Also by Cassandra Clare

Julian’s hands tightened into fists. “You think you alone understand honor? You who cannot
understand what we might lose by standing here and letting you humiliate and torture Mark? This is
why faeries are despised—this senseless cruelty.”
“Careful, boy,” rumbled Gwyn. “You have your Laws and we have ours. The difference is only that
we do not pretend ours are not cruel.”
“The Law is hard,” said Iarlath with amusement, “but it is the Law.”
Mark spoke for the first time since Iarlath had pronounced his sentence. “A bad law is no law,” he
said. He looked dazed. Emma thought of the boy who had collapsed in the Sanctuary, who had
screamed when he was touched and spoken of beatings that still clearly terrified him. She felt as if
her heart was being ripped out—to whip Mark, of all people? Mark, whose body might heal but
whose soul would never recover?
“You came to us,” Julian said. There was desperation in his voice. “You came to us—you made a
bargain with us. You needed our help. We have put everything on the line, risked everything, to solve
this. Fine, Mark made a mistake, but this loyalty test is misplaced.”
“It is not about loyalty,” said Iarlath. “It is about setting an example. These are the laws. This is
how it works. If we let Mark betray us, others will learn we are weak.” His look was pleased.
Greedy. “The bargain is important. But this is more important.”
Mark moved forward then, catching at Julian’s shoulder. “You can’t change it, little brother,” he
said. “Let it happen.” He looked at Iarlath, and then at Gwyn. He didn’t look at Kieran. “I will take
the punishment.”
Emma heard Iarlath laugh. It was a cold, sharp sound like cracking icicles. He reached into his
cloak and pulled out a handful of blood-red stones. He threw them to the ground. Mark, clearly
familiar with what Iarlath was doing, blanched.
At the spot on the ground where Iarlath had thrown his stones, something had begun to grow. A tree,
bent and gnarled and twisted, its bark and leaves the color of blood. Mark watched it in horrified
fascination. Kieran looked as if he was going to throw up.
“Jules,” Emma whispered. It was the first time she had called him that since the night on the beach.
Julian stared blindly at Emma for a moment before turning and lurching the rest of the way down
the steps. After a frozen moment Emma followed him. Iarlath moved immediately to block her way.
“Put your sword away,” he snarled. “No weapons in the presence of the Fair Folk. We know well
you cannot be trusted with them.”
Emma whipped Cortana up so fast that the blade was a blur. The tip of it sailed beneath Iarlath’s
chin, a millimeter from his skin, describing the arc of a deadly smile. He made a noise in his throat
even as she slammed the sword into the sheath on her back with enough force to be audible. She
stared at him, eyes blazing with rage.
Gwyn chuckled. “And here I thought all the Carstairs were good for was music.”
Iarlath gave Emma a filthy look before whirling away and stalking toward Mark. He had begun
unwinding a coil of rope from where it was tied at his waist. “Put your hands on the trunk of the
quickbeam,” he said. Emma assumed he meant the dark, twisted tree with its sharp branches and
blood-colored leaves.
“No.” Kieran, sounding desperate, whirled fluidly toward Iarlath. He dropped to the ground,
kneeling, his hands outstretched. “I beg you,” he said. “As a prince of the Unseelie Court, I beg you.
Do not hurt Mark. Do what you will with me, instead.”
Iarlath snorted. “Whipping you would incur your father’s wrath. This will not. Get to your feet,
child-prince. Do not shame yourself further.”