Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

No. No—

Maeve brushed a hand over Aelin’s neck, as if tracing a line where the collar would go. “So I will go myself to retrieve that collar, to see what Erawan’s minion might say for itself. I ripped apart the Valg princes who encountered me in the first war,” she said quietly. “It shall be rather easy, I suppose, to instead bend them to my will. Well, bend...

No.

The word was a steady chant, a rising shriek within her. “I don’t know why I didn’t think ...

A collar. Maeve was going to retrieve a Wyrdstone collar—

Fenrys sat by the wall, concern bright in his eyes as he blinked. Are you all right? She blinked twice. No. No, she was not anywhere near to all right. Maeve had been waiting for this, waiting for this pressure to begin, worse than anything Cairn might do. And with the collar Maeve now went to personally retrieve … She couldn’t let herself contemplate it. A more horrific form of slavery, one she might never escape, never be able to fight. Not a breaking of the Fire-Bringer, but an erasure. To take all she was, power and knowledge, and rip it from her. To have her trapped inside while she witnessed her own voice yield the location of the Wyrdkeys. Swear the blood oath to Maeve. Wholly submit to her.

Fenrys blinked four times. I am here, I am with you. She answered in kind. I am here, I am with you. Her magic surged, seeking a way out, filling the gaps between her breath and bones. She couldn’t find room for it, couldn’t do anything to soothe it. You do not yield. She focused on the words. On her mother’s voice.

Fenrys blinked again, the same message over and over. I am here, I am with you. Aelin closed her eyes, praying for oblivion.

So did Gavriel and Lorcan. They’d sold their horses the night before, Elide bartering for them. The Fae warriors were too recognizable, and if their faces weren’t noted, the sheer presence of their power would be. Few wouldn’t know who they were.

And when they were a few days away from the outer limits of the city, they had laid their trap for Maeve. What he knew the queen might not be able to resist coming to retrieve herself: Wyrdstone collars.

Aelin had not broken yet. He knew it, had felt it. It would likely be driving Maeve mad. So the temptation to use one of the Wyrdstone collars, the arrogance he knew Maeve possessed that would allow her to believe she might control the demon within, wrest it away from Erawan himself … it would indeed be too great an opportunity for the queen to pass up.

None of them spoke as they scanned the column-lined building that housed the queen’s private quarters. And their own suites. No lights burned within. “It doesn’t confirm anything,” Lorcan said. “Whether Maeve left, or if Aelin remains.” Rowan listened to the wind, scented it, but felt nothing. “The only way to confirm either is to go into the city.” “Are those two bridges the only way in?” Elide frowned toward the twin stone bridges on the southern and northern sides of Doranelle. Both open, both visible for miles around. “Yes,” Lorcan said, his voice tight.

“We take a day,” Lorcan said. Rowan leveled a cold look at him. “A day is more than we can spare.” Aelin was down there. In that city. He knew it, could feel it. He’d been plunging into his power for the past two days, readying for the killing he’d unleash, the flight they’d make. The strain of holding it back yanked on him, on any lingering control. Lorcan said, “We’ll pay for a hasty plan if we don’t take the time. Your mate will pay, too.” His former

Rowan found another foothold before turning to assist her. “You don’t need to go into the city. We’ll decide on the escape route and you can meet us there.” When Elide didn’t answer, Rowan looked up at her. Her eyes weren’t on him. But on the city ahead. Wide with terror. Her scent became drenched in it. Lorcan was there in a heartbeat, hand at her shoulder. “What is—” Rowan twisted toward the city. The hilltop had been a border. Not of the city limits, but of an illusion. A pretty, idyllic illusion for any scouting its fringes to report. For what now surrounded the city on every side, even on the eastern plain … An army. A great army lay camped there.

