Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Then we shall shut them,” Gavriel said, and smiled grimly. “Together.” The word was more of a question, subtle and sorrowful. Together. As father and son. As the two warriors they were. Gavriel—his father. He had come. And looking at those tawny eyes, Aedion knew it was not for Aelin, or for Terrasen, that his father had done it. “Together,” Aedion rasped. Not just this obstacle. Not just this battle. But whatever would come afterward, should they survive. Together. Aedion could have sworn something like joy and pride filled Gavriel’s eyes. Joy and pride and sorrow, heavy and old.

He stopped hearing the battle. Stopped seeing the fighting around him, above him. Stopped seeing everything but the fallen warrior, who gazed toward the darkening sky with sightless eyes. His tattooed throat ripped out. His sword still gripped in his hand. Gavriel. His father.

They had survived this long, against all odds and in defiance of ancient prophecies.

The cry went down the castle battlements, through the city, along the walls. The queen had come home at last. The queen had come to hold the gate.

Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be afraid.

Hopeless. But that was why she remained here. To give them that slim shred of hope. That will to keep fighting. At the end of this, if that was all she was able to do against Erawan and Maeve, she could go to the Afterworld with her chin held high. She would not be ashamed to see those she had loved with her heart of wildfire.

He said his silent farewell, sending what remained of his heart on the wind to the woman who had saved him in every way that mattered. Then Lorcan ran for the gate—to the dark queen who threatened all he’d come to want, to hope for. He’d come to hope. Had found there was something better out there. Someone better. And he’d go down swinging to defend all of it.

Maeve’s power swelled. The ice and wind stopped. The other magic within the darkness stopped. Like it had been swallowed. And then they began screaming. Rowan began screaming.

You have no power over me, Yrene said to him. Into the body that housed that parasite of parasites.

It is your own. Erawan’s eyes widened as the words came out of him. As Damaris drew it from him. But Dorian did not marvel at the sword’s power. His father’s name … Dorian. I took his name, Erawan spat, writhing as the words flowed from his tongue under Damaris’s power. I wiped it away from existence. Yet he only remembered it once. Only once. The first time he beheld you.

Knew her grief was for Gavriel, but also for his own loss. The years he and his father would not have. The years he’d realized he wanted to have, the stories he wished to hear, the male he wished to know. And never would. Had Gavriel known that? Or had he fallen believing his son wished nothing to do with him? He couldn’t endure it, that potential truth. Its weight would be unbearable.

Lysandra pulled away from Falkan, though. Still smiling bright, more lovely than the night sky above. She laced her fingers with Aedion’s and squeezed tight as she answered her uncle at last, “I already have everything I need.”

Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed. A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.”

Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.”

“Why?” Not about her magic being whittled to nothing. But why she had gone to face them, with little more than embers in her veins. “Terrasen is my home,” Aelin said. It was the only answer in her heart. Darrow smiled—just a bit. “So it is.” He bowed his head. Then his body. “Welcome,” he said, then added as he rose, “Your Majesty.” But Aelin looked to Evangeline, the girl still beaming. Win me back my kingdom, Evangeline. Her order to the girl, all those months ago.

“Live, Elide,” was all the witch said to her before striding out of the hall once more. “Live.”

Elide waved him off, but Lorcan kissed her. When he pulled away, Elide breathed, “What was that for?” “Ask me to stay,” was all he said. Her heart began racing. “Stay,” she whispered. Light, such beautiful light filled his dark eyes. “Ask me to come to Perranth with you.” Her voice broke, but she managed to say, “Come to Perranth with me.” Lorcan nodded, as if in answer, and his smile was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. “Ask me to marry you.” Elide began crying, even as she laughed. “Will you marry me, Lorcan Salvaterre?”

“I will marry you, Elide Lochan. And proudly call myself Lord Lorcan Lochan, even when the whole kingdom laughs to hear it.” He kissed her, gently and lovingly. “And when we are wed,” he whispered, “I will bind my life to yours. So we will never know a day apart. Never be alone, ever again.”

“And you,” Hafiza went on, taking her hand, “will not return with us.” Her eyes burned, but Yrene whispered, “No, I won’t.” Hafiza squeezed Yrene’s fingers, her hand warm. Strong as steel. “I shall have to find myself a new heir apparent, then.” “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Whatever for?” Hafiza chuckled. “You have found love, and happiness, Yrene. There is nothing more that I could ever wish for you.”

There was an empty space inside her where twelve souls had once burned fiercely.

