had.
After Luke departed the warm water arrived before Alec did, so Jace set about cleaning himself as thoroughly and quickly as he could, before gladly drawing on a cotton shirt which was the softest he had ever laid his hands on. He failed to hold back the long sigh that escaped him as it slid over the taut muscles in his back. He was attempting to tame his wet hair when Alec finally charged into the room.
"Took you long enough," Jace commented, a genuine smile flicking across his lips at the sight of his friend. Alec looked a mess, dark hair a rat's nest and what looked like a coat pulled over a nightshirt. To his relief an answering smile lit up the familiar features. "I did not believe them when I was told," Alec admitted, still panting from what must have been a tremendous dash. He crashed into Jace without further warning, and squeezed him into an embrace so tight that his eyes began to water. From the breath-stopping pressure upon his ribs, not real tears of any sort of joy or relief, Jace made a half-hearted attempt to convince himself.
"You bastard!" Alec spat, releasing him at last, "I thought you had finally done it. Achieved an absolutely idiotic and needless death, that is."
"So did I," Jace admitted breathlessly, with the beginnings of a laugh tugging at the confession.
"God in heaven," Alec drew back further and his eyes skimmed Jace's frame while he fidgeted under the inspection, "I knew, I knew something was amiss. Ask Izzy! Jace- what did they do to you? Lord Graymark said you had been arrested, then something of a test of loyalty? One that should you pass would bring with it your restoration?"
Jace shrugged. "Nothing I haven't survived," he jabbed faintly at a jest.
Alec did not laugh or even smile, peering around the fashionable rooms looking about as dumbfounded as Jace felt.
"Nothing I don't intend to survive."
They moved to two of the huge, lavish chairs by the table at Jace's behest and he sank into the cushioned perch happily. "What has already happened is of little account. What matters at the moment is what is yet to come." As succinctly and accurately as he could manage Jace filled his friend in, watching the young lord grown more and more pensive.
To Alec's credit he adjusted to the sudden change in their situation well, and quickly. Just as Jace hoped he might. He interrupted rarely, and only at that to ask valid questions, highlighting angles of thought that had never occurred to Jace. When all was finished, Alec loosed a heartfelt sigh. "This is-unheard of."
"A peace talk?"
"Not that- this... trial of Valentine's. To determine what? Whether or not you gallop off into the sunset with your old friends? Yesterday he had you accused of treason, or was trying to get you to utter something treasonous so he could accuse you of treason. Are there not laws surrounding such things? You cannot imprison someone for a fortnight without charge."
Jace shrugged, "The King of Idris can do as he likes. He was ever an unorthodox ruler. One who handpicks his followers. Every man of significance in this country owes his power to Valentine, he knows it and it is this knowledge which keeps every man who matters in debt to Valentine. Loyal to him. Not one man sits on that Council or takes a pension from the royal treasury without having earned it. Even Jonathan has to prove himself. Why should I be any different? Besides, he knew that given my freedom again the first thing I would do would be to bolt back to Adamant; the only offer that might make me reconsider is that dukedom. Beyond that, any other negotiator would be gutted by those rebels in a heartbeat. The only one they might pause to fell is the last Herondale. That pause we need, the people of this city need. I am the only one who they might listen to. But a French ambassador cannot carry the authority of King Valentine to weigh down his words. An Idrisian duke can. So I get a conditional title, one that has yet to be vested to me officially. If I succeed then I get to keep it. Those are the terms of my peace treaty with the Morgensterns. It is quite ingenious really. Valentine at his finest."
"From emissary to duke. It does sound like one of your novels. Speaking of which-"
"Don't you dare," Jace pierced his friend with the fondest death stare he could muster, watching the mix of shadows and candlelight whirl and dance across Alec's face as he moved, "I am sorry. So sorry. What I said was uncalled for."
Alec dropped his eyes, twisting his hands together in his lap as he was wont to do when he was on edge, or overwhelmed, "You need not be apologetic," he said with soft solemnity, "You were right."
Jace scoffed in surprise, "This night just gets more and more remarkable. It continues to defy all likelihoods and reason."
Alec laughed then, snorting quietly as he inhaled and thumping Jace on the arm, "Do not get too accustomed to it. Just because I am attempting to allow my heart a little more reign over my head does not mean I am going to be saying those particular three words any more often. Or ever again." Then the blue gaze steeled, "I am coming with you. Tomorrow."
"Alec- this could be dangerous. Just because we have promised not to fight does not mean that the rebels will keep their word."
"I know. But I have known you nearly a decade for Christ's sake. Walking down the street with you is fraught with peril thanks to your stupid mouth yet I still do it."
"Let us hope my stupid mouth proves its uses tomorrow."
Alec grasped his arm again, his grip as firm as the determination in the face that looked into Jace's, "I am with you Jace Herondale. For tomorrow's danger and whatever comes after."
Jace blinked, struggling to dislodge the lump which had appeared in his throat. He knew not what he had done to deserve Alec, nor more importantly what heinous sins Alec had committed in his early life to deserve being strung along by this foolish allegiance. What he did know, as he reached out to clasp the hand of the man he had chosen for his brother, was that for however long or short his life was fated to be- starting at dawn, he would do all he could to make himself deserving of that loyalty.
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Despite the brightness of the late morning sun the light slanting through the elaborate coloured glass of the church's great windows was pale and the pews remained shadowy. For Clary, the chill clinging to the stone walls and ceramic floors was the only discomfort of the building. Though she knew the Church throughout Europe was divided and filled with conflict, that not far beyond where she knelt blood was spilt for the denial that the jewelled chalice on the alter held the blood of the Saviour and men in scarlet robes grew fat while good Christians starved, this church itself remained peaceful.
