In the epic follow-up to the <New York Times< bestseller <Sword Catcher<, praised by George R. R. Martin as &ldquo;everything I look for in fantasy,&rdquo; Lin and Kel must chart a perilous course between love and lies.
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Kel Saren, body double to Conor, crown prince of the dazzling city of Castellane, is caught between two worlds. In order to protect his beloved prince, Kel must find the culprits responsible for a massacre at the royal palace&mdash;and the only clues are held by the Ragpicker King, the notorious criminal who rules Castellane&rsquo;s underworld. The trail Kel follows leads back to the Hill, where among decadent nobles and glittering parties a dark conspiracy to destroy the royal family has taken hold&mdash;a conspiracy headed up by the monstrous Artal Gremont, the man engaged to marry the woman Kel adores.
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Meanwhile, Lin Caster must face the aftermath of the greatest risk she&rsquo;s ever taken. To save the life of a dying friend, Lin has falsely claimed to be the Goddess Reborn, the legendary heroine destined to save her people. Now the terrifying&mdash;but strangely magnetic&mdash;leader of her people has arrived to test her powers. The price of failure is exile, and only through her alliance with the Ragpicker King can she continue to access the magic that may save her.
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Then Prince Conor reappears in her life, demanding that she use her healing powers to cure the madness of his father, the King. Lin soon realizes the King is gripped by an ancient and terrible magic, one whose lure she cannot deny any more than she can deny her growing passion for Conor.
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As the simmering tensions in Castellane reach a fever pitch, Lin and Kel must decide who to trust when any false move means death&mdash;or worse.

Autorentext
Cassandra Clare is the author of the #1 New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and Publishers Weekly bestselling Shadowhunter Chronicles and the New York Times bestselling Sword Catcher. The Shadowhunter Chronicles have been adapted as both a major motion picture and a television series. Her books have more than fifty million copies in print worldwide and have been translated into more than thirty-five languages. Cassandra lives in western Massachusetts with her husband and four fearsome cats.

Klappentext

In the epic follow-up to the New York Times bestseller Sword Catcher, praised by George R. R. Martin as “everything I look for in fantasy,” Lin and Kel must chart a perilous course between love and lies.

ONE OF PASTE’S MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF THE YEAR

Kel Saren, body double to Conor, crown prince of the dazzling city of Castellane, is caught between two worlds. In order to protect his beloved prince, Kel must find the culprits responsible for a massacre at the royal palace—and the only clues are held by the Ragpicker King, the notorious criminal who rules Castellane’s underworld. The trail Kel follows leads back to the Hill, where among decadent nobles and glittering parties a dark conspiracy to destroy the royal family has taken hold—a conspiracy headed up by the monstrous Artal Gremont, the man engaged to marry the woman Kel adores.

Meanwhile, Lin Caster must face the aftermath of the greatest risk she’s ever taken. To save the life of a dying friend, Lin has falsely claimed to be the Goddess Reborn, the legendary heroine destined to save her people. Now the terrifying—but strangely magnetic—leader of her people has arrived to test her powers. The price of failure is exile, and only through her alliance with the Ragpicker King can she continue to access the magic that may save her.

Then Prince Conor reappears in her life, demanding that she use her healing powers to cure the madness of his father, the King. Lin soon realizes the King is gripped by an ancient and terrible magic, one whose lure she cannot deny any more than she can deny her growing passion for Conor.

As the simmering tensions in Castellane reach a fever pitch, Lin and Kel must decide who to trust when any false move means death—or worse.

Leseprobe
CHAPTER ONE

In the Hayloft, Kel and Conor were practicing their swordplay.

It had been some while since there had been time for practice, and both were a little rusty. Still, the moves came back as they always did. Muscles had their own memories, as Jolivet often said. Kel had begun the morning feeling stiff, his body half asleep and his joints objecting to being stretched. Now, after an hour or so of drills in the space they’d trained in since they were young boys, he felt flexible, his muscles fast and liquid.

The flat of his blunt-­tip sword slammed against Conor’s with a metallic ring. Kel pressed his advantage, but this time Conor leaped out of the way, jumping onto one of the hay bales that, scattered about the room, served to create a changing terrain for practice. He raised his left hand, signaling a time-­out.

Kel let his sword arm fall, rolling his shoulders back.

Conor raked a hand through his sweaty dark hair, frowning. “We need to do this more often,” he said. “I can barely recall what to do with my blade. Too many late nights at the desk, exercising nothing but my writing hand. I’ve turned into a pudding from inaction these past months, Kellian.”

“I wouldn’t say a pudding,” Kel objected. Conor was as trim and fit as ever. Busy as he was, he still swam and rode his horse Asti nearly every day. Besides, hadn’t the Queen been fretting that he was too thin just the other day? If he was having trouble, it was far more likely to be the late hours and lack of sleep causing it.

Not that Kel would ever say so. Conor was willing to hear things from Kel that he would never stand for from someone else, but the subject of the great change in Conor that had begun three months ago—­his strange new dedication to his role in actual governance—­was off limits even to his Sword Catcher. Kel guessed it was because the whole business was a sort of penance for Conor, but it was only a guess. It had to be. Conor would not speak on the subject, and Kel did not press.

“We can certainly train more often, if you’d like,” he said now. “You can join my sessions with Jolivet. I stand ready,” he added, “to assist with all pudding-­avoidant activities.”

He raised his sword, indicating the time-­out was over. Conor laughed and spun down from the hay bale, bringing his blade across in a sideways strike. Kel responded with an overhand cut, the swords slamming together with the satisfying sound of steel on steel. Kel danced backward, out of harm’s way, as Conor came toward him.

They had been practicing such sword-­work together for so long that they knew each other’s ways: Conor tended to be too reckless, Kel too careful. They were comfortable enough to carry on a conversation even as they parried and redoubled, lunged and feinted.

“Are you feeling ready?” Kel asked. “It will be the first Dial Chamber meeting since—­in nearly four months.”

He had almost said since before the Shining Gallery slaughter. Though Conor was willing to speak of the attack on the Palace and the murder of the little Princess from Sarthe, he did not like to be reminded. He had nightmares, still, about it, and woke up screaming; Kel, who slept in the same room with the Prince, would remain awake when that happened, tensed and waiting for Conor’s breath to even out. For him to sleep again.

Parry, riposte. Conor ducked nimbly back, his face expressionless. “A bunch of cowards,” he said, referring to the Charter holders—­the …