Tower of Dawn (Throne of Glass, #6)

by Sarah J. Maas

He was Lord of Nothing. Lord of Oath-Breakers. Lord of Liars. And as Chaol lifted his torso and met the upswept eyes of the white-haired man on that throne, as the khagan’s weathered brown skin crinkled in a small, cunning smile … Chaol wondered if the khagan knew it as well.

Hasar and Sartaq, then. Third and secondborn, respectively.

Hasar was no beauty, but those eyes … The flame dancing in them as she glanced to her elder brother made up for it.

Sartaq—commander of his father’s ruk riders. The rukhin.

Arghun—the politician amongst them, beloved by the merchants and power brokers of the continent. Slender and tall, he was a scholar who traded not in coin and finery but in knowledge. Prince of Spies, they called Arghun.

Duva. A thick silver ring with a sapphire of near-obscene size adorned her slender hand, pressed delicately against the considerable swell of her belly.

Kashin. Fourthborn. If Sartaq commanded the ruks in the northern and central skies, then Kashin controlled the armies on land. Foot soldiers and the horse-lords, mostly. Arghun held sway over the viziers, and Hasar, rumor claimed, had the armadas bowing to her. Yet there remained something less polished about Kashin, his dark hair braided back from his broad-planed face. Handsome, yes—but it was as if life amongst his troops had rubbed off on him, and not necessarily in a bad way.

“If Perrington has an agent here,” Chaol said as Kashin reached the suite doors, “then you’ve already seen that everyone in this palace is in grave danger. You must take action.” Kashin paused with his hand on the carved doorknob, glancing over his shoulder. “Why do you think I’ve asked a foreign lord for assistance?”

The magic helped. Glorious, lovely magic that could make her breathless or so tired she couldn’t get out of bed for days. Magic demanded a cost—to both healer and patient. But Yrene was willing to pay it. She had never minded the aftermath of a brutal healing. If it meant saving a life … Silba had granted her a gift—and a young stranger had given her another gift, that final night in Innish two years ago. Yrene had no plans to waste either.

A little, pleased nod. Yrene had come to cherish those nods, the light in those brown eyes. “Quick wits save lives more often than magic,” was Hafiza’s only reply.

Yrene rubbed at her chest as if she could still feel that viselike grip. “War is coming to my home again—the northern continent.” So they called it here. Yrene swallowed. “I want to be there to help those fighting against the empire’s control.”

“And what of Prince Kashin?” Yrene shifted in her seat. “What of him?” “You were once good friends. He remains fond of you, and that is no small thing to ignore.” Yrene leveled a look few dared to direct toward the Healer on High. “Will he interfere with my plans to leave?” “He is a prince, and has been denied nothing, save the crown he covets. He may find that your leaving is not something he will tolerate.” Dread sluiced through her, starting at her spine and ending curled deep in her gut. “I’ve given him no encouragement. I made my thoughts on that matter perfectly clear last year.”

“It is a soul-wound, Yrene. And letting it fester these years … I cannot blame you. But I will hold you accountable if you let it turn into something worse. And I will mourn you for it.” Yrene’s lips wobbled, but she pressed them together, blinking back the burning in her eyes. “You passed the tests, better than anyone who has ever climbed into this tower,” Hafiza said softly. “But let this be my personal test for you. The final one. So that when you decide to go, I may bid you farewell, send you off to war, and know …” Hafiza put a hand on her chest. “Know that wherever the road takes you, however dark, you

Yrene ran a thumb over the note, the words inked there: For wherever you need to go—and then some. The world needs more healers. Yrene breathed in that first night breeze, the spices and brine it ushered into the Torre.

“I will meet with him. Assess him,” Yrene conceded. Her voice only wobbled slightly. She clutched that piece of paper in her pocket. “And then decide if I will heal him.” Hafiza considered. “Fair enough, girl,” she said quietly. “Fair enough.” Yrene blew out a shaking breath. “When do I see him?” “Tomorrow,” Hafiza said, and Yrene winced. “The khagan has asked you to come to Lord Westfall’s chambers tomorrow.”

“How long have you been a ruk rider, Prince?” “I thought you’d heard the stories.” Humor danced in his face. “Only gossip. I prefer the truth.” Sartaq’s dark eyes settled on her, their unwavering focus enough to make her glad not to be on the receiving end of it too often. Not for fear, but … it was unsettling, to have the weight of that gaze wholly upon you.

Kashin had a self-satisfied look to him that he’d often glimpsed on Dorian’s face. Once—long ago. A different lifetime ago. Before an assassin and a collar and everything.