Rowan’s uncle, Ellys, the head of their House, had remained when Maeve’s armada had sailed. A hard male, a smart male, but a loyal one. He’d trained Enda in his image, to be a sharp-minded courtier. But he’d also trained Rowan when he could, giving him some of his first lessons in swordplay. He’d grown up in his uncle’s household, and it had been the only home he’d known until he’d found that mountain. But would Ellys’s loyalty skew toward Maeve or to their own bloodline, especially in the wake of the House of Whitethorn’s betrayal in Eyllwe? His uncle might already be dead. Maeve might have punished him on behalf of all the cousins whom Rowan had begged to aid them. Or Ellys, seeking to reenter Maeve’s good graces after their betrayal, might sell them out before they could find Aelin.

Lorcan bared his teeth. “If Maeve remains in Doranelle, she will sniff her out.” “She won’t,” Elide said. “She found you on that beach,” Lorcan snapped. Elide lifted her chin. “I am going into that city tomorrow.”

Elide didn’t back down for a heartbeat. “I’m going to ask after Cairn.” They all stilled. Rowan wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard her correctly. Elide steadily surveyed them. “Surely a young, mortal woman is allowed to inquire about a Fae male who jilted her.”

Elide only said to Rowan, “Find Cairn, and we find Aelin. And learn if Maeve remains.” Fear no longer bloomed in Elide’s eyes. Not a trace remained in her scent. So Rowan nodded, even as Lorcan tensed. “Good hunting, Lady.”

Her silvery falcon’s wings wrangled the bitter wind, setting her soaring with a speed that shot liquid lightning through her heart. Beyond the ghost leopard, this form had become a favorite. Swift, sleek, vicious—this body had been built to ride the winds, to run down prey.

Lysandra caught an updraft and soared higher, the horizon revealing more of itself. The first of the foothills passed below, ridges of light and shadow under the cloudy sky. Getting the army over them would not be a simple task, but the Bane had fought near here before. They undoubtedly knew the path through, despite the snowdrifts piled high in the hollows. The wind screamed, shoving northward. As if warding her from flying south. Begging her not to continue.

She sailed farther south, the horizon bleak and empty. Until it wasn’t. Until she beheld what marched toward them and nearly tumbled from the sky. Ren had taught her how to count soldiers, yet she lost track each time she attempted to get a number on the neat lines stomping across Adarlan’s northern plains. Right toward the foothills that spanned both territories. Thousands. Five, ten, fifteen thousand. More. Again and again, she stumbled on counting. Twenty, thirty. Lysandra rose higher into the sky. Higher, because winged ilken flew with them, soaring low over the black-armored troops, monitoring all that passed below. Forty. Fifty. Fifty thousand troops, overseen by ilken. And amongst them, on horseback, rode beautiful-faced young men. Black collars at their throats, above their armor. Valg princes. Five in total, each commanding a legion. Lysandra counted the force again. Thrice. Fifty thousand troops. Against the twenty-five thousand they had gathered. One of the ilken spotted her and flapped upward. Lysandra banked hard and swept back north, wings beating like hell.

Only some of the assassins returned. The dark power of the Valg princes swept ahead, devouring all in their path. And still, the Fire-Bringer did not blast the Valg to ash. Did nothing but ride at her cousin’s side.

They rushed down the hillsides, a black wave breaking over the land. Right onto the spears and shields of the Bane, the magic of the Fae soldiers keeping the power of the Valg princes at bay. It could not stand against the ilken, however. They swept through it like cobwebs in a doorway, some spewing their venom to melt the magic. Then the ilken landed, or shattered through their defenses entirely. And even a shape-shifter in the form of a wyvern armed with poisoned spikes could not take them all down.

In the chaos, no one noticed that the Fire-Bringer did not appear. That not an ember of her flame glowed in the screaming night. Then the foot soldiers reached them. And that cobbled-together army began to sunder. The right flank broke first. A Valg prince unleashed his power, men lying dead in his wake. It took Ilias of the Silent Assassins sneaking behind enemy lines to decapitate him for the slaughter to staunch. The Bane’s center lines held, yet they lost yard after yard to claws and fangs and sword and shield. So many of the enemy that the Fae royals and their kin couldn’t choke the air from their throats fast enough, widely enough. Whatever advances the Fae’s magic bought them did not slow Morath for long.