The purity of the silence that hung in the air with the lingering sweetness of old incense made her feel as if the whole world was holding its breath, that no one could look upon the beauty of God's house without succumbing to a quiet awe. For the young Princess, this was her only haven, surrounded by the twinkling glow of candles in the far corner and the welcoming serenity of the many icons she almost felt safe. For the tranquil expression in the marble face of the Madonna held a kindly smile-the like of which her own mother had never worn- and the outstretched arms of her Lord betokened a promise of hope she felt so bereft of.
One of the priests of the royal household, Father Jerimiah, floated about the alter preparing for the next Mass, but he was content to leave her be, as her presence here each morning since their return to the Gard was now a familiar one. Just as she would ultimately face her Creator alone, it seemed that as a Princess the only thing she was permitted to do by herself was pray. No one disturbed her or insisted on keeping her company while she knelt at her prie-dieu or here in a Church pew. Clary was happy to revel in whatever calm she could find. She bowed her head and threaded the worn amber beads of her rosary, lips soundlessly forming the age old words of the Ave Maria and drawing solace from their constancy; centuries had passed and the words had not faded, nor did she believe they ever would. The greatest comfort in her life, perhaps the only one, was that she could be sure of God's love. In the absence of parents and of lovers this love she always had, and always would. It was her one guarantee.
Whatever illusion of sanctified peace she had been enjoying was promptly shattered as the low creak of the wooden pew beside her alerted her to the presence of a fellow worshipper.
One that happened to be her brother.
She would not turn her head even marginally towards him, though she did raise it from her clasped hands. Nonetheless, she felt him move in, leaning closer until the warmth of his breath stirred her cheek and an involuntary shudder tore down her spine. "Now, what on earth could you have confessed that requires such a long and ardent penance?"
Clary almost shuddered again, for it had indeed been some time ago that she had left the confessional. Not due to the fact he had hit home with any of his horrible and seedy presumptions, but simply because it gave her a harrowing insight into how long he had been watching her.
Until now her brother had been mercifully distant, having not spoken at length with her since their return to the Gard. She had met him lounging against the water gate and grinning at her like it was his palace and not their father's she was entering. She had disembarked the barge that had brought on the final leg of the journey to the Gard studiously ignoring the hand he had offered to assist her climb onto the dock. Instead Clary had hitched up her skirts like a fishwife trodding through inches of muck and made her own clambering descent. It was not even remotely regal, but with no one of importance watching Clary had not cared much. She would much rather look ludicrous than have to put her bare hand in his. She edged away from him now too.
"Why do you not look to your own conscience, brother?" she all but spat out of the corner of her mouth. Having come to appreciate that the present danger she and everyone else in this court were in was the result of Jonathan's atrocities at Oldcastle, and knowing of the summer burnings that had not relented in the Crown Prince's absence she could not look upon him with anything other than disgust at best and loathing at worst. Then there was the small matter of what he had tried to do to Isabelle. At first Izzy had refused to tell her a thing, but her troubles had been all over her face Clary had been relentless until the whole sordid tale had come burbling out. God help her, if he so much as tried to lay a hand on any of her ladies again she would need days in the confessional to be absolved of what she would do to him.
Undeterred by her hostility Jonathan sidled closer still, continuing to whisper in her ear in a manner that was dreadfully inappropriate in a house of God. There was no way that she could flee, for striding out would only welcome more unwanted attention and she would never treat God with such discourtesy. Rationally she knew there was nothing her brother could do to her, not here, but it made no difference.
"Tell me, do you really confess-"He slid his hand over hers- "Every single little transgression?"
Clary jerked away as though his icy palms had scalded her. "That is how the sacrament is supposed to work," she snapped, "We need to confess all sins to be shriven, not just the rare few we regret," she flung the barb at him desperately, then ending a wordless apology to her Holy Mother for her interrupted decade she hastily blessed herself and clambered somewhat clumsily back to her seat, while Jonathan fluidly copied the motion and returned to her level within seconds.
"Surely, were we all to confess each and every little sin- both in thought and deed- the priests would not have the time to do anything else. You see we are not all as pure as you, my sweet sister. Assuming you are still pure." Clary's eyes flicked to his straightaway, the gasp wrenched from her throat echoing around the building. Father Jerimiah shot them a single questioning glance before continuing to light the alter candles. He was not about to interrupt the King's two children.
"What do you mean by that?" she demanded in an undertone while her brother's mouth curved to the side in a snide smirk, "Never fret, not even our father would violate the holy confidentiality of the confessional, so whatever it is you admit to need go no further. Though what I would not pay to discover what exactly His Majesty murmurs through that lattice-work…"
"You are obscene."
Now he grinned at her properly, his hand darting into her lap before she realised what was happening and nipping at her thigh which sent her leaping out of her skin, shooting him an appalled look. Jonathan's smile grew even further, "Be that as it may, clearly still a prim little virgin are you not? No thanks to our friend Jace Herondale."
Of the entirety of the statement it was, surprisingly, the final part that she chose to attack first; "He is not our friend."
Jonathan's black eyes glittered savagely, although he finally slid back across the pew from her, "Precisely. How long did you really imagine your doe eyes on him would go unnoticed? I can assure you, dearest, our father is not inclined to tolerate your panting after a Herondale any longer."
Clary got unsteadily to her feet and seized the opportunity to escape, pausing only to genuflect and give the priest what she hoped was a fully convincing smile before rotating slowly to face her brother, leaning across just close enough to hiss within earshot. "Never speak to me like that again. In fact, unless we have an audience and the situation demands it," she drew back and began her retreat, "do not speak to me."
"Oh? But then how would I impart the knowledge you desire?" He caught at the hand still resting on the end of the pew, to help her balance as she'd moved to genuflect.
"There is nothing you could have to say that would interest me even slightly."
"You think not, sister? Even in the midst of wondering where your darling Jace is this morning?" Despite herself, despite everything, Clary froze in place at the threat laced so tenderly throughout those words.
"What do you mean?" She hated the way her voice wavered with the question, hated that she even had to ask it.
