Chapter 14: Into the Fire
The chamber Jace was ushered to next by Lucian Graymark was much more pleasant than the one he'd occupied before. In fact, it was much nicer than any room he had ever occupied, buffering the astonishing promises Valentine had just made him.
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, alone with Jace and a chary Graymark, once word arrived that Tiller had agreed to the proposed discussion, Valentine had made Jace another proposal. Should Jace do as he was bid to perfection his reward stood to be great. Valentine announced that he could not very well send a diplomat in the pay of France to speak on his behalf. Jace would speak to the rebels as the Duke of Broceland.
Jace approached the low table in his grand new abode 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. Jace 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 them talk of would also be extremely welcome. 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. Jace 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 pattering of the servant girl's exit faded before turning to face Luke.
"Will there be anything else you require- my lord?" The final two words carried as much a question as the first part. Luke seemed less than jubilant at having to complete the query with the honorific. Jace was still too shocked to appreciate it. He could empathise. Should he survive the next day his would be the most meteoric rise at this court 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. Yet he plainly 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 was an untested upstart on the verge of becoming one of the most prominent nobles 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.
"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, "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, Jace longed for his friend's solidity, his reliability. Their quarrel seemed so fickle now. Alec would help him untangle Valentine's intentions, then draw up a concrete plan.
"I will see to it." Luke agreed. 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. You have lived at Europe's greatest courts, so you ought to have an idea on how a duke behaves."
"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. They were not friends. But by God, if Jace had ever felt out of his depth before, those scenarios became a puddle when compared to the depths he was frantically floundering in now.
Luke smiled in earnest now. "Then 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 Jace had ever seen him wear. "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 Jace wanted to look upon her face now, to see her one more time. But no. He'd hurt Clary enough. Moreover, if he succeeded on the morrow, knowing she would be awaiting him here would sweeten the reward. Then Jace could look her in the eye- not as her equal- but as someone who could promise his service until his last breath and know it was a vow he could now keep.
He told Lucian none of that, of course, whatever spirit of solidarity had begun to grow between them. "I see no need to disturb or distress her," Jace said softly instead, "God willing I will see her tomorrow. Alec Lightwood I need to see tonight."
Luke nodded resolutely, "Very well."
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 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 riding 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, 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. "It's nothing I haven't survived so far," He jabbed faintly at a jest.
Alec did not laugh or even smile, peering around the fashionable rooms and looking about as dumbfounded as Jace felt.
"Nothing I don't intend to survive." Jace amended firmly.
They moved to the lavish chairs by the table at Jace's behest. He sank into the cushioned perch, wishing he was in a state of mind to properly enjoy any of it. "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 Alec in.
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 to ask valid questions, highlighting angles of thought that had never occurred to Jace. When all was finished, Alec heaved a deep 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 all but had you accused 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, Valentine knew that if given my freedom again the first thing I'd do would be to bolt back to Adamant. The only offer that might make me reconsider is my 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 stories. Speaking of which…"
"Don't you dare," Jace pierced his friend with the fondest frown he could muster, "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 peace does not mean the rebels will keep their word."
"I know. But I have known you nearly a decade. 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 itself useful tomorrow."
Alec grasped his arm again, his grip as firm as his determination. "I am with you Jace Herondale. For tomorrow's danger and whatever comes after."
Jace blinked, struggling to dislodge the lump in his throat. He knew not what he had done to deserve Alec.
What he did know, as Jace reached out to clasp the hand of the man he had chosen for his brother, was that from the dawn onwards he would do all he could to make himself deserving of that loyalty.
-000000000000000-
Despite the brightness of the late morning sun slanting through the elaborate coloured glass of the church's windows, 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, this chapel 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. 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 perpetually held a kindly smile-the like of which her own mother had never worn.
One of the chaplains of the royal household, Father Jerimiah, floated about the alter preparing for the next Mass, but he was content to leave Clary 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 entirely 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.
Her illusion of sanctified peace was shattered by the creak of the wooden pew beside her. It alerted her to the presence of a fellow worshipper. One that happened to be her brother.
Clary would not turn her head even marginally towards him, though she did raise it from her clasped hands. She felt him move in, leaning closer until the warmth of his breath stirred her cheek.
"Now, what on earth could you have confessed that requires such a long and ardent penance?"
