The shimmer between Lilith’s hands solidified. It was a sword, made entirely of ice. The red light of the sky sparked off it, and Cordelia could not help but be struck by its loveliness. Its blade was like quartz, like moonlight hardened into stone. Its hilt resembled rock crystal. It was a thing born out of the chill of winter stars, beautiful and cold.
“Take it,” Lilith said, and Cordelia could not stop herself; her hand flew out and seized the ice sword, sweeping it in front of her. It burned coldly against her hand, a glimmering, deadly icicle. “And kill the thrall. She murdered your father.”
“Not I, but I was glad to see him die,” Tatiana hissed. “How Elias screamed—how he begged for mercy—”
“Stop!” Cordelia screamed; she was not certain at which of them she was shouting. Only that tremors were shuddering through her body as she held herself still; it hurt, and she knew the pain would stop if only she ceased fighting Lilith’s will.
“Tsk,” said Lilith. “I did not want to have to do this, but look—see what this creature, this thrall, has just done—”
And Cordelia saw a vision of the Institute courtyard. She saw Anna, struggling to hold Christopher. Christopher, who was jerking and twisting in her arms, as if trying to get away from something that had its teeth sunk into him. Anna had her stele in her hand; she was desperately trying to scribble iratzes onto her brother’s skin, each one vanishing, like a teaspoon of ink spilled into an ocean of water.
Beside Anna lay the pearl-handled knife that Tatiana had thrown. Its blade foamed with blood that was already turning black with venom even as Cordelia watched. A silent scream built in her throat, a desperate need to call out to Anna, even though she knew Anna could not hear her. Knew, even as Christopher’s spasming motions ceased, even as he exhaled and went still, his eyes fixed blankly on the sky above him, that there was nothing she could do to save him. Knew, as Anna folded up over his body, her shoulders shaking, that he was gone.
All the breath went out of Cordelia in a rush, as though she had been stabbed in the stomach. And with it went her will to resist. She thought of Christopher, his kindness, his mercy, the way he had smiled at her as he led her through the Silent City to Grace, and she turned toward Tatiana, the ice sword flashing in her grip. In that moment, it did not matter that it was not Cortana. It was a blade in her hand, as with one swift, sure motion she slit Tatiana’s throat open from ear to ear.
There was a roaring in Cordelia’s mind. She could not think, could not speak, could only watch as Tatiana’s blood poured from her throat. She made a noise, a sort of gurgle, as she sank to her knees, clawing at her neck.
Lilith was laughing. “It is too bad for her that you refuse to use Cortana,” she said, prodding at Tatiana’s spasming body with her toe. “You could have saved her life. A paladin’s bonded weapon has the power to heal what it has harmed.”
“What?” Cordelia whispered.
“You heard me,” said Lilith. “And you have doubtless read it in the legends. A paladin’s blade has the power of salvation as well as destruction. But you wouldn’t have healed her anyway, would you? You do not have that much mercy in your heart.”
Cordelia tried to picture herself stepping forward, somehow healing Tatiana, who had sowed so much ruination, so much pain. Even now, she might not be able to save Tatiana’s life, but she could kneel beside her, speak a comforting word. She began to step forward—just as Tatiana toppled over, falling facedown into the snow. Her body burst into flames. Cordelia stood motionless as she watched the fire swiftly consume her: her clothes, her skin, her body. Acrid smoke rose from the conflagration, sour with the stench of burning bone.
“Oh, my,” clucked Lilith. “Swift action is a paladin’s friend.” She laughed. “You should really pluck up your courage, my dear. Without Cortana, you are only half the warrior you could be. Do not fear your own destiny. Grasp it.”
And with that, she disappeared in a flash of extending wings, an owl darting into the sky, leaving Cordelia to stare in horror at what she had done. The ashes that had been Tatiana Blackthorn rose with the wind and blew in eddies around the courtyard, drifting into the sky until they vanished. The sword in Cordelia’s hand slid from her grip, falling away to melt among the ice along the street. Her heart was a bell, tolling for death.
Cordelia ran. But this time, as she ran, the wind whipped tears from her face. Tears for Christopher, for London. For Tatiana. For herself.
The fog that hung over the city had thickened. Lampposts and stopped carriages loomed up out of the mist, as if she were fleeing through a snowstorm. There were other shadows too, moving ones, appearing and disappearing in the fog—mundanes, wandering? Something more sinister? She thought she saw the flash of a white robe, but when she dashed toward it, it had vanished into the mist.
All Cordelia knew was that she had to get back to the Institute. Over and over she saw the tableau of Christopher lying dead, so vivid in her mind that when she finally reached the Institute gates and the courtyard beyond, she was shocked to find it deserted.
It was clear there had been a battle—the snowy ground was disturbed, spotted with blood and thrown weapons; even ragged chunks of the Watchers’ staffs. But the silence that hung over the place was eerie, and when Cordelia went into the cathedral, it held the same tomb-like quiet.
She had not realized how cold she was. As the warmth of the Institute enveloped her, she began shivering uncontrollably, as if her body had finally been given permission to feel the chill. She made straight for the Sanctuary, where the doors were already open. The great, high-ceilinged room yawned beyond.
And inside, silence. Silence and a grief so palpable it was like a living force.
Cordelia was reminded of the awful room in the Silent City where her father’s body had been laid out. She recalled Lucie saying that no one had cleared away the bier Jesse had been laid out on, and indeed, here it was, with Christopher stretched atop it. He was on his back, his hands folded across his chest. Someone had closed his eyes, and his spectacles had been laid neatly beside him, as if at any moment he might awake and reach out for them, wondering where they had gone.
Around Christopher’s body knelt his friends. James, Lucie, Matthew, Anna. Ari. Jesse. Anna was at the head of the bier, her hand lightly against Christopher’s cheek. Cordelia did not see Alastair or Thomas, and she felt a small chill—she had been glad, selfishly, that Alastair had not been there for the battle, that he had been well out of it. But now that she had been out in the city, she had begun to worry. Were they lost in the creeping fog? Or worse, facing whatever creatures were hiding in that fog?
As Cordelia approached, she caught sight of Grace, huddled alone in a corner. Her feet were bare and bloody; she was curled in on herself, her face in her hands.
James looked up. He saw Cordelia and rose to his feet, his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. Something in his eyes had changed, Cordelia thought with an awful pang. Changed forever. Something had been lost, as he seemed lost, like a little boy.
Not caring if anyone was watching, she held out her arms. James crossed the room and caught her tightly to him. For a long time he held her, his face pressed against her loose hair, though it was damp with melting snow. “Daisy,” he whispered. “You’re all right. I was so worried—when you ran—” He took a deep breath. “Tatiana. Did she get away?”
“No,” Cordelia said. “I killed her. She’s gone.”
“Good,” Anna said savagely, her hand still against Christopher’s cheek. “I hope it was painful. I hope it was agony—”
“Anna,” Lucie said gently. She was looking from Jesse, who was expressionless, to Grace, still huddled against the wall. “We should—”
But Grace raised her head from her arms. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks with dried tears. “You promise?” she said, her voice trembling. “You promise me she’s dead? Belial cannot raise her?”