“It’s mine!”
“It certainly isn’t!” Outraged, Alastair made another grab for the sword. Cordelia stepped nimbly backward, holding Cortana over her head, but Alastair was taller. He stomped on her foot and snatched it away, his black hair falling into his eyes as he scowled.
“Tell her, Father,” he said. “Tell her it isn’t hers!”
“Kerm nariz, Alastair. Enough.” Tall and weathered, his blond hair just turning to silver, Elias Carstairs had a lazy voice that matched his lazy and economical gestures. He was in good health today, and Cordelia was glad. There were many days her father was absent from the training room, lying ill in a darkened room, a damp cloth over his eyes.
He peeled himself away from the pillar he’d been leaning against and regarded his offspring with a thoughtful indulgence. Elias had always been their weapons master, the one who had trained them in the physical arts of Shadowhunting since they had been small.
He was the one who had turned the ballroom at Cirenworth into a training area. He had bought the great house from mundanes and seemed to take pleasure in removing evidence of their mundanity. He tore out the parquet floors and put down softer wood from trees in Idris, better for cushioning falls. Chandeliers were replaced with hooks to hang weapons from, and the walls were painted saffron yellow, the color of victory.
Elias had lived in Beijing for many years and favored the weapons and fighting styles of Nephilim there, from the zhaˇn maˇ da¯o to the double-edged jiàn to the long-handled qia¯ng. He taught his children shua¯ngda¯o, the art of wielding two swords at the same time. He hung rope darts and chain whips from the rafters and built a lei tai, a raised fighting platform, at the west end of the room. Alastair and Cordelia stood on the lei tai now, glaring at each other.
“Cordelia,” said Elias, clasping his hands behind his back. “Why, exactly, do you want Cortana?”
Cordelia paused a moment. She was thirteen, and she rarely bothered to try to get in between Alastair and the things he wanted. There was no one in the world more stubborn or fussy than her brother, in her opinion. But Cortana was different. She’d been dreaming of wielding Cortana since she was a little girl—the heft of its golden hilt, the arc of its blade through the air.
And Alastair, she knew, had never dreamed about that: he was a good fighter, but largely disinterested. He preferred following Shadowhunter politics and scheming to actual demon chasing.
“Cortana was made by Wayland the Smith,” she said. “He made swords for all the greatest heroes. Excalibur for Arthur. Durendal for Roland and Hector. Sigurd, who slew the dragon Fafnir, bore a sword named Balmung made by Wayland—”
“Cordelia, we know all this,” said Alastair crossly. “No need for a history lesson.”
Cordelia glared.
“So you want to be a hero,” said Elias, with a gleam of interest.
Cordelia considered. “Cortana has one sharp edge and one dull one,” she said. “Because of that, it has often been called a sword of mercy. I want to be a merciful hero.”
Elias nodded and turned to his son. “And you?”
Alastair flushed. “It’s a Carstairs sword,” he said shortly. “I’m Alastair Carstairs and I always will be. When Cordelia gets married and has a passel of brats, one of them will end up with Cortana—and they won’t be a Carstairs.”
Cordelia made an indignant sound, but Elias held up a silencing hand. “He’s right,” he said. “Cordelia, let your brother keep the sword.”
Alastair smirked, twirled the sword in his hand, and headed for the edge of the lei tai. Cordelia stood where she was, rage and indignation prickling up her spine. She thought of all the times she’d come into the training room to gaze at Cortana in its crystal box, the words etched on its blade the first thing she’d learned to read: I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal. She thought of the way she’d always gently tapped the box, barely brushing it with her fingers, as if to reassure the sword that someday it would be taken out and wielded again. And when Elias had finally opened the box, declaring that today was the day he would choose Cortana’s owner, her heart had soared.
She couldn’t bear it. “But Cortana is mine!” she burst out as her brother reached the edge of the platform. “I know it is!”
Alastair opened his mouth to deliver a retort—but only gasped as the sword wrenched itself out of his grasp and flew across the room toward his sister. Cordelia held out a hand as if to ward it off, startled, and the hilt smacked into her palm. She closed her hand around it reflexively and felt a jolt go up her arm.
Cortana.
Alastair looked as if he wanted to sputter, but didn’t. He was too clever and too self-conscious to be a sputterer. “Father,” he said instead. “Is this some sort of trick?”
Elias only smiled as if he’d known what was going to happen. “Sometimes the sword chooses the bearer,” he said. “Cortana will be Cordelia’s. Now, Alastair—”
But Alastair had stalked from the room.
Elias turned to his daughter. “Cordelia,” he said. “A blade of Wayland the Smith is a great gift, but it is also a great responsibility. One that may one day cause you sorrow.”
Cordelia nodded. She was sure her father was right, in some distant way that adults were sometimes. Still, gazing down at Cortana’s golden blade, she couldn’t imagine ever being anything but happy with it in her hand.