Clary almost shuddered, for it had been some time ago that she 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.
"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 their present danger was the result of Jonathan's heavy handedness 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.
Undeterred by her hostility Jonathan sidled closer still, continuing to whisper in her ear. There was no way that Clary could flee, for striding out would only welcome more unwanted attention and she would never treat God with such discourtesy. Rationally, Clary knew there was nothing Jonathan 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 sent a wordless apology to the Virgin as she hastily blessed herself and clambered somewhat clumsily back to her seat.
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. 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 altar candles. He was not about to interrupt the King's children.
"What do you mean by that?" Clary demanded in a whisper.
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 latticework…"
"You are obscene."
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 Clary 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," Clary drew back and began her retreat, "do not speak to me."
"Oh? Then how should I impart the knowledge you desire?" Jonathan caught at the hand still resting on the end of the pew.
"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, making the pale blond of his head burn 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," Clary 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 did he speak again, "You seem hell bent on blaming our current crisis on me. Did you ever pause to consider the wider 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. Incessantly since she'd 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 by the time this storm broke.
"It would have been worse than stupid to leave him roaming around. So for his own safety 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. 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 as she was jerked back upright. Her eyes latched onto the brutish prison tower.
"Where?" She breathed, beyond caring if her fright showed.
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 Clary was 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 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. Jonathan was still peering down at her with nothing short of undiluted, savage glee. Because he was not finished. "As it happens," here his happiness faded a touch, "Your delicate feminine sensibilities have no reason to be troubled. Jace is still in one piece, and all the better for us. 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 sole narrator bringing her up to speed.
"Long story short; 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. You should have been praying for your beloved, Clary. Provided he does all that is asked of him, he returns to a dukedom."
Clary squared her already stiff shoulders against the violent shaking that was threatening her limbs, "And if not?"
"Every army needs cannon fodder." Jonathan concluded chirpily, the 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. 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. Or naivety." Jonathan caught at her wrist and spun her to face him. "Sister, that man hates our family. He resents us and our inheritance, and always will. Months after his return to Idris, years of peace simmer to discontent. Now we face 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 tombs, you mean to tell me you cannot see that such is the complaint all rebels make until they get a real chance to depose their sovereign?"
Clary could not 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, there was an ironic justice in their situation now.
"Jace would never turn on 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 Jace stumble upon more of that damnable luck he seems to possess and come back, I doubt he has finished using you."
Clary scoffed, 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 Jace. 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..."
Clary began to walk away, yanking herself from Jonathan's clutches 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, I hope Jace's 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.
"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 only 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 released her hands silently.
"As you wish, Your Highness" Aline finished for her, curtseying 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.
-0000000000000-
Tom did not think he had ever been this excited. Until now, 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's glorious capital. Though from here the view was not all that impressive. All that could be seen was the squat stone walls that ringed the city, and perhaps the odd steeple behind it. You could 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 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. 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.
It reassured him that coming here was worth it. When Jacques had first set out from Oldcastle Mama had forbidden Tom to go with him. But since all the other village lads were going, defiance had come easy to Tom. He doubted if anyone at home would even notice 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. But Jacques had agreed to let him stay, insisting Tom 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. All the same, another neighbour from their village had pressed a nasty looking blade into Tom'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 he was 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 Herondales from Grandpa's stories he was finally going to meet one. Well, not a king as such but nonetheless... The last of Idris's greatest line.
Jacques swore they would soon have a real leader, and with the help of God, a real King. Then there would be no more bad yields, 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.
Everything would be better.
-00000000000000-
The chosen meeting place was about a mile out of the city. The small diplomatic party was accompanied by a modest contingent of soldiers, most of whom were not real fighters. They'd been borrowed from the city guard. There could not be much difference in breaking up drunken street brawlers and stopping a tussle between peasants and royalists.
What they lacked in military proficiency, they 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. His party they were currently stocked with a range of dirks, daggers and a further array of knives, swords, and crossbows. All pointed toward the main road ahead of them. Would that he had a longbow, but being on horseback made his preferred weapon impossible.
To their right the strengthening sun sparkled off the Princewater, its smooth, silvery surface like a strip of molten metal. Although the dawn's dew still speckled and winked up at him, Alec could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. He offered up his hundredth silent prayer that this was 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.