“Only together can it be undone,” Glennis whispered. “Be the bridge. Be the light.” A bridge between their two peoples, as Manon had become. A light—as the Thirteen had exploded with light, not darkness, in their final moments. “When iron melts,” Petrah murmured, her blue eyes swimming with tears. The Thirteen had melted that tower. Melted the Ironteeth within it. And themselves. “When flowers spring from fields of blood,” Bronwen went on. Manon’s knees buckled as she stared out at that battlefield. Where countless flowers had been laid atop the blood and ruins where the Thirteen had met their end. Glennis finished, “Let the land be witness.”

As she guided her wyvern to the bit of blasted earth on the battlefield. Right to its heart. And smiling through her tears, laughing in joy and sorrow, Manon laid that precious flower from the Wastes upon the ground. In thanks and in love. So they would know, so Asterin would know, in the realm where she and her hunter and child walked hand in hand, that they had made it. That they were going home.

“So there it is,” Aelin said, nodding toward the dark stain on the balcony stones. “Where Erawan met his end at the hands of a healer.” She frowned. “I hope it will wash off.” Rowan snorted, and when she looked over her shoulder, the wind whipping her hair, she found him leaning against the stairwell door, his arms crossed. “I mean it,” she said. “It’ll be odious to have his mess there. And I plan to use this balcony to sun myself. He’ll ruin it.” Rowan chuckled, and pushed off the door, going to the balcony rail. “If it doesn’t wash off, we’ll throw a rug over it.”

She also didn’t fail to note the hand Lorcan kept on Elide’s back. The glow on the lady’s face. Aelin could guess well enough what that glow was from. Even Lorcan’s dark eyes were bright. It didn’t stop Aelin from catching Lorcan’s stare. And giving him a warning look that conveyed everything she didn’t bother to say: if he broke the Lady of Perranth’s heart, she’d flambé him. And would invite Manon Blackbeak to roast some dinner over his burning corpse.

But Fenrys said, “Four. Four of us are old as hell.” Aelin arched a brow. Fenrys smirked, the movement stretching his scars. “Vaughan is still out there. And now free.” Rowan crossed his arms. “He’ll never be caught again.”

“People should have a say in how they are governed. Policies that impact them. They should have a say in how this kingdom is rebuilt.” Aelin lifted her chin. “I will be queen, and my children …” Her cheeks heated as she smiled toward Rowan. “Our children,” she said a bit softly, “will rule. One day. But Terrasen should have a voice. Each territory, regardless of the lords who rule it, should have a voice. One chosen by its people.”

Aelin waved him off. “Need I remind you that despite winning this war, we are no longer flush with gold?” Rowan slid his arm around her shoulders. “Need I remind you that since you beheaded Maeve, I am a Prince of Doranelle once again, with access to my assets and estates? And that with Maeve outed as an imposter, half of her wealth goes to you … and the other to the Whitethorns?” Aelin blinked at him slowly. The others grinned. Even Lorcan. Rowan kissed her. “A new library and Royal Theater,” he murmured onto her mouth. “Consider them my mating presents to you, Fireheart.”

A glance at Aedion, clad in Terrasen green as well, and Rowan smiled slightly. Two weddings, likely before the summer. Though neither Lysandra nor Aedion had mentioned it.

Ansel of Briarcliff kept fidgeting in her equally new pants and jacket, Rolfe draping an arm over the pew behind her as he smirked at her discomfort.

Enda and Sellene, seated near the aisle, the latter of whom had needed a good few hours of sitting in silence when Rowan had told her that she was now Queen of Doranelle. The Fae Queen of the East.

Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.

Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.

Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming, those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran. Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for him to convince the other lords to agree to this.

Aelin ascended the three steps and knelt upon the top one. The only time in her reign that she would ever bow. The only thing she would ever kneel before. Her crown. Her throne. Her kingdom.

I offer all that I am and all that I have to Terrasen.

I, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, swear upon my immortal soul to guard, to nurture, and to honor Terrasen from this day until my very last.

“Rise,” Darrow said, “Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen.” She swallowed a sob. And slowly, her breathing steady despite the heartbeat that threatened to leap out of her chest, Aelin rose. Darrow’s gray eyes were bright. “Long may she reign.”

“Will you swear the blood oath to me?” Aedion just fell to his knees before her. Rowan silently handed her a dagger, but Aelin paused as she held it over her arm. “You fought for Terrasen when no one else would. Against all odds, beyond all hope, you fought for this kingdom. For me. For these people. Will you swear to continue to do so, for as long as you draw breath?” Aedion’s head bowed as he breathed, “Yes. In this life, and in all others, I will serve you. And Terrasen.” Aelin smiled at Aedion, at the other side to her fair coin, and sliced open her forearm before extending it to him. “Then drink, Prince. And be welcome.”