Jonathan smiled victoriously, and a slant of the rising sun's rays broke through one of the clear side windows, turning the pale blond of his head pure white, like white hot iron. "Do you remember, when we were children how he never would stray far from you? It always made hide-and-go-seek easy. If you were behind the door in the room he was behind the curtain."
"Jonathan-"she fought to keep her voice down and tone reasonable-"spit it out."
By way of answer the Prince rose fluidly and gripped her arm, tucking her hand in the crevice between his elbow and torso so tightly that he squashed it. Only when they were outside and blinking rapidly to get used to the new brightness did he speak again, "You seem hell bent on blaming our current crisis on me. Did you ever pause to consider the implications of a rebel army who adopted a Herondale as their figurehead?"
Fear closed in a cold fist around her heart. Of course she had thought of it; she had almost passed out from sheer terror when she had first learnt of it through Simon. Her one comfort was that Jace had left when he had, that he would be far away and safe in France when this latest storm broke.
"It would have been worse than stupid to leave him roaming around, so for his own safety and for ours Father decided to keep him in the Gard."
For a heartbeat Clary was confused, if he were still at court Jace would have sought her out and even if he had not she should have seen him abroad, the rooms of the palace were confinement enough that she saw everyone here at least once daily. Then the realisation sank its icy teeth in and Clary's steps across the small green between the chapel and palace's main building faltered. She almost tripped over her own feet, clutching at Jonathan instinctively and as she was jerked back upright her eyes latched onto the bland, brutish prison tower.
"Where?" She breathed, beyond caring if her fright showed as it was bound to.
Jonathan prattled on as though he had not heard her, "It only stood to reason that Jace's name was allied to the rebel's cause by his own volition, therefore the only thing to be done was to let the cardinal question him." Now she was suddenly grateful she had yet to break her fast and her stomach was empty. She had too good an idea of what the Cardinal's methods of interrogation were, she had heard of the bloodthirst with which he pursued those suspected of heresy, and according to reports those taken in often found their bodies mangled and broken beyond repair, death coming before a confession. What he might do to a man accused of treason...
She was gripping Jonathan with everything she had, she realised. The hands she glanced down at were chalky in pallor and not merely from the strength of her grasp. Her brother was enjoying this, damn him to hell. He was still peering down at her with nothing short of undiluted, savage glee. Because he was not finished. Whatever was left, he was still lording it over her. "As it happens"- here his happiness faded a touch- "Your delicate feminine sensibilities have no reason to be troubled. He is still in one piece, and all the better, for once Father accepted his innocence he found a use for him."
He paused at the doors to the main building and Clary caught sight of Isabelle and Aline waiting for her at the foot of the staircase. Izzy's face darkened at the sight of the Crown Prince and Jonathan in turn sighed theatrically, his sunny mood dampened at the prospect of not being the solo narrator bringing her up to speed.
"Long story short little sister, Jace is to play the hero of the piece once more. Having swayed our father in the Council chamber into staying his vengeful hand Jace is to intercede with the rebel leader on our behalf. He rode out at dawn downriver. The plan is that he diverts them long enough with his speech for the armies of our bannermen to arrive. His Majesty is convinced that the will of God will determine events one way or the other. What you should have been praying for Clary is your beloved. Provided he does all that is asked of him he returns to a dukedom."
That failed to register with Clary as she squared her already stiff shoulders against the violent shaking that had already begun through her limbs, "And if not?"
"Well, every army needs cannon fodder," Jonathan concluded chirpily. Her brother's light-heartedness indicated which outcome he thought more likely. He made no effort to appear lamenting or guilty as he kept speaking, "You would do well to know that I did try to dissuade His Majesty, Clary. I did urge him to consider that a Herondale should not be trusted with such a great task at such a crucial moment. What is to stop him ushering his would-be army through the gates we have conveniently opened for him?"
"As though that is likely," Clary snapped as her blood started to boil.
"You think not? You may be more innocent than I thought. You really are a woman of tremendous faith. While that may appeal to some, as far as I am concerned that only leaves room for naivety." He caught at her wrist and spun her to face him, preventing an attempt to leave him and storm indoors. "Think of the facts! Sister, the man hates our family. He resents us and our inheritance, and always will. Then months after his return to Idris the years of peace simmer to discontent. Now this, the first coherent uprising against a monarch in over a century."
"They are not against the King but his advisors," Clary attempted to object.
Jonathan's eyes only flared with more vehemence, "Who appoints those advisors? For someone who spends such time burrowing her way through our history books you mean to tell me you cannot see that such is the card of complaint all rebels make until they get a real chance to depose their sovereign?"
Try as she might, Clary could not accurately deny that. It was, as well both she and Jonathan knew, the card their great grandfather played when he took up arms against the Herondales. In that sense then there was an ironic justice in their situation now. "Jace would never challenge our father," she stated instead, flatly. "He would certainly not stand with anyone who would."
Her brother beheld her with a scowl of frustrated pity, "He has used you and abused your trust, you silly chit. And should he stumble upon more of that damnable luck he seems to possess and come back I doubt he has finished using you." She had to scoff, her noise of scorn echoing off the near empty bailey as only a lad darted past bearing a corner of a burnt loaf pilfered from the kitchens, not sparing the royal children an ounce of his attention as he sped away. The Gard was all but empty, since her father had taken a large entourage downriver with him to a meeting with the Clave.
"Of all people Jonathan, you will not beguile me with your pretence at brotherly concern. Your surge in protective behaviour is more alarming than it is touching. Now you and I are well enough acquainted for it to make me wonder what is in it for you."
"Regardless of what you may say or do Clary ,you will always be Valentine Morgenstern's daughter to him and part of him will forever hate you for it. Perhaps for now that part will not win over his actions, but there may come a day..."