Morath’s beasts pushed them northward that first day. And into the night. And at dawn the next day. By nightfall on the second, even the Bane’s line had buckled. Still Morath did not stop coming.

She approached the seven Fae lounging outside the tavern, sizing up who talked most, laughed loudest, who the five males and two females often turned to. One of the females wasn’t a warrior, but rather clothed in soft, feminine pants and a cornflower-blue tunic that fit her lush figure like a glove. Elide marked the one who they seemed to glance to the most in confirmation and hope of approval. A broad-shouldered female, her dark hair cropped close to her head. She bore armor on her shoulders and wrists—finer than what the other males wore. Their commander, then.

The other female—the one in the fine blue clothes—noticed her first. She was beautiful, Elide realized. Her dark hair falling in a thick, glossy braid down her back, her golden-brown skin shone with an inner light. Her eyes were soft with kindness. And concern.

“I—I—I’m sorry to interrupt,” she blurted, speaking more to the dark-haired beauty. The stammer had always made people uncomfortable, had always made them foolishly off guard and eager to get away. To tell her what she needed to know. “Is something wrong?” The female’s voice was husky—lovely. The sort of voice Elide had always imagined great beauties possessing, the sort of voice that made men fall all over themselves. From the way some of the males around her had been smiling, Elide had no doubt the female had that effect on them, too. Elide wobbled her lip, chewed on it. “I—I was looking for someone. He said he’d be here, but …” She glanced to the warriors, and toyed with the ring on her finger again. “I s-s-saw your uniforms and thought y-you might know him.”

Elide stepped closer. “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to trouble y-you.” The female’s nostrils flared as Elide halted close enough to touch them. No doubt smelling the weeks on the road. But she politely said nothing, though her eyes roved over Elide’s face. “Your friend’s name,” the commander urged, her gruff voice the opposite of her sister’s. “Cairn,” Elide whispered. “His name is Cairn.” One of the males swore; the other scanned Elide from head to toe. But the two females had gone still. “H-he serves the queen,” Elide said, eyes leaping from face to face, the portrait of hope. “Do you know him?” “We know him,” the commander said, her face dark. “You—you are his lover?”

The dark-haired beauty said a shade too quietly, “What is your name, child?” “Finnula,” Elide lied, naming her nursemaid. “Here’s a bit of advice,” the second male drawled, sipping from his ale. “If you escaped Cairn, don’t go looking for him again.” His commander shot him a look. “Cairn is blood-sworn to our queen.” “Still makes him a prick,” the male said. The female growled, viciously enough that the male wisely went to see about their drinks. Elide made her shoulders curve inward. “You—you know him, then?” “Cairn was supposed to meet you here?” the beauty asked instead. Elide nodded. The two females exchanged glances. The commander said, “We don’t know where he is.” Lie. She saw the look between them, between sisters. The decision to not tell her, either to protect the helpless mortal girl they believed her to be, or out of some loyalty to him. Or perhaps to all Fae who decided to find beds in mortal realms and then ignore the consequences months later. Lorcan had been the result of such a union, and then discarded to the mercy of these streets. The thought was enough to set her grinding her teeth, but Elide kept her jaw relaxed. Don’t be angry, Finnula had taught her. Be smart. She made note of that. Not to appear too pathetic at the next tavern. Or like a jilted lover who might be carrying his child. For she’d have to go to another one. And if she got an answer the next time, she’d have to go to another after that to confirm it. “Is—is the queen in residence?” Elide ...