“I have no plans to seek such a life for myself.” Not when the risks were so high. Execution of herself, her husband, and their children if Kashin should challenge the new khagan, if he should stake a claim on the throne. Being rendered infertile by Hafiza at best—once the new khagan had produced enough heirs to ensure the continuation of the bloodline. Kashin had waved away those concerns that night on the steppes, had refused to understand the insurmountable wall they would always present. But Chaol nodded, likely well aware of the costs of wedding into the bloodline if your spouse was not the Heir selected. As Kashin would never be—not with Sartaq, Arghun, or Hasar likely to be chosen.

She cleared her throat, readying to scream. Not rape, not theft—not something that cowards would rather hide from. Yell fire, the stranger had instructed her. A threat to all. If you are attacked, yell about a fire. Yrene had repeated the instructions so many times these past two and a half years. To so many women. Just as the stranger had ordered her to. Yrene had not thought she’d ever again need to recite them for herself.

“You think such a thing is possible?” “I do. I’ll arrive at dawn, so we have enough time to figure it out. The lesson begins at nine.” To ride—even if he could not walk, riding … “Please do not give me this hope and let it crumble,” he said hoarsely. Yrene set the satchel and vial down on the low-lying table before the sofa and motioned him to move closer. “Good healers don’t do such things, Lord Westfall.”

He wished. He sometimes wished that she hadn’t been stopped. The scar on his face—from the nails she’d gouged into it when she first struck him … It was that hateful wish he thought of when he looked in the mirror. The body on the bed and that cold room and that scream. The collar on a tan throat and a smile that did not belong to a beloved face. The heart he’d offered and had been left to drop on the wooden planks of the river docks. An assassin who had sailed away and a queen who had returned. A row of fine men hanging from the castle gates.

But her head whipped upward so fast she nearly knocked his nose. The gold in Yrene’s eyes flared. “Chaol,” she breathed, and he thought it might have been the first time she’d called him such. But she looked down, dragging his stare with her. Down his bare torso, his bare legs. To his toes. To his toes, slowly curling and uncurling. As if trying to remember the movement.

“I had hoped you’d be bringing a guest, you know.” Nesryn snorted, brushing the hair from her face. “Lord Westfall is quite busy, Aunt.”

Her aunt sipped daintily from her tea. “Oh, I didn’t mean him.” A wry grin between Zahida and Brahim. “I meant Prince Sartaq.” Nesryn was glad she’d finished her tea. “What of him?” That sly smile didn’t fade. “Rumor claims someone”—a pointed look at Nesryn—“was spotted riding with the prince at dawn yesterday. Atop his ruk.”

This man she had not yet met. She wasn’t sure what to do with it. With him. “Take whatever you want,” Chaol told her, his voice low—rough. Yrene was light-headed when she crawled off the bed, taking his ruined shirt with her, and hurried for the bathing chamber. From the blood loss, she told herself. Even as she smiled throughout her bath.

“The latest news indicates the Queen of Terrasen is nowhere to be found in her own kingdom. Or in any other.” A slight smile. “Perhaps you should ask your lord that.” “I doubt he’ll tell me.” She refrained from saying he wasn’t her lord. “Then perhaps you should make him.” Yrene carefully asked, “Why?” “Because I would like to know.” Yrene read between the words. Hasar wanted the information—before her father or siblings. “To what end?” “When a power broker of the realms goes missing, it is not a cause for celebration. Especially one who destroys palaces and takes cities on a whim.”

Yrene made herself hold the princess’s stare. “And why should I help you?” A Baast Cat’s smile. “Beyond the fact that we are dear friends? Is there nothing I could give you to sweeten the offer, lovely Yrene?” “I have all I need.” “Yes, but you do remember that the armadas are mine. The Narrow Sea is mine. And crossing it may be very, very difficult to those who forget.” Yrene did not dare back down. Didn’t dare break the princess’s dark gaze. Hasar knew. Knew, or guessed, that Yrene wanted to leave. And if she did not aid the princess … Yrene had no doubt that as fiercely as Hasar loved, so, too, could her need for retribution drive her. Enough to make sure Yrene never left these shores. “I shall see what I can learn,” Yrene said, refusing to soften her voice.

“I’m fine. Now, how are you?” Each word was accentuated. Chaol’s eyes danced. “I’m feeling quite well, Yrene. Thank you for asking.” Yrene. If she wasn’t inclined to leap onto his horse and strangle him, she might have contemplated how the way he said her name made her toes curl. But she hissed, “Don’t mistake my kindness for stupidity. If you have had any progress, or regressions, I will find them out.” “If this is your kindness, then I’d hate to see your bad side.”

To his credit, he didn’t object. He only said with that half smile, “Lead the way, Yrene Towers.” And though she told herself not to … a little smile tugged on Yrene’s mouth as they rode into the awakening city.

Beautiful as the sound was, it was nothing like the smile on her face. The delight. He’d never seen a face so lovely.