At that Clary began to walk away, yanking herself from him so violently she almost tore the fabric of her sleeve. As she passed under the shadow of the doorway he shot one final seething prophecy at her in a vengeful hiss, "The stab in the back may not come this day but come it will Clary. If you are stupid enough to keep pursuing him after this then I hope that betrayal comes when you need him most."
The curse sent yet another ripple of horror down her spine, though at that moment she wanted to run to Isabelle and shake the solemn look off her face more. One shared look at her friend and she knew they were on the same page. She still felt the arrogance in the smile Jonathan had branded onto her moving back as she drew out of his earshot.
"What did they do to him?" She snapped shrilly, "What have they done?"
Isabelle shook her head slowly, "I know not. I have not seen Jace Clary, only Alec and then briefly. I barely know what is happening- your hands" she looked down at their joined fingers with concern – "They are freezing. Come, let me-"
"If you do not know what is going on then find me someone who does!" The command hung in the air, and Isabelle eventually released her hands silently and dipped to a curtsey. It had not been her friend who had spoken, but a princess.
"As you wish, Your Highness" Aline finished for her, mirroring the curtsey and slipping away, catching at Izzy's wrist as she passed to drag her along with her.
Dizzy and still shaking, Clary mounted the many steps to her chambers alone.
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Tom did not think he had ever been this excited. Until this the furthest he had ever gone from his family's farmstead had been the neighbouring town on market day. Now the city of Alicante sprawled before him, Idris' glorious capital. Though from here the view was not all that impressive. All that could be seen from the present angle was the squat stone walls that ringed the city, and perhaps the odd steeple behind it. You could however see the tops of the Gard's tallest towers, and Jacques had pointed them out to him. He'd explained that the fortress had been built purposefully on a hill, as many a fortress was, so that the people and fine lords inside would be able to see any coming attackers. That meant, Jacques had explained with bright satisfaction, that the King knew they were here.
Young Tom hadn't been able to share in his joy at the time, since he had still seen so little of the city, but yesterday Jacques had taken him to a nearby hillside when he'd gone to meet with their scouts and from up there the view had been much better. He'd seen almost the whole of Alicante, and for the very first and only time in his life little Tom had felt powerful; like the whole world was at his feet. He hadn't realised until he had left it how much the turf smoke filling their cramped cottage had choked him.
It reassured him that coming here was worth it. When Jacques had first set out from Oldcastle Ma had forbidden Tom to go with him, and Sybbie had been beside herself with great gulping sobs and screams at her husband that had her voice cracking and crackling with rage and fear. She thought that her husband's place was at home with her. But the whole thing had been Jacques idea and since Henry and all the other village lads were going, defiance had come easy to Tom. Honest, he doubted any of the ones at home had even noticed he were gone. True, none of them others who had gone were as young as Tom, and Jacques had been furious when he'd found Tom following him. Since the worst of the bruises from the last soldiers' visit at the start of the summer had yet to fade, his anger had been frightening. Still, after the initial bout of rage Jacques had agreed to let him stay, insisting he would be assigned chores and was to stay out of the way while he did them. Under no circumstances was Tom to join the fighting, since Sybilla would kill Jacques long before the King could if she knew he had let her baby brother come along. All the same, another boy from the village, Johnny Thatcher, had pressed a nasty looking blade into his hand- the handle on it was huge in his small and grimy child's hand- and muttered a gruff "just in case."
Tom had worked hard, no one could argue with that. He watered and fed the horses as they were bid, he ran back and forth between the camps with whatever message Jacques had to send- it was with no small pride Tom carried the knowledge that he was fast becoming the only one Jacques trusted enough to carry them.
But today, today was going to be the best yet. Jonathan Herondale was coming to meet them. After a childhood of hearing about the Herondale kings from Grandpa's stories he was finally going to meet one. Well, not a king as such but nonetheless... The last of Idris' greatest lines. And Tom would see him with his very own eyes.
After that Jacques swore they would have a real leader and with the help of God a real king. One God would smile on enough for there to be no more bad yields, and once they had the new King's ear there would no more soldiers or priests to pummel their hard earned pennies out of them. They might know some peace. Things would be better and bellies would be full. Sybbie's next babies wouldn't die, his other sister Liza could have enough of a dowry to marry the wool merchant's son like she wanted and Ma would stop crying herself to sleep.
The world was changing, and Tom would be amongst those who changed it.
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The chosen meeting place was about a mile out of the city. The small diplomatic party had been accompanied by a modest contingent of soldiers, most of whom were not real fighters, having been borrowed from the city guard and mixed with a handful of those who were indeed members of the King's personal force. In the end there could not be a great difference between breaking up drunken brawlers on the streets and stopping a tussle between peasants and royalists. Either way, they had been stuffed into Morgenstern livery and armour, and what they lacked in military proficiency they more than made up for with the sheer amount of weaponry they carried. Alec could say with his hand pressed to heart that he had gone to war with less steel than he now carried. Would that he had a longbow, but travelling on horseback made carrying his preferred weapon impossible. Between himself and his party they were currently stocked with a range of dirks, daggers and a further array of knives, swords, and crossbows. All of which were bolted and pointed toward the main road ahead of them.
The White Gate which the court had taken on departing and returning to the city looked out unto the chips and slabs of once regularly cut and carefully laid stone which still remained of the old Roman road, while this one was more of a dirt trek than road. To their right the strengthening sun sparkled off the Princewater, its smooth, silvery surface making it seem like a strip of molten metal. Although occasionally glancing sparks of sunlight flitted into one's eye and made keeping watch difficult, the river was overall soothing. The comforting slap of water against the dirt banks and its rhythmic lapping at the stones and pebbles the river slid over was a mild balm to Alec's nerves and the river also sent frequent cool whistles of wind. Although the dawn's dew still speckled and winked up at him, being out in the open and fully under even the newborn sun's stare was surprisingly warming. The duck egg blue of the unbroken sky overhead also reassured Alec that it was going to be a beautiful day, weather wise. He offered up his hundredth silent prayer that this might be a fortuitous omen.
