He came to a stop in front of them. His eyes flicked to Will. They were a paler blue than Will’s, almost the color of cornflowers. The skin around them was tanned and lined with faint crow’s-feet. He said, “You are William Herondale?”
Will nodded without speaking.
“I am Elias Carstairs,” the man said. “Jem Carstairs was my nephew.”
Will turned white, and Tessa realized what it was about the man that seemed familiar—there was something about him, something about the way he carried himself and the shape of his hands, that reminded her of Jem. Since Will seemed unable to speak, Tessa said:
“Yes, this is Will Herondale. And I am Theresa Gray.”
“The shape-changer girl,” said the man—Elias, Tessa reminded herself; Shadowhunters used each other’s given names. “You were engaged to James before he became a Silent Brother.”
“I was,” Tessa said quietly. “I love him very much.”
He gave her a look—not hostile or challenging, only curious. Then he turned his gaze to Will. “You were his parabatai?”
Will found his voice. “I am still,” he said, and set his jaw stubbornly.
“James spoke of you,” said Elias. “After I left China, when I returned to Idris, I asked if he would come and live with me. We had sent him away from Shanghai, considering it unsafe for him there while Yanluo’s minions ran free, still seeking vengeance. But when I asked him if he would come to me in Idris, he said no, he could not. I asked him to reconsider. Told him I was his family, his blood. But he said he could not leave his parabatai, that there were some things more important than blood.” Elias’s light blue eyes were steady. “I have brought you a gift, Will Herondale. Something I intended to give to him, when he was of age, because his father no longer lived to give it to him. But I cannot give it to him now.”
Will was tense all over, a bowstring strung too tight. He said: “I have not done anything to deserve a gift.”
“I think you have.” Elias drew from the belt at his waist a short sword in an intricate scabbard. He held it out to Will, who, after a moment, took it. The scabbard was covered in intricate designs of leaves and runes, carefully worked, gleaming under the golden light. With a decisive gesture Will pulled the sword free and held it up in front of his face.
The hilt was covered with the same pattern of runes and leaves, but the blade itself was simple and bare, save for a line of words that ran down its center. Tessa leaned in to read the words upon the metal.
I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.
“Joyeuse was Charlemagne’s sword,” said Will, his voice still stiff in that way that Tessa knew now meant that he was forcing down emotion. “Durendal was Roland’s. This sword is—it is of legend born.”
“Forged by the first Shadowhunter weapons maker, Wayland the Smith. It has a feather from the wing of the Angel in its hilt,” said Elias. “It has been in the Carstairs family for hundreds of years. I was instructed by Jem’s father to give it to him when he reached eighteen. But the Silent Brothers cannot accept gifts.” He looked at Will. “You were his parabatai. You should have it.”
Will slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “I cannot take it. I will not.”
Elias looked stunned. “But you must,” he said. “You were his parabatai, and he loved you—”
Will held the sword back out toward Elias Carstairs, hilt-first. After a moment Elias took it, and Will turned and walked away, vanishing into the crowd.
Elias looked after him in bewilderment. “I did not intend to cause offense.”
“You spoke of Jem in the past tense,” said Tessa. “Jem is not with us, but he is not dead. Will—he cannot bear that Jem be thought of as lost, or forgotten.”
“I did not mean to forget him,” said Elias. “I meant simply that the Silent Brothers do not have emotions like we do. They do not feel as we do. If they love—”
“Jem still loves Will,” Tessa said. “Whether he is a Silent Brother or not. There are things no magic can destroy, for they are magic in themselves. You never saw them together, but I did.”
“I meant to give him Cortana,” Elias said. “I cannot give it to James, so I thought his parabatai ought to have it.”
“You mean well,” Tessa said. “But, forgive my impertinence, Mr. Carstairs—do you never mean to have any children of your own?”
His eyes widened. “I had not thought—”
Tessa looked at the shimmering blade, and then at the man holding it. She could see Jem in him a little, as if she were looking at the reflection of what she loved in rippling water. That love, remembered and present, made her voice gentle when she spoke. “If you are not sure,” she said, “then keep it. Keep it for your own heirs. Will would prefer that. For he does not need a sword to remember Jem by. However illustrious its lineage.”
It was cold on the Institute steps, cold where Will stood without a coat or hat, looking out into the frost-dusted night. The wind blew tiny drifts of snow against his cheeks, his bare hands, and he heard, as he always did, Jem’s voice in the back of his head, telling him not to be ridiculous, to get back inside before he gave himself the flu.
Winter had always seemed the purest season to Will—even the smoke and dirt of London caught by the chill, frozen hard and clean. That morning he had broken a layer of ice that had formed on his water jug, before splashing the icy fluid onto his face and shivering as he looked in the mirror, his wet hair painting his face in black stripes. First Christmas morning without Jem in six years. The purest cold, bringing the purest pain.
“Will.” The voice was a whisper, of a very familiar kind. He turned his head, an image of Old Molly rising in his mind—but ghosts so rarely strayed from where they had died or were buried, and besides, what would she want with him now?
A gaze met his, level and dark. The rest of her was not so much transparent as edged by silver: the blond hair, the doll-pretty face, the white gown she had died in. Blood, red like a flower, on her chest.
“Jessamine,” he said.
“Merry Christmas, Will.”
His heart, which had stopped for a moment, began to beat again, the blood running fast in his veins. “Jessamine, why—what are you doing here?”
She pouted a little. “I am here because I died here,” she said, her voice growing in strength. It was not unusual for a ghost to achieve a greater solidity and auditory power when they were close to a human, especially one who could hear them. She indicated the courtyard at their feet, where Will had held her in her dying moments, her blood running onto the flagstones. “Are you not pleased to see me, Will?”
“Should I be?” he said. “Jessie, usually when I see ghosts, it is because there is some unfinished business or some sorrow that holds them to this world.”
She raised her head, looking up at the snow. Though it fell all around her, she was as untouched by it as if she stood under glass. “And if I had a sorrow, would you help me cure it? You never cared for me much in life.”
“I did,” Will said. “And I am truly sorry if I gave the impression that I cared nothing for you, or hated you, Jessamine. I think you reminded me more of myself than I wished to admit, and therefore I judged you with the same harshness I would have judged myself.”