Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,174

with the words QUIS UT DEUS, and his head was thrown back as if he were crying out to heaven.

James stepped forward, raising one hand—the one that bore the Herondale ring with its pattern of birds. “Quis ut Deus?” he said. “ ‘Who is like God?’ the Angel asks. The answer is ‘No one. No one is like God.’ ”

The stone angel’s eyes opened, absolutely black, apertures into a great and silent dark. Then, with a grinding of stone, the angel slid aside, revealing a great empty pit in the earth and stairs leading downward.

James lit his witchlight as they proceeded down the stairs into a shadowed darkness. The Silent Brothers, living as they did with eyes sewn shut, did not see as ordinary Shadowhunters did, and did not require light.

The shimmering white witchlight rayed out between James’s fingers, painting the walls with bars of light. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, James caught Cordelia’s arm and swung her around into an archway below the steps. Matthew followed a moment later. James closed his hand over the witchlight, dousing its illumination; the three of them watched in silence as a group of Silent Brothers, their parchment robes brushing the ground, swept by and vanished through another archway.

“Jem said not to reveal ourselves to the other Brothers,” James whispered. “The infirmary is on the far side of the Speaking Stars. We must move quickly and quietly.”

Cordelia and Matthew nodded. A moment later they were passing through an enormous room full of keyhole-shaped stone archways rising overhead. Semiprecious stones alternated with marble: tiger’s-eye, jade, malachite. Beneath the arches huddled mausoleums, many with family names etched into them: RAVENSCAR, CROSSKILL, LOVELACE.

They reached a great square whose floor was inlaid with tiles printed in a pattern of shimmering stars. On a wall, high above reach, hung a massive dull-silver sword whose crosspiece was carved in the shape of angel wings.

The Mortal Sword. Cordelia’s heart skipped a beat. The sword that her father had held, though it had not been able to make him speak a truth he could not remember.

They passed through the square and into a large space lined with rough flagstones. A pair of wooden doors led one way; a great square arch led another. The doors sported runes of death and peace and silence.

“Get back!” Matthew whispered suddenly; he threw an arm out, pressing James and Cordelia back into the shadows. Cordelia remained motionless as a Silent Brother passed by them and went up a set of nearby stairs. With a nod, James slipped from the shadows, followed by Matthew and Cordelia. They ducked under the square archway and into another massive room with a vaulted stone ceiling, crisscrossed with beams of stone and wood. The walls were bare, and up and down the room marched rows of beds, each with a still figure lying in it: Cordelia guessed there might have been thirty or so sick people there. Young and old, male and female, they lay as soundless and unmoving as if they had already died.

The room was utterly silent. Silent—and empty. Cordelia bit her lip. “Where is Jem?”

But Matthew’s eyes had lighted on a familiar figure. “Christopher,” he said, and darted over, followed by James. Cordelia came after them more slowly, reluctant to intrude. Matthew was crouching down beside a narrow iron bed; James stood at the head, leaning over Christopher.

Christopher had been stripped of his shirt. Dozens of white bandages encircled his narrow chest; blood had already soaked through some of them, forming a scarlet patch over his heart. His glasses were gone, and his eyes seemed sunk deep into his skull, the shadows below them dark purple. Black veins unfurled like coral beneath his skin. “Matthew,” he said with hoarse disbelief. “Jamie.”

James reached to touch his friend’s shoulder, and Christopher caught at his wrist. His fingers were twitching; he picked restlessly at the cuff of James’s jacket. “Tell Thomas,” he whispered. “He can finish the antidote without me. He only needs the root. Tell him.”

Matthew was silent; he seemed sick with pain. James said, “Thomas knows. He is with Lucie now, collecting the root. He’ll finish it, Kit.”

Cordelia cleared her throat, knowing her voice would come out as a whisper regardless. It did. “Jem,” she whispered. “Has Jem been in here, Christopher?”

He smiled at her sweetly. “James Carstairs,” he said. “Jem.”

Cordelia looked nervously at James, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Yes,” she said. “James Carstairs. My cousin.”

“James,” Christopher whispered, and then the figure in the bed