As he had fallen into the habit of doing intermittently since they had first mounted up in the Gard, he sent another fleeting look at Jace, to his left. His friend's features were schooled into the neutral, borderline bored mask he had mastered years ago. If he was nervous, if he was having his doubts, he hid it well. But then Jace always had. The two had exchanged few words so far today and there had been little acknowledgment of his presence other than the small nod he had received in the courtyard, yet he knew without having it vocalised that his being here was valued.
Whatever riot was taking place internally, externally Jace looked the part. He was every inch the lord, perfectly poised in the saddle and armoured; simplistic but fine, each plate so thoroughly polished they might have been silver dinner plates. He wore no helm, and much as anxiety wrangled in Alec's gut at the prospect of such a vital part of his body left vulnerable he appreciated the necessity of Jace's head being bare. This way, every inch of those distinctive Herondale blond curls was on display. Though it was the Morgenstern banner that crackled in the breeze above him he was flanked too by the flag of the duchy of Broceland and there could be no mistaking his heritage. The stirrings of old feeling distracted him momentarily, for Jace had filled out since the last time Alec had seen him in armour. He was broader in the shoulders and fitted more snugly into the armour than he once had. Once not so long ago the thoughts would have perturbed him, or heralded another onslaught of self-loathing, but remarkably today Alec's mind turned easily back to the task at hand.
Jace's eyes were also turned ahead, less as though he were scrutinising the terrain for any evidence of Tiller's arrival and more as if he were looking beyond the road ahead and into whatever came next. These days Alec did not dare wonder what came next. He could not ignore his father's letters forever. He could not do as they bid and choose a suitable bride, for they had reached the point of a last resort. Now his mother and father had reached a rare moment of agreement; they would have to arrange a marriage for their eldest son and heir, as only a sizeable dowry could provide the landslide of coin required to sweep away the beginning of their debts. Worse, the greatest reason why Alec was not prepared to begin a contemplation of obedience had not been seen in weeks.
How exactly Magnus Bane of all people was exempt from Valentine's lockdown in the Gard was beyond him. At some point between the lakelands and Alicante he had made himself scarce and as irritated by his absence as the King might have been he was not prepared to waste men or resources trying to find him. That he had disappeared without so much as a by your leave to Alec hurt, hurt in a way he had not expected it to. For the first time since his adolescent infatuation with Jace he had pandered to his deviant nature, allowing himself to indulge in thoughts that he should not be having. Certainly with Magnus he had let himself act on those once forbidden thoughts for the first time. So his flight from court at such a time of tension merely added to Alec's many stresses. He supposed for a man like Magnus, who was more flamboyantly individual than Alec would ever have the confidence to be, and who had told him on many occasions that he cared not one whit what was thought of him, Alec had only been a diversion from an otherwise mundane world. Alec must have been another stepping stone towards whatever self fulfillment Magnus strove for, for whatever happiness he could find that would not melt away when the sun rose.
If he had not locked his heart away tightly and buried it deep he might have said that Magnus Bane had broken it. As his twisted luck may have it just before Magnus' covert exit Alec had almost decided that he was willing to let his heart rule him this time. What Jace had said before, albeit in a fit of temper, had wounded Alec so because he knew that the jibes rang true; never once had he poured his whole heart and soul into anything. If Jace could let his heart rule and get a duchy for the gamble then mayhap Alec could live that way, just a little.
Now he feared that even if he did make it back to the Gard he would never do so. Not if he had to marry a woman at his parents' urging. No one's daughter, no matter how well bred, connected or wealthy would ever hold his heart that way. It was not as though he could pose that argument to the Count and Countess. He feared that even should he they would not believe him. His father had always laughed at the non-existent sweethearts and trysts, clapping his son on the back and proclaiming merrily that he would grow out of it soon enough. He had attributed Alec's lack of interest in women and marriage to his shyness, once admitting at the table as they broke their fast and Alec flushed desperately that he had been much the same with women as a lad. To that comment Izzy had added her own scathing remark under her breath "a pity you did not remain so" without glancing up from buttering her bread.
Without meaning to, Alec had immersed himself in his own inner conflicts until he came close to forgetting the prospect of a future one. His horse's ears flicked forward at the same moment Wayfarer whickered a warning and chomped impatiently at his bit. Alec's own mount, Pilgrim, tossed his own head in response. The two horses had been on edge even before they had left the city gates, which could be attributed to the lack of exercise they'd had since being cooped up in the Gard alongside their masters. At the latest glance to Jace Alec knew without having to follow his line of vision that the second party to this meeting had just appeared, for his friend tensed suddenly and the dreamy expression washed off his face. He did scrutinise the road then, his keen eyes picking out the approaching horsemen within seconds. They rode under no banners, and the party outnumbered the royal one, but Alec drew solace from the observation that they were not all mounted and the closer they drew the more obvious it were that they had grabbed anything with an edge that might pass for sharp as a weapon. The conglomeration included a handful of archers, axes, cooking knives, scythes, and if Alec was not mistaken a hoof pick. The figure that must have been Jacque Tiller came closer still, stripping away from the bulk of his guard on a horse of remarkably good breeding, doubtless stolen. He was clothed coarsely, with mismatched pieces of chain mail and armour scrambled together to afford whatever protection they could. Alec's sharp archer's eyes could deduce even from the many feet that still lay between them that the rebel leader was younger than he expected, perhaps only of an age with him. He wondered what sort of miserable life he must have lived to have accumulated so many grievances in such a relatively short time. To Alec's deepening horror he was accompanied by a child, the boy's head hardly skimming Tiller's horse's shoulder, some king of weapon gleaming faintly in the clenched young fist.
As Tiller and his reduced escort finally drew to a halt Alec turned in the saddle, daring to allow a moment to pass where his eyes were not pinned on the approaching rebels to look to Jace for instruction. His friend too was frowning at the presence of the child, the lines upon his forehead making his seem older.