The sun inched closer to the horizon. Lorcan began pacing. Too long. It had taken too long. The others had fallen silent, too. Gazing down the hill. Waiting. A slight tremor rocked Lorcan’s hands, and he balled them into fists, squeezing hard. Five minutes. He’d go in five minutes, Aelin Galathynius and their plan be damned. Aelin had been trained to endure torture. Elide … He could see those scars on her from the shackles. See her maimed foot and ankle. She had endured too much suffering and terror already. He couldn’t allow her to face another heartbeat of it— Twigs snapped under light feet, and Lorcan shot upright, a hand going to his sword. Whitethorn thumbed free the hatchet at his side, a knife appearing in his other hand, and Gavriel drew his sword. But then a two-note whistle echoed, and Lorcan’s legs wobbled so violently he sat back onto the rock where he’d been perched. Gavriel whistled back, and Lorcan was grateful for it. He wasn’t sure he had the breath. Then she was there, panting from the climb, her cheeks rosy in the cool night air. “What happened?” Whitethorn asked. Lorcan scanned her face, her posture. She was fine. She was unhurt. There was no enemy on her tail. Elide’s eyes met his. Wary and uncertain. “I met someone.”

The female held up a delicate hand. “I only wish to talk. In private.” She gestured farther down the alley, to a doorstop covered with a metal awning. To shield them from any eyes—those on the ground and above. Elide followed her, a hand sliding to the knife in her pocket. The female led the way, no weapons to be seen, her gait unhurried. But when they halted in the shadows beneath the awning, the female held up a hand once more. Golden flame danced between her fingers. Elide recoiled, and the fire vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “My name is Essar,” the female said softly. “I am a friend—of your friends, I believe.” Elide said nothing. “Cairn is a monster,” Essar said, taking a step closer. “Stay far from him.” “I need to find him.” “You played the part of his mistreated lover well enough. You have to know something about him. What he does.” “If you know where he is, please tell me.” She wasn’t above begging. Essar ran an eye over Elide. Then she said, “He was in this city until yesterday. Then he went out to the eastern camp.” She pointed with a thumb over a shoulder. “He’s there now.” “How do you know?” “Because he’s not terrorizing the patrons of every fine establishment in this town, glutting himself on the coin Maeve gave him when he took the blood oath.”

smirking like a cat.” “Why should I believe you?” “Because you are wearing Lorcan’s shirt, and Rowan Whitethorn’s cloak. If you do not believe me, inform them who told you and they will.” Elide cocked her head to the side. Essar said softly, “Lorcan and I were involved for a time.” They were in the midst of war, and had traveled for thousands of miles to find their queen, and yet the tightness that coiled in Elide’s gut at those words somehow found space. Lorcan’s lover. This delicate beauty with a bedroom voice had been Lorcan’s lover.

Essar made to turn away, but Elide blurted, “Where did Maeve go?” Essar looked over her shoulder. Studied her. The female’s eyes widened. “She has Aelin of the Wildfire,” Essar breathed. Elide said nothing, but Essar murmured, “That was … that was the power we felt the other night.” Essar swept back toward Elide. Gripped her hands. “Where Maeve went a few days ago, I don’t know. She did not announce it, did not take anyone with her. I often serve her, am asked to … It doesn’t matter. What matters is Maeve is not here. But I do not know when she will return.”

outpost where they’d lied that the Valg prince had been contained … Elide gripped Essar’s hands, finding them warm and dry. “Does your sister know where Cairn resides in the camp?” For long minutes, then an hour, they had talked. Essar left and returned with Dresenda, her sister. And in that alley, they had plotted. Elide finished telling Rowan, Lorcan, and Gavriel what she’d learned. They sat in stunned silence for a long minute. “Just before dawn,” Elide repeated. “Dresenda said the watch on the eastern camp is weakest at dawn. That she’d find a way for the guards to be occupied. It’s our only window.”

