“Yes,” she said, “yes, I will take up my blade.”
He smiled, and she realized each of his teeth was forged of bronze, glimmering in the dark light. “Raise your blade. Hold it before you.”
Cordelia raised the sword, the tip pointing toward the heavens. The hilt was a narrow streak of golden fire, burning before her eyes. Wayland the Smith moved so that he was standing in front of her. To her surprise, he caught the unsheathed sword in his enormous right fist, wrapping his hand around it. Blood dripped from his fingers, streaking the blade.
“Now swear,” he said. “Swear you will be loyal to me, that you shall not falter—and when you draw a blade, you will draw it in my name.”
“I swear my loyalty,” Cordelia said fervently. His blood continued to run down the blade, but as soon as the drops struck the hilt, they became sparks that lifted, gold and copper and bronze, into the air. “I swear my courage. I swear neither to falter nor to fail in battle. Whenever I draw my sword, whenever I lift up a weapon in battle, I shall do it in your name.”
Wayland released the sword. “Now rise,” he said, and Cordelia stood for the first time. She had not realized until this moment how very big the great smith was: he towered over her, his massive bulk a dark shadow against the stormy sky. “Go forth,” he said. “And be a warrior. I will find you again.”
He touched her, once, on the brow—and then he was gone. In a single blink, the world changed again: there was no more storm, no more embers, no more ringing sound of the forge. She stood on an ordinary hill under an ordinary blue sky, the sun bright as a golden coin. She took one last look at the barrow and was not surprised to see that the opening was dark again, half-hidden by moss.
Cordelia started back up the hill and saw Matthew, at the summit, raise his hand to greet her. Her heart rising in triumph, she ran toward him, Cortana held aloft, its blade shedding golden sparks in the sunlight.
15 WALK BY DAYTIME
Dreams that strive to seem awake,
Ghosts that walk by daytime,
Weary winds the way they take,
Since, for one child’s absent sake,
May knows well, whate’er things make
Sport, it is not Maytime.
—Algernon Charles Swinburne, “A Dark Month”
It was sunset, and Berwick Street was lively with foot traffic: tradesmen going home from work, rouged ladies already plying their trade from doorways, and laborers in high spirits arriving at the Blue Posts pub.
Leaning against the wall by the entrance to Tyler’s Court, Lucie sighed. Fog softened the edges of the city, turning the lights of salesmen’s naphtha flare lamps into shimmering, heatless bonfires. Balios, waiting at the curb with the carriage, stomped his feet and neighed softly, his breath a white plume in the air.
“Lucie Herondale?”
She whirled, about to snap at Grace for being late—and froze. Behind her stood a girl in a thin muslin dress, far too lightweight for the winter weather. Scanty blond hair was scraped back under a white cap. She was bone-thin, her arms and neck pitted with black sores. Through them, Lucie could see the street beyond, as if she looked through cracks in a brick wall.
“I’m Martha,” the girl whispered. “I heard you could help folks like me.” She drifted closer: her skirts seemed to end in a kind of white smoke that floated just above the pavement. “That you could command us.”
“I—” Lucie took a step back. “I shouldn’t. I oughtn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Please.” The girl moved closer: her eyes were white, as Filomena’s had been, though they were blank and pupil-less. “I want to forget what I did. I shouldn’t have taken the laudanum. My mam had the greater need. She died screaming ’cause I took it. And then there was no more for anyone.”
“You want to forget?” Lucie whispered. “Is—is that it?”
“No,” said the girl. “I want to feel again what I felt when I took the laudanum.” The girl bit at her insubstantial thumb, her white eyes rolling. “All those lovely dreams. You could command me to have them again.” She drifted closer; Lucie stumbled back, almost catching the heel of her boot on the pavement. A strange feeling arrowed through her—a sort of ice, sizzling in her veins.
“Leave her alone.”
Jesse stood at the alley’s entrance, looking so real it was hard even for Lucie to recall he wasn’t exactly there. His gaze was fixed on Martha.
“Please,” the ghost-girl whined. “She helps you. Don’t be selfish—”