“We are Shadowhunters,” said Emma. “We bear the mandate of the Clave.”

“So you said,” said Prince Adaon. “What is your demand?”

“A good question,” said the King.

“We demand a trial by combat,” said Julian.

The King laughed. “Only one of the Fair Folk can enter a trial by combat in the Unseelie Lands.”

“I am one of the Fair Folk,” said Mark. “I can do it.”

At that, Kieran began to struggle against his bonds. “No,” he said, violently, blood running down his fingers, his chest. “No.”

Julian didn’t even look at Kieran. Kieran might be who they were there to save, but if they had to torture him to save him, Julian would. You’re the boy who does what has to be done because no one else will, Emma had told him once. It seemed like years ago.

“You are a Wild Hunter,” said Erec. “And half Shadowhunter. You are bound by no laws, and your loyalty is to Gwyn, not to justice. You cannot fight.” His lip curled back. “And the others are not faerie at all.”

“Not quite true,” said Julian. “It has often been said that children and the mad are of the faerie kind. That there is a bond between them. And we are children.”

Erec snorted. “That’s ridiculous. You are grown.”

“The King called us children,” said Julian. “ ‘A convoy of children.’ Would you call your liege lord a liar?”

There was a collective gasp. Erec went pale. “My Lord,” he began, turning to the King. “Father—”

“Silence, Erec, you’ve said enough,” said the King. His gaze was on Julian, the brilliant eye and the dark, empty socket. “An interesting one,” he said, to no one in particular, “this boy who looks like a Shadowhunter and speaks like gentry.” He rose to his feet. “You will have your trial by combat. Knights, lower your blades.”

The flashing wall of bright metal around Emma and her friends vanished. Stony faces regarded them instead. Some were princes, bearing the distinct stamp of Kieran’s delicate angular features. Some were badly scarred from past battles. Quite a few had their faces hidden by hoods or veils. Beyond them, the gentry of the Court were milling and exclaiming, clearly excited. The words “trial by combat” drifted through the clearing.

“You will have your trial,” the King said again. “Only I shall pick which of you will be the champion.”

“We are all willing,” Cristina said.

“Of course you are. That is the nature of Shadowhunters. Foolish self-sacrifice.” The King turned to glance at Kieran, throwing the skeletal side of his face into sharp relief. “Now how to choose? I know. A riddle of sorts.”

Emma felt Julian tense. He wouldn’t like the idea of a riddle. Too random. Julian didn’t like anything he couldn’t control.

“Come closer,” said the King, beckoning them with a finger. His hands were pale like white bark. A hook like a short claw extended from each finger just above the knuckle.

The crowd parted to let Emma and the others closer to the pavilion. As they went, Emma was conscious of a strange scent that hung all around them. Thick and bittersweet, like tree sap. It intensified as they drew close to the throne until they stood looking up at it, the King looming above them like a statue. Behind him stood a row of knights whose faces were covered by masks wrought from gold and silver and brass. Some were in the shape of rats, some golden lions or silver panthers.

“Truth is to be found in dreams,” the King said, looking down at them. From this angle, Emma could see that the odd splitting of his face ended at his throat, which was ordinary skin. “Tell me, Shadowhunters: You enter a cave. Inside the cave is an egg, lit from within and glowing. You know that it beats with your dreams—not the ones you have during the day, but the ones you half-remember in the morning. It splits open. What emerges?”

“A rose,” said Mark. “With thorns.”

Cristina cut her eyes toward him in surprise, but remained motionless. “An angel,” she said. “With bloody hands.”

“A knife,” said Emma. “Pure and clean.”

“Bars,” Julian said quietly. “The bars of a prison cell.”

The King’s expression didn’t change. The murmurs of the Court around them seemed confused rather than angry or intrigued. The King reached out a long white taloned hand.

“You there, girl with the bright hair,” he said. “You will be the champion of your people.”

Relief speared through Emma. It would be her; the others would not be risked. She felt lighter, as if she could breathe again.

Cristina turned her face toward Emma, looking stricken; Mark seemed to be holding himself in with main force. Julian caught Emma’s arm, moving to whisper in her ear, urgency in every line of his body.

She stood still, her eyes fixed on his face, letting the chaos of the Court flow around her. The coldness of battle was already beginning to descend on her: the chill that dampened emotions, letting everything but the fight fall away.

Julian was part of that, the beginning of battle and the cold of the middle of it and the fierceness of the fighting. There was nothing she wanted to look at more in the moments before a battle than his face. Nothing that made her feel more fully at home in herself, more like a Shadowhunter.

“Remember,” Julian whispered into Emma’s ear. “You’ve spilled faerie blood before, in Idris. They would have killed you, killed us all. This is a battle too. Show no mercy, Emma.”

“Jules.” She didn’t know if he heard her say his name. Knights surrounded them suddenly, separating her from the others. Her arm slipped away from Julian’s grip. She looked one last time at the three of them before being guided roughly forward. A space was being cleared just in front of the pavilion.

A horn blew, the sharp sound parting the night like a knife. One of the princes strode out from behind the pavilion beside a masked knight. The knight wore thick gray armor like an animal’s hide. His helmet covered his face. A crude drawing was painted onto the front of the helmet: wide eyes, a mouth stretched in a grin. Someone had touched the helmet with paint-wet hands, and there were red streaks along the sides that lent an ominous air to what might otherwise have been clownish.

The prince guided the masked knight to his side of the cleared space and left him there, facing Emma. He was armed with a longsword of faerie workmanship, its blade silver traced with gold, its hilt studded with gems. The edges gleamed sharp as razor blades.

A strong sword, but nothing could break Cortana. Emma’s weapon would not fail her. She could only fail herself.

“You know the rules,” said the King in a bored tone. “Once the battle commences, neither warrior can be helped by a friend. The fight is to the death. The victor is he or she who survives.”

Emma drew Cortana. It flashed like the setting sun, just before it drowned in the sea.

There was no reaction from the knight with the painted helmet. Emma focused on his stance. He was taller than her, had greater reach. His feet were carefully planted. Despite the ridiculous helmet, he was clearly a serious fighter.

She moved her own feet into position: left foot forward, right foot back, arcing the dominant side of her body toward her opponent.