Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

And she could have sworn that the blackness in Narrok’s eyes faded. Could have sworn that his eyes became a mortal brown, and that gratitude flickered just for a moment. Just for a moment; then she burned both demon and Narrok to ash.

When the light and flames receded, all that remained of Narrok and the Valg were four Wyrdstone collars steaming in the wet grass.

A few days after the unforgivable, despicable slave massacre, Sorscha was finishing up a letter to her friend when there was a knock on her workroom door.

As he turned, she balled up the ruined paper and chucked it into the rubbish pail.

Chaol hadn’t expected to find Dorian so … happy with his healer. Sorscha.

And from the way Dorian looked at her, and she him … He was glad that his friend had found her.

“I think,” he said again, smiling faintly, “that this kingdom could use a healer as its queen.”

“Here, here, and here,” he said, pointing to Rifthold, Amaroth, and Noll. “That’s where we know towers were built. Watchtowers, but all three had the same traits: black stone, gargoyles …”

He traced a line from Rifthold to Amaroth, then from Rifthold to Noll. “The northward line cuts through the Ferian Gap; the southern cuts directly through Morath. You told Aedion that you thought my father had sent Roland and Kaltain to Morath, along with any other nobles with magic in their blood. What are the odds that it’s a mere coincidence?”

“And the Ferian Gap …” Chaol had to swallow. “Celaena said she’d heard of wings in the Gap. Nehemia said her scouts did not come back, that something was brewing there.”

“You gave me the truth today, so I’ll share mine: even if it meant us being friends again, I don’t think I would want to go back to how it was before—who I was before. And this …” He jerked his chin toward the scattered crystals and the bowl of water. “I think this is a good change, too. Don’t fear it.”

Dorian left, and Chaol opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was too stunned. When Dorian had spoken, it hadn’t been a prince who looked at him. It had been a king.

Celaena lingered, studying the Fae warrior, the glimmer of sadness in his golden eyes. Like Rowan, he was enslaved to Maeve—and yet he thought to warn them.

“There is no undoing what happened with Narrok. Once the world hears that Aelin Galathynius fought against Adarlan, they will know you are alive. He will know you are alive, and where you are, and that you do not plan to cower. He will hunt you for the rest of your life.”

The amulet, decorated with the sacred stag on one side … and Wyrdmarks on the other.

She knew where it was—the third and final Wyrdkey. It had been around her neck the night she fell into the river. And around the neck of every one of her ancestors, going back to Brannon himself, when he stopped at the Sun Goddess’s temple to take a medallion from Mala’s High Priestess—and then destroyed the entire site to prevent anyone from tracing his steps.

The medallion of cerulean blue, with the white sun-stag crowned with immortal flame—the stag of Mala Fire-Bringer. Upon leaving Wendlyn’s shores, Brannon had stolen those same stags away to Terrasen and installed them in Oakwald. Brannon had placed the third sliver of Wyrdkey inside the amulet and never told a soul what he had done with it.

The Wyrdkeys weren’t inherently bad or good. What they were depended on how their bearers used them. Around the necks of the kings and queens of Terrasen, one of them had been unknowingly used f...

But she had lost the Amulet of Orynth. It had fallen into that river and—no. No. It couldn’t have, because she wouldn’t have made it to the riverbank, let alone survived the hours she lay here. The cold would have claimed her. Which meant she’d had it when … when … Arobynn Hamel had taken it from her and kept it all these years, a prize whose power he had never guessed the depth of.

“The third Wyrdkey.” She swore. She could tell no one, because if anyone knew … they would head straight to Rifthold. Straight to the Assassins’ Keep.

He was Maeve’s slave—worse than a slave. He had to obey every command, no matter how wretched.

when she showed him the ring she’d found in the scabbard, he had nothing to say other than “I hope you find a good use for it.” Indeed.

“I have never told anyone this story. No one in the world knows it. But it’s mine,” she said, blinking past the burning in her eyes, “and it’s time for me to tell it.”

“Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom … very much.”

she told him of the princess whose heart had burned with wildfire, of the mighty kingdom in the north, of its downfall and of the sacrifice of Lady Marion. It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried—and during those times he leaned over to wipe away her tears.

She smiled at him, and he looked at her for a while before he smiled back, a different smile than all the...

she held out a hand in front of her, palm facing the pool beneath. And slowly, wobbling, a droplet of water the size of a marble rose from the surface to her cupped palm.

she knew he understood what it meant, to have summoned even a droplet to her hand. To feel her mother smiling at her from realms away.

A woman—a woman was smiling back at her, beautiful for every scar and imperfection and mark of survival, beautiful for the fact that the smile was real, and she felt it kindle the long-slumbering joy in her heart.

“It might take a while, but if—when I reclaim my kingdom, the demi-Fae will always have a home there. And you two—and Malakai—will have a place in my household, should you wish it. As my friends.”

“Your mother would be proud,” Emrys said. Celaena put a hand on her heart and bowed in thanks.

If Aedion let himself think too much about it, he knew he might feel bad—might try to convince the captain to stay, even. It wasn’t that Aedion liked the captain, or even respected him. In fact, he wished Chaol had never caught him in that stairwell, mourning the slaughter of his people in the labor camps. But here they were, and there was no going back.

“She’s alive,” he said, to Ren, to Aedion, to himself. “She’s—she’s truly alive.”

was a message to the world. Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.

Aelin. His Queen. Aedion slowly smiled. The king would never suspect, not in a thousand years, who he’d actually sent to Wendlyn—that his own Champion had destroyed Narrok. Few had ever known about the Galathyniuses’ deeply rooted distrust of Maeve—so Doranelle would be a believable place to hide and raise a young queen all these years.

“Eyllwe,” Chaol breathed. “Send word to Eyllwe. Tell them to hold on—tell them to prepare.” Perhaps it was the light, perhaps it was the cold, but Aedion could have sworn there were tears in the captain’s eyes as he said, “Tell them it’s time to fight back.”

Across the White Fangs and the Ruhnns, all the way to the Western Wastes and the red-haired queen who ruled from a crumbling castle. To the Deserted Peninsula and the oasis-fortress of the Silent Assassins.

all the way to Banjali and the riverfront palace of the King and Queen of Eyllwe, still in their midnight mourning clothes. Hold on, the riders told the world. Hold on.

Dorian might have found it funny—so typically Celaena to make such a flamboyant return—had he not been utterly petrified. She had drawn a line in the sand. Worse than that, she’d defeated one of the king’s deadliest generals. No one had done that and lived. Ever.

Somewhere in Wendlyn, his friend was changing the world. She was fulfilling the promise she’d made him. She had not forgotten him, or any of them still here.

For Sorscha, for the promise of keeping her safe, of someday, perhaps, not having to hide what and who he was, he kept on his well-worn mask, offered banal suggestions about what to do regarding Aelin, and pretended. One last time.

When Celaena got back, when she returned as she’d sworn she would … Then they would set about changing the world together.

They had called it the City of Rivers for a reason. The pale-stoned city was built on a massive island smack in the center of several of them, the waters raging as the tributaries from the surrounding hills and mountains blended.

there had been a strangely familiar warmth wrapped around the camp, and she could have sworn that she felt her magic leap in joyous response. She didn’t let herself think about it.

Maeve had not sent aid ten years ago—and while the Fae danced and drank mulled cider, Celaena’s people had been butchered and burned.

She was as much a queen as Maeve. She was the sovereign of a strong people and a mighty kingdom. She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.

But Maeve’s stronghold had been built from stone—so much stone, everywhere, all of it pale and carved and polished and gleaming.

He’d told her on their journey that there were several other princes in his family, with his father’s brother ruling over them. Fortunately for Rowan, his uncle had three sons, keeping him free of responsibility, though they certainly tried to use Rowan’s position with Maeve to their advantage. As scheming and sycophantic as any royal family in Adarlan, she supposed.

Across the veranda sat Maeve on her throne of stone.

Sprawled on either side of the throne were the twin wolves, one black and one white, monitoring their approach with cunning golden eyes.