"Jace..." The duo locked eyes, conveying without speech what they dared not say, years of practice reading one another coming naturally. The answering gold irises told him all he needed, that Jace did not like this. He did not want to give the carefully scripted oration that Valentine's Council (Starkweather in the main) had so kindly prepared for him and he did not want to be here in the slightest. He liked their situation even less now such a total innocent had been drawn into it. But it changed nothing; they would continue as planned whether they liked it or not.
He was Valentine's to order, even if he had his own agency and not merely his own life and future at stake Alec doubted that Jace would turn back. This was what he did, pressing forward until he found something better or put what he had suffered and regretted further behind him in the past. The merest tilt of Alec's head illustrated that he understood, one final reassurance that he would stay precisely where he was now: at Jace's side.
The hint of reluctance and dread in Jace's posture was corrected instantly, shoulder's rolling back and his usual arrogance returned, "We will match their numbers as best we can," Jace said instead crisply. "I will not traipse the exact number down there since we will need men at our backs. Alec and... Cartwright- you will attend me," His gaze rested after a brief pause at the eager young lord, the only one who still seemed determined to treat this as a pleasant afternoon excursion and was thrilled at the prospect of engaging in real combat. Jace was perfectly aware that Jonathan Cartwright's naive optimism and youth had him far too riled up, he had chosen him to stay close, where they could monitor him and keep the hottest head in check.
Blinking once, Jace again addressed the others, "Keep your eyes open and wits about you. Should things go...poorly" he selected the word with grim tact, "It is to your own discretion whether or not you wish to engage. You were asked to flank me, not fight with me, and I will not expect you to engage when the odds are against you."
"They are poorly armed and badly trained" Jon Cartwright protested, "We could-"
"Pray God we do not have to," Alec snapped, his voice stonier than he had intended, but milling here was unbearable now. He felt as impatient as Pilgrim. One way or another, he wanted this ended.
Jace nodded, then sharply turned his heels inwards and touched them to Wayfarer's side, the dappled horse lurching forward readily while Alec pressed forward alongside him; Pilgrim's head brushing Wayfarer's left flank while Cartwright took up a similar position on Jace's left. It was unsettling, finding for the first time their positions reversed. Until today Alec had outranked Jace and so normally he would have been flanking Alec, not the other way around. It was baffling their horses too, and Pilgrim kept yanking on the reins as he tried to pull ahead.
Alec was only distracted from the battle with his mount by Jace's colourful explosion of cussing. An upwards glance revealed that in the trees ringing their meeting place surrounding the rebels yet more men were rustling in the bushes. Alec added his own curse; they were thoroughly outnumbered. They were too far away and encircled by shrubbery for an accurate count of their numbers to be possible but an estimate had them at far more than Jace had. Even Cartwright had paled at the realisation, and his fingers pressed tighter into the wood of the crossbow lying across the pommel.
"No panic," Jace growled, low and firm, "At least none they can read, you heed me?" The instruction was wholly for Jon's benefit, but nonetheless Alec voiced his own comprehension and assent. He could lead by example, and so he would unquestioningly obey Jace's every utterance from here on.
As though sensing that, once they had moved within hearing and shooting range Jace stunned him with another order. "No further than here gentlemen." At his incredulous look Jace continued "I go closer alone. A gesture of goodwill he will have to replicate."
"They are commoners," Cartwright hissed, spitting the phrase with the same volume of disgust one might use in their tone when referring to leprosy, "It is not a case of their respecting honour or chivalry-"
"There is a difference between living a simple life," Jace snarled in correction from the corner of his mouth, "and having a simple mind. I will speak to Tiller man to man. And you will do as you are bid should you want to get out of here alive."
That final demand was for Alec's benefit, and though every instinct barked in protest against it he pulled Pilgrim to a halt, his acquiesce forcing Cartwright to follow suit. Alone, Jace advanced his final few feet and waited for Tiller.
A long, tense ten heartbeats later Tiller also closed the gap unaccompanied.
The two men stared at one another, like cats facing off on a barn roof.
"Master Tiller," Jace spoke first into the throbbing, tense silence. Alec and Jon were just close enough to hear the verbal exchange.
"Well met, Lord Herondale." His voice was low, his eyes wide as he came face to face with the man whose name he had used to gather this army, his hope for the future, his hero. Judging by the poorly concealed awe writ clearly across that hardship-lined and weather-beaten face, the name made flesh did not disappoint.
Alec was watching close enough to see the bob of Jace's throat, "What can I do for you, Master Tiller?" He had not had the pleasure of hearing Jace practice the prepared speech, and knew not whether Jace had ever intended to adhere to Valentine's script, but he suspected that the words his friend had just spoken so sincerely were not a part of it.
"For me, sir?" It had caught the rebel off guard, "Not much there can be done for a poor farmer like myself. Home burnt, babe buried, wife starving. For her maybe you could do much. And for the hundreds, thousands like 'er." Slowly the reverence was paling from his dusty face and the more he spoke, the more Tiller gained momentum. "There is much you could do for yourself too, m'lord."
Jace's knuckles whitened as he closed his fingers more firmly around the reins on reflex. "We are not here to speak of me. Yes, of the people of Idris. Of yourself mostly, for what it is that you intend to do next is what interests me most."
"I will do what I have to. I have done what needed to be done, to make the King listen."
"I can assure you, he is listening." Jace made an inviting gesture with his left hand, voice silky and placating.
"His council is corrupt. They are robbing the penniless. We can't live Lord, we daren't not." Tiller's voice spiked, and in spite of the many pairs of eyes on him, of the reality that one false move could damn them all, Alec wanted a blade in his hand.