And when he withdrew, her blood on his lips, Aelin smiled down at him. “You said you wanted to swear it before the entire world,” she said so only he could hear. “Well, here you go.”

And then finally, Aelin sat upon her throne. It weighed on her, nestled against her bones, that new burden. No longer an assassin. No longer a rogue princess. And when Aelin lifted her head to survey the cheering crowd, when she smiled, Queen of Terrasen and the Faerie Queen of the West, she burned bright as a star.

“I think I’m about to lose another Captain of the Guard,” the King of Adarlan said. Nesryn bowed her head. “I …” She hadn’t anticipated having this conversation. Not right now, at least. “But I will be glad,” Dorian went on, “to gain another queen whom I can call friend.” Nesryn blushed. It deepened as Sartaq smirked and said, “Not queen. Empress.” Nesryn cringed, and Sartaq laughed, Dorian with him.

Chaol reached for the letter, scanning the text. Still not believing it. Not until he read, I have loved you from the moment I knew you were growing in my womb. He didn’t stop his own tears from falling. Your father informed me of what he did with my letters to you. I informed him I shall not be returning to Anielle. Yrene leaned her head against his shoulder while he read and read. The years have been long, and the space between us distant, his mother had written. But when you are settled with your new wife, your babe, I would like to visit. To stay for longer than that, Terrin with me. If that would be all right with you. Tentative, nervous words. As if his mother, too, did not quite believe that he’d agree. Chaol read the rest, swallowing hard as he reached the final lines. I am so very proud of you. I have always been, and always will be. And I hope to see you very soon. Chaol set down the letter, wiped at his cheeks, and smiled at his wife. “We’re going to have to build a bigger house,” he said. Yrene’s answering grin was all he’d hoped for.

“And after?” “There will be no after.” He smiled slightly at her, a secret, knowing smile. “Won’t there be?” Manon asked, “What is it that you want?” You, he almost said. All of you.

He saw the promise in her eyes, in that hint of a smile. Both of them still grieving, still broken in places, but in this new world of theirs … perhaps they might heal. Together. “You could just marry each other,” Yrene said, and Dorian whipped his head to her, incredulous. “It’d make it easier for you both, so you don’t need to pretend.” Chaol gaped at his wife. Yrene shrugged. “And be a strong alliance for our two kingdoms.” Dorian knew his face was red when he turned to Manon, apologies and denials on his lips. But Manon smirked at Yrene, her silver-white hair lifting in the breeze, as if reaching for the united people who would soon soar westward. That smirk softened as she mounted Abraxos and gathered up the reins. “We’ll see,” was all Manon Blackbeak, High Queen of the Crochans and Ironteeth, said before she and her wyvern leaped into the skies.

And then Aelin stood before Dorian and Chaol, and Rowan stepped back, falling into line beside Aedion, Fenrys, Lorcan, Elide, Ren, and Lysandra. Their fledgling court—the court that would change this world. Rebuild it.

Aelin looked at Chaol and Dorian and sobbed. Opened her arms to them, and wept as they held each other. “I love you both,” she whispered. “And no matter what may happen, no matter how far we may be, that will never change.” “We will see you again,” Chaol said, but even his voice was thick with tears. “Together,” Dorian breathed, shaking. “We’ll rebuild this world together.”

Rowan kept his arm around her, breathing in her scent as she rested her head against his shoulder. Rowan ignored the faint ache that lingered there from the tattoos she’d helped him ink the night before. Gavriel’s name, rendered in the Old Language. Exactly how the Lion had once tattooed the names of his fallen warriors on himself.

Aedion, however, had asked Rowan for a different design. To add Gavriel’s name to the Terrasen knot already inked over his heart.

“Will you work to rebuild this kingdom, this world, with me tomorrow?” “Tomorrow, and every day after that.” For every day of the thousand blessed years they were granted together. And beyond. Aelin kissed him again and took his hand, guiding him into the castle. Into their home. “To whatever end?” she breathed. Rowan followed her, as he had his entire life, long before they had ever met, before their souls had sparked into existence. “To whatever end, Fireheart.”

Elide and Lorcan—now Lord Lorcan Lochan, to Aelin’s eternal amusement—had gone back to Perranth only a week ago to begin the rebuilding there, now that the healers had finished their work on the last of the Valg-possessed. They would return in three weeks, though. Along with all the other lords who had journeyed to their estates once winter had lightened its grasp. Everyone would converge on Orynth, then. For Aedion and Lysandra’s wedding. A Prince of Wendlyn no longer, but a true Lord of Terrasen.