Whatever riot was taking place internally, 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. There could be no mistaking his heritage.
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 breastplate 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. 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. As irritated by Magnus's absence as the King might have been he was not prepared to waste men or resources trying to find him. That Magnus had disappeared without so much as a by your leave to Alec hurt, hurt in a way he had not expected it to. He dreaded to think that all they had shared had only been a diversion from an otherwise mundane world for Magnus. Another stepping stone towards whatever fulfilment Magnus strove for, for whatever happiness he could find that would not melt away when the sun rose.
If Alec 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's covert exit Alec had almost decided that he was willing to let his heart rule him this time. If Jace could let his heart rule and get a duchy for the gamble, then mayhap Alec could live that way, just a little.
If he survived this, if he ever saw Magnus Bane again, Alec would act on what he felt. What he wanted.
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. Alec scrutinised the road, 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. The closer they drew, the more obvious it became they had grabbed anything with a sharp edge to pass for a weapon: axes, cooking knives, scythes, possibly even a hoof pick.
The figure that must be 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, covered in mismatched pieces of chain mail. The rebel leader was younger than Alec expected, perhaps only of an age with him. He wondered what sort of miserable life Tiller had lived to accumulate 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.
As Tiller and his reduced escort finally drew to a halt Alec turned in the saddle, to look to Jace for instruction. His friend was also frowning at the presence of the child, the lines upon his forehead making him seem older.
"Jace." The duo locked eyes, conveying without speech what they dared not say. 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.
Jace was Valentine's to order. Even if he had his liberty and not his whole future at stake, Alec doubted that Jace would turn back now. He believed in what they were doing.
With merest tilt of his head, Alec illustrated that he understood and gave a final reassurance that he would stay precisely where he was now: at Jace's side.
The hint of reluctance in Jace's posture was corrected instantly. He rolled his shoulders back until his old arrogance returned, "We will match their numbers as best we can," Jace stated for the benefit of their company. "I will not traipse the exact number down there. We will need men to guard our backs. Alec and Cartwright, you will attend me," Jace was perfectly aware that young Jon Cartwright's was already much too riled up on his first taste of excitement and peril. Which was why Jace chose to keep him close, where he and Alec could keep the hottest head among them 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. 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 take them."
"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 to Wayfarer's side. The dappled horse lurched forward readily while Alec pressed forward alongside him assuming his position at Wayfarer's right. Cartwright took up the left.
As they closed the gap between themselves and Tiller, Jace suddenly began cussing colourfully under his breath. Alec glanced upward, alarmed, to find the trees ringing their meeting place surrounding by rebel men rustling in the bushes. Alec added his own curse; they were not only outnumbered, but they were also surrounded. 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.
Once they had moved within hearing and shooting range, Jace stunned Alec with another order. "No further than here gentlemen." At his incredulous look Jace continued "I go closer alone. A gesture of goodwill that Tiller will have to replicate."
"They are commoners," Cartwright hissed, spitting the phrase with the same volume of disgust one might use 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 corrected sharply 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 wish to get out of here alive."
That final demand was for Alec's benefit, and though every instinct barked in protest, he pulled Pilgrim to a halt. Alec's acquiescence forced 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 silence.
"Well met, Lord Herondale." Tiller's voice was low and his eyes wide as he came face to face with the man whose name he'd amassed an army with. Judging by the poorly concealed awe writ clearly across the weather-beaten face, Jace in the 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?" Alec hadn't heard Jace practice the prepared speech but he suspected that the words his friend had just spoken so sincerely were not 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 like her." Slowly the reverence was paling from his dusty face. The more he spoke, the more Tiller gained momentum. "There is much you could do for yourself too, Lord."
Jace's knuckles whitened around the reins, on reflex. "We are not here to speak of me. We speak of the people of Idris. Of yourself mostly, for what 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, his voice silky and placating.
"His council is corrupt. They are robbing the penniless. We can't live, Lord!" Tiller's voice spiked, and even knowing 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. His raw remorse and accommodating spirit were chipping away at Tiller's anger. 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 a man's face and lie to him, certainly not when he recognised the injustice Tiller fought.
"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. Now your voices will echo through history." Watching Jace work never failed to astound Alec. The rise and fall of his voice, the very tilt of his body, all steering the listener. Early into his diplomatic career that potential had been notice. Here was a man whose words could rile a king into starting a war, but equally lull him into ending one.