“You think we can trust her?” Elide asked Lorcan, though she knew the answer. Lorcan’s dark eyes shifted to her. “Yes, though I don’t see why she’d bother.” “She’s a good female, that’s why,” Rowan said. At Elide’s lifted brow, he explained, “Essar visited Mistward this spring. She met Aelin.” He cut a glare toward Lorcan. “And asked me to tell you that she sends her best.”

camp. “If you’re debating flying there right now,” Lorcan growled, “then you’ll deserve whatever misery comes of your stupidity.” Rowan flashed his teeth, but Lorcan said, “We all go in. We all go out.” Elide nodded, in agreement for once. Lorcan seemed to stiffen in surprise. Rowan arrived at that conclusion, too, because he crouched and plunged a knife into the mossy earth. “This is Cairn’s tent,” he said of the dagger, and fished for a nearby pinecone. “This is the southern entrance to the camp.” And so they planned.

They would not all go in, all go out. Rowan would break into the eastern camp, taking the southernmost entrance. Gavriel and Lorcan would be waiting for his signal near the east entrance, hidden in the forest just beyond the rolling, grassy hills on that side of the camp. Ready to unleash hell when he sent a flare of his magic, diverting soldiers to their side while Rowan made his run for Aelin. Elide would wait for them farther in that forest. Or flee, if things went badly. She’d protested, but even Gavriel had told her that she was mortal. Untrained. And what she’d done today … Rowan didn’t have the words to convey his gratitude for what Elide had done. The unexpected ally she’d found.

Rowan lingered in the steep hills above the southern entrance to the camp. He’d easily kept hidden from the sentries in the trees, his wind masking any trace of his scent. Down below, spread across the grassy eastern plain, the army camp glittered. She had to be there. Aelin had to be there. If they had come so close but wound up being the very thing that had caused Maeve to take Aelin away again, to bring her along to the outpost … Rowan pushed against the weight in his chest. The bond within him lay dark and slumbering. No indication of her proximity. Essar had no idea that Aelin was being kept here until Elide informed her. How many others hadn’t known? How well had Maeve hidden her? If Aelin wasn’t in that camp tomorrow, they’d find Cairn, at least. And get some answers then. Give him a taste of what he’d done—

Overhead, the stars shone clear and bright, and though Mala had only once appeared to him at dawn, on the foothills across this very city, though she might be little more than a strange, mighty being from another world, he offered up a prayer anyway. Then, he had begged Mala to protect Aelin from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive. Then, he had begged Mala to let him remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. The goddess had been little more than a sunbeam in the rising dawn, and yet he had felt her smile at him. Tonight, with only the cold fire of the stars for company, he begged her once more.

A curl of wind sent his prayer drifting to those stars, to the waxing moon silvering the camp, the river, the mountains. He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he’d wrapped around his heart, he’d still found Aelin. Every horizon he’d gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he’d seen and wondered what lay beyond … It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it.

They’d walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not ...

Even if it would leave Hollin with the right to the throne. Hollin, who had been sired by a Valg-infested man as well. Had the demon passed any traits to his brother? The boy had been beastly—but had he been human? Hollin had not killed their father. Shattered the castle. Let Sorscha die. Dorian hadn’t dared ask Damaris. Wasn’t certain what he’d do should the sword reveal what he was, deep down. So Dorian peered inward, to where his magic flowed in him, to where it could move between flame and water and ice and wind.

Manon said, “Erawan made them, using methods we’re not quite sure of. He took an ancient template and brought it to life.” For there had been wyverns in Adarlan before—long ago. “He meant to breed a host of thoughtless killers, but some did not turn out as such.” Asterin kept quiet for once. Karsyn spoke at last. “Your wyvern seems like more of a dog than anything.” It was not an insult, Manon reminded herself. The Crochans kept dogs as pets. Adored them, as humans did. “His name is Abraxos,” Manon said. “He is … different.” “He and the blue one are mates.” Asterin started. “They’re what?” The Crochan pointed to the blue mare huddled beside Abraxos. “He is smaller, yet he dotes on her. Nuzzles her when no one is looking.” Manon exchanged a glance with Asterin. Their mounts incessantly flirted, yes, but to mate— “Interesting,” Manon managed to say. “You didn’t know they did such things?” Karsyn’s brows knotted. “We knew they bred.” Asterin stepped in at last. “But we haven’t witnessed it being for … choice.” “For love,” the Crochan said, and Manon nearly rolled her eyes. “These beasts, despite their dark master, are capable of love.” Nonsense, yet some kernel in her realized it to be true. Instead, Manon said, though she already knew, “What’s your name?” But wariness again flooded Karsyn’s eyes, as if remembering whom she spoke to, that there were others who might see them conversing. “Thank you for the broom,” the witch said, and strode between the tents.

