Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

“She told me,” Mark interrupted. “That Julian is in love with you.”

Emma didn’t open her eyes, but she could still see the bright light of the torches surrounding the pavilion and the clearing burning against her eyelids.

“Emma,” Mark said. “It was not her fault. It was an accident. But when she spoke the words to me, I understood. None of this ever had anything to do with Cameron Ashdown, did it? You were trying to protect Julian from his own feelings. If Julian loves you, you must convince him it’s impossible for you to love him back.”

His sympathy almost broke her. She opened her eyes—closing them was cowardice, and the Carstairs were not cowards. “Mark, you know about the Law,” she said. “And you know Julian’s secrets—about Arthur, the Institute. You know what would happen if anyone found out, what they would do to us, to your family.”

“I do know,” he said. “And I am not angry at you. I would stand beside you if you found someone else to deceive him. Sometimes we must deceive the ones we love. But I cannot be the instrument that causes him pain.”

“But it can only be you. You think if there was anyone else, I would have asked you?” She could hear the desperation in her own voice.

Mark’s eyes clouded. “Why only me?”

“Because there isn’t anyone else Jules is jealous of,” she said, and she saw the astonishment bloom in his eyes just as a twig snapped behind her. She whirled, Cortana flashing out.

It was Julian. “You should know better than to draw steel on your own parabatai,” he said, with a crook of a smile.

She lowered the blade. Had he heard anything she and Mark had said? It didn’t look like it. “You should know better than to make noise when you walk.”

“No Soundless runes,” said Jules, and glanced from her to Mark. “We’ve found a position closer to the throne. Cristina’s already—”

But Mark had gone still. He was staring at something Emma couldn’t see. Julian’s gaze met hers, full of unguarded alarm, and then Mark was moving, pushing through the undergrowth.

The other two threw themselves after him. Emma could feel sweat gather in the hollow of her back as she strained herself not to step on a twig that might break, a leaf that might crack. It was painful, humbling almost to realize how much Nephilim relied on their runes.

She came up short quickly, almost bumping into Mark. He hadn’t gone that far, only to the very edge of the clearing, where he was still hidden from the view of the pavilion by an overgrowth of ferns.

Their view of the clearing was unobstructed. Emma could see the Unseelie Faeries gathered close in front of the throne. There were likely a hundred of them, maybe more. They were dressed in stunning finery, much more elegant than she’d imagined. A woman with dark skin wore a dress made of the feathers of a swan, stark and white, a necklace of down encircling her slender throat. Two pale men were dressed in rose silk overcoats and waistcoats of shimmering blue bird’s wings. A wheat-skinned woman with hair made of rose petals approached the pavilion, her dress an intricate cage of the bones of small animals, fastened together with thread made of human hair.

But Mark was looking at none of them, nor was he looking at the pavilion where the Unseelie princes stood, clearly waiting. Instead he was staring at two of the Unseelie princes, both clothed in black silk. One was tall with deep brown skin, the skull of a raven, dipped in gold, dangling around his throat. The other was pale and black-haired, his face narrow and bearded. Slumped between them was the figure of a prisoner, his clothes bloodstained, his body limp. The crowd parted for them, their voices quiet murmurs.

“Kieran,” Mark whispered. He started forward, but Julian caught at the back of his shirt, gripping his brother so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Not yet,” he hissed under his breath. His eyes were flat, glittering; in them Emma saw the ruthlessness that she had once told him frightened her. Not for herself, but for him.

The princes had reached a tall, white-barked tree just to the left and in front of the pavilion. The bearded prince slammed Kieran up against it, hard. The prince with the raven necklace spoke to him sharply, shaking his head. The other prince laughed.

“The one with the beard is Prince Erec,” said Mark. “The King’s favorite. The other is Prince Adaon. Kieran says that Adaon does not like to see people hurt. But Erec enjoys it.”

It seemed to be true. Erec produced a rope of thorns and held it out toward Adaon, who shook his head and walked away toward the pavilion. Shrugging, Erec commenced binding Kieran to the tree trunk. His own hands were protected with thick gloves, but Kieran was wearing only a torn shirt and breeches, and the thorns cut into his wrists and ankles, and then his throat when Erec pulled a strand of the vicious rope tight against his skin. Through it all, Kieran slumped inertly, his eyes half-closed, clearly beyond caring.