Jace shook his head, "Here is where your headway ends. You know it and I know it. The King knows it too, 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? 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? I would wager your motely band of followers will fall apart the second they cross the city walls. 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. Tiller was glowering, he 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?" His pale eyes stood out starkly against the dirt of Tiller's face, now they narrowed at Jace. "Sounds to me as though you have 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 you."
"Tiller, you do have my sympathies," Jace cut the sentiment off 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. Valentine strives to make amends. You wanted to be heard and he has heard you. I have heard your grievances, and I will see to it that many others hear all you have said here. 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 and degraded. Do not have one more family suffer as you have. Your actions will speak volumes above your words. Show peace so that your children-" Jace 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, where they seared against each other. The two wills grated, loud enough that Alec wondered that he could not hear the 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, I will speak for you to the Council. 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."
Alec had not 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. Likely not, for he would have said so. He was, like Jace, an honest man in his words. Tiller had not the verbal skill, nor the tact, to lead like Jace. 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 he had lay with Highsmith. 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.
Jace attempted to protest, "His Majesty has made for the Clave building as we speak. He will address men in the city who represent our counties. He is not idle."
"Nor are the people of the city." Tiller declared suddenly, the syllables fluctuating between grim purpose and faint triumph." 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. The people of Alicante 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. "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 felt his body growing evermore rigid in the saddle. "Only his family."
His family. And those that serve them, Alec thought dazedly, 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.
"Fair enough." Those two words fell hotly into the gentle morning summer breeze, the hatred causing Alec to flinch. "Valentine's family are as crooked as he is." Tiller spat further, no longer attempting to hide his disgust. "His children 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 Tiller ranted on, all self-control tossed aside, Alec snatched at his reins, setting Pilgrim clattering his teeth at the bit. 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 Alec's mind. He was miles from Izzy. But he was close enough to be of some use to his friend, his brother. Alec had sworn he would stand beside Jace, so he would.
But Tiller was still shouting curses, eyes fever bright with hysteria rising. He brandished his arm to make some kind of accentuating gesture-
And there was the whistle of a small black missile passing in the corner of Alec's vision. He heard the thud.
Alec whipped his head around to find a stonily pale, Jon Cartwright shaking in his saddle, fingers still atremble on 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 finished.
What was he trying to say? 'Keep your wits?' 'Keep still?'
Alec's unspoken question answered itself as Tiller pitched forward, body deflating like a punctured sack of flour, falling from his horse to the ground.
He lay in the dust unmoving, a crossbow bolt sprouting from his neck.
Jace had been trying to say 'keep him on his horse'.
While 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. They 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. He was snatched backwards by another of Tiller's companions, who was hollering the atrocity loud enough to banish any doubts remaining as to what had just occurred.
"They shot him! Ambush! Deceit! The bastards called a truce and shot Tiller!"
Alec wanted to wring Cartwright's stupid neck, but there was no time.
The snap of branches and swoosh of movement in the shrubbery surrounding the fallen rebel indicated Tiller's army had come alive. Jace swore again, whipping a glance other his shoulder to where their own party were beginning to slowly retreat while their enemy mobilised.
Judging by the howls for vengeance and the fury flashing off unsheathed blades, the small army at Tiller's back was set to charge. None of the royal representatives had much longer to live.
-0000000000000-
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 stair, a sail caught in the wind stirred by her stormed ascent. The Princess halted for a breath, before continuing her climb with tenfold speed.
She did not keep a house of rowdy ladies. They were a sedate lot. Her companions tended to enjoy a day of quiet prayer or music. Dancing was rare and silly games rarer still, even when they were a merry court. Given the court climate, Clary knew that this was no tomfoolery she heard.
The hammer of running feet, a door banging on its hinges and the unmistakeable grate of raised, masculine voices brought Clary to 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. Clary toyed with the possibility of awaiting Izzy and Aline's return with help, but discarded the notion 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.
With her father's absence at the palace, Clary had not been at all disconcerted by the empty halls. Now she realised that the bulk of royal manpower was either in attendance on the King or upon the Gard walls. Leaving no one to guard the interior. Now, not only had Clary's rooms been left vulnerable, they'd been invaded.
And now a rebel host was waiting for her.
-000000000000000-