When Karsyn was gone, Asterin remained staring at Abraxos and Narene, scratching her hair. “You really think they’re mated?” Abraxos lifted his head from where it rested atop Narene’s back and looked toward them, as if to say, It took you long enough to figure it out.

She growled. “This shape-shifting is really a pressing thing to learn?” “Indulge me,” he purred, and reached inward, his magic flaring. Brown. You will change from blue to brown. Liar—he supposed he was a liar for keeping his true reasons from her. He didn’t need Damaris to confirm it. She might forbid him from going to Morath, but there was another possibility, even worse than that. That she would insist on going with him. Manon gave him a look that might have sent a lesser man running. “They’re still blue.” Gods above, she was beautiful. He wondered when it would stop feeling like a betrayal to think so.

An unusually personal question. Even though this past week, thanks to the tent’s relative warmth and privacy, they’d spent hours tangling in the blankets now beneath them. He’d never had anything like her. He sometimes wondered if she’d never had anything like him, either. He’d seen how often she found her pleasure when he took the reins, when her body writhed beneath his and she lost control entirely. But the hours in this tent hadn’t yielded any sort of intimacy. Only blessed distraction. For both of them. He was glad of it, he told himself. None of this could end well. For either of them.

“Keep telling yourself that.” He doubted anyone had ever spoken to her that baldly—relished that he now did, and kept his throat intact. She snarled in his face. “You’re a fool if you believe the fact that I am their queen wipes away the truth that I have killed scores of Crochans.” “That fact will always remain. It’s how you make it count now that matters.” Make it count. Aelin had said as much back in those initial days after he’d been freed of the collar. He tried not to wonder whether the icy bite of Wyrdstone would soon clamp around his neck once more. “I am not a softhearted Crochan. I will never be, even if I wear their crown of stars.”

“Is it so bad, to care?” The gods knew he’d been struggling to do so himself. “I don’t know how to,” she growled. Ridiculous. An outright lie. Perhaps it was because of the high likelihood that he’d be collared again at Morath, perhaps it was because he was a king who’d left his kingdom in an enemy’s grip, but Dorian found himself saying, “You do care. You know it, too. It’s what makes you so damn scared of all this.” Her golden eyes raged, but she said nothing. “Caring doesn’t make you weak,” he offered. “Then why don’t you heed your own advice?” “I care.” His temper rose to meet hers. And he decided to hell with it—decided to let go of that leash he’d put on himself. Let go of that restraint. “I care about more than I should. I even care about you.” Another wrong thing to say. Manon stood—as high as the tent would allow. “Then you’re a fool.” She shoved on her boots and stomped into the frigid night.

“I didn’t come back because I agree with you.” Manon yanked the blankets over herself. Dorian smiled slightly, and fell asleep once more, letting his magic warm them both. When they awoke, something sharp in his chest had dulled—just a fraction. But Manon was frowning down at him. Dorian sat up, groaning as he stretched his arms as far as the tent would allow. “What is it?” he asked when her brow remained furrowed. Manon pulled on her boots, then her cape. “Your eyes are brown.” He lifted a hand to his face, but she was already gone. Dorian stared after her, the camp already hurrying to be off. Where that edge had dulled in his chest, his magic now flowed freer. As if it, too, had been freed from those inner restraints he’d loosened slightly last night. What he’d opened up, revealed to her. A sort of freedom, that letting go. The sun was barely in the sky when they began the long flight to Eyllwe.