“It is done,” he said. Cordelia stared at him, astonished that it could be so simple. “Cortana is healed. I have granted back its seraphic essence. Keep it with that scabbard you wear on your back—whoever gave you such a gift clearly meant for you to be protected. There are strong spells upon it that will guard you and Cortana both.”

The only gift worthy of my daughter is the gift worthy of the sword that has chosen her.

It seemed her father had given her one true thing. Cordelia bit her lip. “I did not realize it would be so simple,” she said.

“It may be simple, but I shall ask for something in return. And it will not be a penny.”

Cordelia hugged Cortana to her. She could feel, already, the change in the sword—it fit in her hand as it always had, familiar and beloved. “Anything.”

Wayland seemed to smile. “You are familiar with Joyeuse and Durendal?”

“Yes—the sword of Charlemagne and the sword of Roland. The brothers of Cortana, as you said.”

“And do you know the sword Caliburn?” he asked, and when she shook her head, he sighed. “You may know it,” he said, “as Excalibur.”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, “of course—”

“Charlemagne, Arthur, and Roland were paladins,” said Wayland. “The blades I have crafted sing with their own souls. They must find matched souls among the gods and mortals of the world. But the strength of those swords, the power of the bond between the blade and bearer, can be made greater when the bearer has sworn fealty to a greater warrior, as Lancelot did to Arthur.”

“But Arthur had not sworn fealty to anyone,” said Cordelia. “He was king himself, as was Charlemagne.”

“Arthur had sworn fealty,” said Wayland. “He had sworn it to me.”

“My father told me long ago that you were a Shadowhunter,” said Cordelia, her mind whirling. “But all you speak of happened before Raziel created the Nephilim, nor do Shadowhunters live forever. And you bear no runes.”

“Many claim me. I have been called one of the fey. Some call me a god,” said Wayland. “In reality, I am beyond and above such things. In the early days of the Nephilim, I came to Shadowhunters in their own form, that they might know me as one of their own and trust my making of weapons. In truth, I am far older than they. I recall a time before demons, before angels.” His gaze was steady, but his ember eyes shone intently. “And now a darkness walks among Shadowhunters, striking at will. This death will only spread. If it falls upon your shoulders to stop the killings, Cordelia Herondale, can you bear it?”

If it falls upon your shoulders. Her heart began to beat more quickly. “You—are you asking me to be your paladin?”

“I am.”

“Truly? Not the bearers of Excalibur, or Durendal?”