He waited for a tug of jealousy at seeing Nesryn’s smile to the prince, whose body was the pinnacle of relaxed, his arm draped along the back of the couch behind her, an ankle crossed over a knee. Perhaps he just trusted Nesryn, but nothing stirred in him at the sight.

Even across the nearly hundred feet of polished marble and towering pillars, the space between them went taut. As if that white light he’d glimpsed inside himself two days ago was a living rope. As if she’d somehow planted herself in him that afternoon.

“I need you here,” Chaol said. “Do you?” A stark, honest question. He gave Nesryn the respect of considering her question. “I … We were supposed to do this together. Everything.” She shook her head, short hair shifting. “Paths change. You know that as much as anyone.”

With every glance, those unspoken words still echoed. I know. I know. Chaol let Nesryn talk, listened until her voice lulled him to sleep, because he knew, too.

Sartaq leaned his sulde against the wall again and began braiding back his black hair. “After last night’s party, I had thought you would be … preoccupied.” With Chaol. Her brows rose. “All day?” The prince gave her a roguish smile, finishing off his long braid and picking up his spear once more. “I certainly would take all day.”

Giggling like a child!

Her second note … it was quick, and to the point: I have gone with Sartaq to see the rukhin. I shall be gone three weeks. I hold you to no promises. And I will hold to none of my own.

Sartaq whispered in Nesryn’s ear, “I was praying to the Eternal Sky and all thirty-six gods that you’d say yes.” She smiled, even if he couldn’t see it. “So was I,” Nesryn breathed, and they leaped into the skies.

“What about you? What do you deserve?” “Nothing. I deserve nothing.” Yrene studied him. “I don’t agree at all,” she murmured, eyelids drooping. He monitored the exits again. After a few minutes, he said, “I was given enough and squandered it.”

Nesryn supposed that was why she liked the queen: there were plans so long in the making that for someone who let the world deem her unchecked and brash, Aelin showed a great deal of restraint in keeping it all hidden.

Borte was quiet for a few steps. But as they reached the narrow stairwell and stepped into the dim interior, Borte smiled over a shoulder at Nesryn. “Then welcome home.” Nesryn wondered if those words might be the most beautiful she’d ever heard.

“That is Arundin,” Sartaq said softly, as if fearful of even the wind hearing. “The fourth Singer amid these peaks.” The wind indeed seemed to flow from the mountain, cold and swift. “The Silent One, we call him.” Indeed, a heavy sort of quiet seemed to ripple around that peak. In the turquoise waters of the lake at his feet lay a perfect mirror image, so clear that Nesryn wondered if one might dive beneath the surface and find another world, a shadow-world, beneath.

“Maybe you and I will have to learn how to live—if we survive this war.” It was a sharp, cold knife between them. But Yrene straightened her shoulders, her smile small and yet defiant as she lifted her pewter glass of tea. “To living, Lord Chaol.” He clinked his glass against hers. “To being Chaol and Yrene—even just for a night.”

“Thank you for tonight,” Chaol said, stifling what tried to leap off his tongue: I can’t take my eyes off you. She bit her lip again, the crunch of hooves on gravel approaching. “Good night,” she murmured, and took a step away. Chaol reached out. Just to brush his fingers over hers. Yrene paused, her fingers curling, as if they were the petals of some shy flower.

Nesryn, to her surprise, obliged them. A merry, bright mountain song her father had taught her, of rushing streams amid blooming fields of wildflowers. But even as the night moved on, as Nesryn sang in that beautiful mountain-hall, she felt Sartaq’s stare. Different from any he’d given before. And though she told herself she should, Nesryn did not look away.

“That young captain, Yeran,” Falkan said carefully to Borte. “You seem to know him well.” Borte scowled. “He’s my betrothed.”

It was like waking up or being born or falling out of the sky. It was an answer and a song, and she could not think or feel fast enough.

She’d known the moment he stood, when her heart had stopped dead, that he hadn’t meant it. That he would have crawled. This man, this noble and selfless and remarkable man

And when they’d eventually left, walking slowly into the cool shadows of the halls, Yrene had tugged him into a curtained-off alcove and kissed him. Leaning against a supply shelf for support, his hands had roved all over her, the generous curves and small waist, tangling into her long, heavy hair. She’d kissed and kissed him, breathless and panting, and then licked—actually licked the sweat from his neck.

That the woman now closing in, now riding beside him, now beaming at him as if he were the only thing in this barren, burning sea … She had done this. Given him this. Yrene was smiling, and then she was laughing, as if she could not contain it inside her. Chaol thought it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. And that this moment, flying together over the sands, devouring the desert wind, her hair a golden-brown banner behind her … Chaol felt, perhaps for the first time, as if he was awake. And he was grateful, right down to his very bones, for it.

Aelin frightens everyone.” He snorted. “But not him. I think that’s why she fell in love with him, against her best intentions. Rowan beheld all Aelin was and is, and he was not afraid.”