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.

17 THE HOLLOW SEA

“Oh whence do you come, my dear friend, to me,

With your golden hair all fallen below your knee,

And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea,

And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?”

“From the other world I come back to you:

My locks are uncurled with dripping drenching dew.

You know the old, whilst I know the new:

But to-morrow you shall know this too.”

—Christina Rossetti, “The Poor Ghost”

“So,” said Will Herondale, a dark edge to his voice, “for some reason, you thought it was a good idea to take on a Mandikhor demon all by yourselves?”