"His Majesty is sympathetic to your plight. The Council less so. You are right to be angry. No one should have nothing," Jace's voice softened and he leaned forward a fraction, the pretence dropping slightly. The raw and shining remorse, the accommodating spirit all of it was chipping away at the rock solid ire of Tiller. These were not reckless words, though judging by the way Cartwright shook with apprehension they could be judged so. To the very last Jace would be horribly, commendably honest. He would not look into the man's face and lie to him, certainly not when he recognised the injustice Tiller was fighting.
"But this..." Jace gestured to the men lying in wait, their ramshackle armour and weapons, "this is a doomed cause." He said it with pity. "You will lose more lives than you change. If you want a better future for your wife and your children, give them one. You disembowelled on a makeshift gallows will not give them that. You have made your statement and now your voices will echo through history. Even the Council has begrudgingly voices that the commons are 'disgruntled.'" Watching Jace work never failed to astound Alec. The rise and fall of his voice, the very tilt of his body all steered the course of the listener. Early into his diplomatic career that potential had been noticed, here was a man whose words could rile a king into the rage that a started a war, but equally had the capicity for those soothing strokes of syllables to lull him into ending one. "But here is where you headway ends. You know it and I know it. The King knows it, Tiller. He will have your men slaughtered if he must."
"With what men?" Tiller demanded venomously, but his voice shook. "The closest he has to an army are still days away."
Jace had once told Alec that the real art of being an ambassador, of being a courtier of any sort was never giving barefaced lies. The most frequently made and fatal mistake was filling a sovereign's ear with what lies you conjured up because you thought that was what he wanted to hear. The best lies were built on truth, and the best diplomacy was built therefore on warped truths. Emissions and exaggerations, if carefully employed, would sway a man.
"One well trained man is worth five amateurs. One good weapon worth ten poor ones. Sheer manpower does not win wars Tiller, believe me. Strategy brings victory, coupled with discipline and obedience. How many of these men do you command? And of those, how many simply follow your word because it suits them for the present? What do you suppose will happen should they get inside those gates? How many will continue to make for the council once they find empty taverns and shops await them? I will wager your motely band of followers will fall apart the second they cross the city walls. They will drink and rob and scatter themselves amongst brothels and broken into townhouses. How many of them have ever been inside a city Tiller? The novelty of the experience will quench any thirst they have for justice, as will stolen beer. It will be so easy for the city guard to pick up drunk, lost farmers. What started so promisingly will end in embarrassment and executions. So many executions."
He was winning. Alec could not tear his eyes from Jace's back, from the glowering features of Tiller that he could see over his shoulder. The farmer spat over his horse's shoulder and pierced Jace with another penetrating stare, "Why then should I be loyal to the King that would have me put down like a rabid dog?" Only from Alec's perspective could he see the muscles that jumped in the back of Jace's neck as he whipped back a wince before it could spread across his face and show how close to the truth Tiller had struck. The pale eyes stood out starkly against the dirt of Tiller's face, now they narrowed at Jace. With the next statement his voice dipped even deeper, even quieter and revealed the acute mind under the grimy, matted mop of dark hair which had taken the hopeless endeavour this far. "Sounds to me as though yer a man who has seen war. You talk of how they're won. If I can't follow a king who would hang me then I could follow one who feels my pain. I could follow-"
"Tiller you do have my sympathies," Jace cut the sentiment in half abruptly, his assurance somehow still heartfelt. "As do you have King Valentine's. Your issue is with his advisors, as you have said yourself, and it is those advisors who restrict His Majesty. Come now, the very fact he has sent me highlights just how keenly His Majesty feels your suffering. And he does strive to make amends. You wanted to be heard and he has heard you. I have heard you this day too, and I will see to it that many others hear all you say. But now go in peace. Leave this city intact, show your King that you respect his city, show the people of Alicante that you will not see them robbed, degraded. Do not have one more family suffer as you have and your actions will speak volumes above your words. Show peace so that your children-"He shot a meaningful glance at the small boy who lingered feet away – "may know peace."
Tiller's grey eyes and Jace's gold slid back together, seared against each other. The two wills grated, loud enough that Alec wondered that he could not hear the screech and scrape.
"I will intercede on your behalf should you do so." Sensing the dregs of hesitant doubt that still had a bearing on Tiller's conviction, Jace proceeded with his earnest, resolute promise, "I am Jonathan Herondale, by the grace of God Duke of Broceland. I speak for the King in this, and to the Council I can also speak for you. If you agree to leave Alicante, to cease this now, then I swear on my honour I will see to it you are allowed to leave in peace."
Not that Alec spent a great deal of time at the cards, his father's proclivities sufficing to deter him from dice or gambling of any sort, but he certainly would not have wanted to meet Tiller at the table. His features were coolly blank as he contemplated the vows and compromise laid before him, the vague dulling of fanatic optimism in his eyes were the only indicator that closely harboured hopes Jace might join their cause-or better still lead it- were being dashed. Alec wondered if the farmer recognised the man who had fired on his townspeople to protect a Morgenstern princess. He surely could not have, else he would have said so. He was, like Jace, an honest man in his words. Despite his remarkable poker face he had not the verbal skill nor the tact to try and lead a man where he wanted him to go. His passion and undeniable drive had seen other men flock to him, but he was not a natural leader. Tiller was not even much of a soldier, what military strength they had lay with Highsmith and had they not moved with the Devil's own speed and caught the royal court in such a vulnerable position they would not have made it this far.
"You speak of the will of the people Lord Herondale... you say you would protect the people of Alicante. Our quarrel is not with them, I tell you. Though I admit that I can't with heart and soul swear myself loyal to a king who would idly watch his subjects starve." His voice tightened with anger toward the end of the declaration, and he ground his jaw while Jace attempted to protest- "And I tell you that His Majesty has made for the Clave building as we speak, and he will speak with the men in the city who represent our counties. He is not idle-"
"Nor are the people of the city-" Tiller told him, the syllables fluctuating between grim purpose and faint triumph- "And they did not, as you lords seem to think, shrink from us. They haven't fallen atremble into the arms of the nobles to keep them safe. They flung their gates wide."
