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The Queen arched an eyebrow. “Ah. Fairness. A mortal concept. How quaint.” She turned to Janus. “Bring Elara to the Whipping Tree. I think fifty lashes should convey the gravity of her mistake.”

“No!” Dru cried. “No. Whip me, punish me—”

But Janus was already dragging Elara away, and even as Dru started toward them, she heard the Queen, behind her, make a sound of disgust. Something seemed to strike Dru, half spinning her around, and a moment later she felt her knees hit the ground. Darkness rose up around her, blinding and shocking and soothing all at once. I’m with the others, under the water, she thought, and a moment later, all consciousness was gone.

Elara

The night seemed weighted with a heavy silence as Elara, wrists bound, followed the Huntsman into the forest. The moon had set, and only starlight filtered through the thick canopy above them, turning the forest floor into a dim, green-filtered gloom. Moss clung to the trunks of gnarled trees, and the leaves whispered with every breath of wind.

Elara could not help but think of the mortal tale of the snow-white princess, led into the forest by a huntsman, a rough man who had promised to slay her and bring her heart to his queen. He had been moved by pity in the end, but this Huntsman would not take pity on Elara. He would not let her flee into the woods. There was no pity in his heart.

Elara nearly tripped over a root, her skirts wet from dragging through the dew-damp underbrush. Janus moved ahead of her steadily, not slowing, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the whip that hung from his belt.

The trees began to thin ahead, the light changing as they neared the clearing where the Whipping Tree stood. Elara had gazed upon the Tree before, long ago; she had been to it not to be punished herself but to observe the punishment of another. Still, she had not recalled how fearsome the Tree was, rising from the center of the clearing like the shadow of a monster: massive, ancient, its black bark split and scarred by years of lashes.

Janus unbound Elara’s hands, letting the cord that had tied them fall to the earth. The golden mask he had put on when they left the hill glimmered as he swept a mocking bow. “After you, my lady,” he said, and there was something in his voice, a cadence that reminded Elara of Ash. It made her shiver. “You know what to do.”

The earth surrounding the base of the Tree was black and soft, like rotted velvet. As Elara approached it, thick red blood welled up from the soil, staining her slippers.

Her breath caught. Up close, as she placed her hands flat on the bark of the Tree, she could see where other hands had gripped the monster. Fingernails shone like half-moons against the bark—sunk deep into the wood, no doubt, as their owner’s hands spasmed in agony.

Behind her, Elara heard Janus uncoil his whip, a whispered sound like a serpent’s hiss. She did not cry out, did not plead or protest. One could not beg mercy from a stone. She would endure because she must. She would not show the Huntsman how much she hurt.

Her body went rigid as Janus drew his arm back, ready to strike. She heard him swear, heard something strange behind her. A voice that was not the Huntsman’s cut through the night.

“Stop.”

A familiar voice, one Elara knew. One she would never forget, never mistake for another’s.

She whirled around.

Ash stood between her and the Huntsman. His beautiful face was pale, his green eyes bright with fury. He wore no crown, no regal cloak, only a dark tunic that clung to his broad shoulders, reminding Elara how grown he was now. Almost a man.

The whip in Janus’s hand had stilled in midair. “What,” he said through his teeth, “do you think you are doing, boy?”

“I came to stop you,” Ash said.

Janus let out an irritated breath. “The Queen has ordered this servant punished.”

“Then my mother,” Ash said, with an emphasis on the word mother, “can take it up with me. I do not wish Elara whipped. It is a disgusting practice.”

“She isn’t even your servant.” Janus sounded exasperated. “You have no reason—”

“To care? I have no reason to care for any servant; my mother never lets the same faerie serve me for more than a day or two, lest I work my will on them and turn them against her.”

If Ash was trying to change the subject, Janus was having none of it. “I am trying to decide why you take so much interest in an unimportant servant of the Court. But it isn’t her, is it? She serves your Shadowhunter pet. It is the pet you do not wish to see distressed, not the servant.”

“You have your own Shadowhunter pet,” Ash said, in a low voice, “and I do not think you wish to see her distressed, either.”

Elara felt her blood go cold. No good could come of taunting the Huntsman about Clary Fairchild. Indeed, his golden eyes narrowed behind the holes in his mask, his grip tightening on the whip in his hand.

“Clary is different,” he snarled. “Or are you telling me you’ve lost your heart to the Blackthorn girl?”

Ash said nothing. He did not look afraid, but there was a wary set to his jaw, as if he was unsure what Janus would do next. Elara was struck by the difference in them. She had long known that Ash was growing apart from his guardian, though Janus had seemed to care greatly for him when they first arrived at Court. These days that caring had been whittled down to a shadow. She could not but wonder what had happened.

“This is all a part of my mother’s manipulation,” Ash said. “She seeks to undermine me by proving there is no one I can protect. Perhaps you must do as she orders. But I am the Prince of the Court. I need not.”

The Huntsman’s voice was hard. “You owe me more than you owe the Queen.”