Jace stared for a long moment of numb silence, before colour drained altogether out of his already tired and pale features. "They are in the city," he breathed, horrified. Then he cleared his throat, a terrible, rasping sound as though he struggled to catch his breath. Alec merely tensed behind his friend, struggling to absorb fully what he was being told. Jace spoke again, in the same low voice and with composure, but it was the glacial calm that Alec recognised his friend adopting in moments of crisis. "As of now, you mean to tell me that you have men within the walls."
"They will be marching to the Gard, cheered on by their countrymen." Their adversary seemed to be gathering momentum again with each new word, perhaps an attempt to strengthen his own confidence. "They will speak with their king-"
"Their King is not at the Gard." Jace snapped stiffly, while Alec found his own body growing evermore rigid in the saddle. "Only his family."
His family. And those that serve them. My family.
Alec's sister was in the Gard. The cold veneer of shock that had coated Alec shattered with the realisation. Suddenly his heart began to quicken, beating more forcefully and frantically, blood starting to pound as a war drum in his ears. Isabelle was in danger, and he was miles away. Useless. Leaving her helpless when she needed him most.
"Fair enough." Those two words fell hotly into the gentle morning summer breeze, the hatred causing Alec to flinch. "His family are as crooked as he is" Tiller spat further, no longer attempting to hide his disgust. "They are no innocents. The Crown Prince is a monster who kills and tortures for sport. His sister can be no better, riches showered on her that she does not deserve. They will get what is coming to them, and those of you who stand in our way will too!" As he ranted on, all self-control tossed aside, Alec on impulse snatched up the reins into his hand, setting Pilgrim clattering his teeth at the bit and churning the grass and soil under his hooves. The only thing that stopped Alec from yanking the horse's head around and galloping back to the city was the fact that Jace had not moved an inch in front of him. Rationality was struggling to batter the walls of panic threatening to close in on his mind, but what fear had been gnawed away was sufficient enough for him to accept that he was close enough to be of some use to his friend, his brother. He had sworn he would stand beside him and he would- But Tiller was still ranting, eyes now fever bright with hysteria and voice rising to a cry. He moved his arm to make some kind of accentuating gesture-
There was a near silent whistling of a small black missile passing in the corner of his vision. Then Alec heard the thud.
Once again bewildered he whipped his head around to find a stony pale, panicked Cartwright visibly shaking in his saddle, fingers stile atremble over the crossbow trigger.
"Shit," Jace barked out and Alec's gaze flew back this friend who was trying to push his horse forward again, to reach Tiller- "Keep-" he started in vain, an order he never got to finish.
What was he to say- 'keep your wits?' 'Keep still?' Alec's unspoken question was soon answered as Tiller pitched forward over his horse's shoulder, body deflating like a punctured sack of flour and suddenly falling to the ground. A crossbow bolt now sprouted from his neck.
Jace had been trying to say 'keep him on his horse'.
Wayfarer pranced back from the fallen soldier, his rider's eyes were now once more on the narrow roadway between him and the hoard of angry peasants who had just seen their leader murdered, and were grappling for their weapons. The cacophony failed to drown out the thin, cat-like wail of the child who scurried forward to the motionless body on the dusty did not get very far, snatched backwards by one of Tiller's other companions who was hollering the atrocity loud enough to banish any doubts the other assembled men may have as to what had just occurred. "They shot him! The bastards shot him!"
Alec had not the time to wring Cartwright's neck as he wanted to, diverted by the snap of branches and swoosh of leaves as the shrubbery surrounding the fallen rebel came alive with archers and other armed rebels. Jace swore again, whipping a glance other his shoulder to where their own party were either beginning to slowly retreat or shuffle hesitantly while their enemy mobilised. If his throat were not aching with dread and his stomach rolling at their peril, Alec might also have contributed some colourful language.
Judging by the howls for vengeance and the utter fury flashing off the now unsheathed blades, the small army at Tiller's back was set to charge and none of the royal representatives had much longer to live.
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A piercing scream shot through the tower, and Clary's feet froze on the edge of a step. The blue hem of her gown swished back and forth over the current stone stair, a sail caught in the small wind stirred by her stormed ascent. The Princess halted for a breath, before continuing her climb with tenfold speed as the morning peace was audibly disturbed by a commotion above. She did not keep a house of rowdy ladies, they were- she supposed the kindest word might be a sedate lot. Her companions tended to enjoy a day of quiet prayer or music; dancing was rare and silly games rarer still, even were they a merry court. Given the court climate, she knew that this was no tomfoolery she heard. The hammer of running feet, what sounded like a door banging on its hinges and the unmistakeable grate of course, raised voices which were distinctly masculine all arrested her as she reached the doors to her main presence chamber.
They were flung open and the usual guard or herald was nowhere in sight. Her harsh breaths grazed her throat, and the possibility of awaiting Izzy and Aline's return with help was discarded instantly at another shriek from within. Clary rushed onward, fingertips skidding across the wooden grooves of the regal doors depicting the wisdom and fortitude of Queen Esther as she attempted to steady herself.
She could not believe what was waiting for her. With her father's absence at the palace she had not been at all disconcerted by the empty halls. Now she realised that with the bulk of manpower either in attendance on the King or upon the Gard walls there was no one left on the interior. In their absence not only had her rooms been left vulnerable, but they had been invaded.
And now a rebel host was waiting for her.
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A/N: Focus on the positives Jace. You are a much better speech maker than the one Melania Trump would appear to hire. Meanwhile Clary's room service was not what she ordered.
I am planning to stay put on this dull. safe little isle in the immediate future, so hopefully will get caught up in no further uprisings and can update soon. Thank you so much for bearing with me, you guys are awesome! Each time I get a new review, part of me thinks: oh god this is the one. The one who hates it and will shit on it. And it never is! Which means so much to me! So I can't thank you enough :)