Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom …

Fireheart. The whispered word floated through the eternal night, a glimmer of sound, of light. Fireheart. The woman’s voice was soft, loving. Her mother’s voice. Aelin turned her face away. Even that movement was more than she could bear. Fireheart, why do you cry? Aelin could not answer. Fireheart. The words were a gentle brush down her cheek. Fireheart, why do you cry? And from far away, deep within her, Aelin whispered toward that ray of memory, Because I am lost. And I do not know the way.

Evalin Ashryver ran gentle fingers down Aelin’s cheek. Over the mask. Aelin could have sworn she felt them against her skin. You have been very brave, her mother said. You have been very brave, for so very long. Aelin couldn’t stop the silent sob that worked its way up her throat. But you must be brave a little while longer, my Fireheart. She leaned into her mother’s touch. You must be brave a little while longer, and remember … Her mother placed a phantom hand over Aelin’s heart. It is the strength of this that matters. No matter where you are, no matter how far, this will lead you home.

But Evalin Ashryver held Aelin’s gaze, the softness turning hard and gleaming as fresh steel. It is the strength of this that matters, Aelin.

Cairn’s hissed threats danced through the coffin, his knife scraping and scraping. Evalin’s face didn’t falter. You are my daughter. You were born of two mighty bloodlines. That strength flows through you. Lives in you.

You do not yield. Then she was gone, like dew under the morning sun. But the words lingered. Blossomed within Aelin, bright as a kindled ember. You do not yield.

“A decent attempt, but Celaena Sardothien looked a little more amused when she cut men into ribbons.”

Lorcan didn’t expect the sob in his throat as she raced between the tents, as he beheld the iron mask and the chains on her, hands still bound.

His knees stopped working, and even his magic faltered at the sight of her wild, desperate race for the camp’s edge. Soldiers ran toward her. Lorcan surged into motion, flaring his magic up and wide. Not to her, but to Whitethorn, still charging for the center of the camp. She’s here, she’s here, she’s here, he signaled.

The fool didn’t realize who he faced. What he faced. That it wasn’t a fire-breathing queen bound in iron who charged at him, but an assassin. With a twist, arms lifting, Aelin met that sword head-on. Just as she’d planned.

Aelin whirled, slamming into the other soldiers who stood between her and freedom. Even as he ran for her, Lorcan could only gape at what unfolded.

He signaled again. To me, to me. Whether Aelin recognized it, or him, she still raced his way.

From the north, leaping over the hollows, charged Gavriel. Aelin disappeared into a dip in the earth, and when she emerged, the Lion ran at her side, a golden shield around her. Not close to her—but in the air around them. Unable to fully touch her with the iron mask, the chains draped around her torso. The iron gauntlets on her hands.

The sob that came out of Aelin at the hawk’s bellow of fury cracked Lorcan’s chest.

But she kept running for the trees, for their cover. Lorcan and Gavriel fell into step beside her, and when she again stumbled, those too-thin legs giving out, Lorcan gripped her under the arm and hauled her along.

For Fenrys’s loyalty, for his sacrifice, there was no greater reward she could offer. To keep him from death, there was no other way to save him. Only this. Only the blood oath.

Aelin. She was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, and she was Queen of Terrasen.

“Two months, three days, and seven hours.”

“Because she is not only Brannon’s Heir, but Mab’s, too.”

Gavriel went on, awe in every word, “And that makes her their queen, too.” Aelin met Gavriel’s gaze, the crown near-glowing in her hands. “Yes,” was all she said as the boat sailed into the darkness.

Aelin’s lips curved in a hint of a smile. She blinked at Fenrys—three times. Fenrys blinked once in answer. A code. They’d made up some silent code to communicate when he’d been ordered to remain in his wolf form.

“I care,” she hissed. “I care if we lose this war. I care if I fail to rally the Crochans. I care if you go into Morath and do not return, not as something worth living.”

White Wolf of Doranelle could bite if he wished. Lethally. Fenrys just turned to the queen. “If I tell you he’s a prick and a miserable bastard to be around, will it change your mind?” Lorcan snarled, but Aelin snorted. “Isn’t that why we love Lorcan, though?” She gave him a smile that told Lorcan she remembered every detail of their initial encounters in Rifthold—when he’d shoved her face-first into a brick wall. Aelin said to Fenrys, “We’ll only invite him to Orynth on holidays.” “So he can ruin the festivities?” Fenrys scowled. “I, for one, cherish my holidays. I don’t need a misanthrope raining on them.” Gods above. Lorcan cut Rowan a look, but the warrior-prince was watching his queen carefully. As if he knew precisely what manner of storm brewed beneath her skin.

“Fine, fine. You won’t try to kill Lorcan for what happened in Eyllwe, and in exchange, we won’t invite him to anything.”

Not a child of war. But of peace.

Chaol was inclined to agree as Aelin Galathynius, Rowan Whitethorn, and several others entered the tent. They were mud-splattered, the Queen of Terrasen’s braided hair far longer than Chaol had last seen. And her eyes … Not the soft, yet fiery gaze. But something older. Wearier.

“Aelin, allow me to introduce—” “Yrene Towers,” the queen breathed as his wife stepped to his side. The two women stared at each other. Yrene’s mouth quivered as she opened the silver locket and pulled out a piece of paper. Hands trembling, she extended it to the queen. Aelin’s own hands shook as she accepted the scrap. “Thank you,” Yrene whispered. Chaol supposed it was all that really needed to be said. Aelin unfolded the paper, reading the note she’d written, seeing the lines from the hundreds of foldings and rereadings these past few years.

“I went to the Torre,” Yrene said, her voice cracking. “I took the money you gave me, and went to the Torre. And I became the heir apparent to the Healer on High. And now I have come back, to do what I can. I taught every healer I could the lessons you showed me that night, about self-defense. I didn’t waste it—not a coin you gave me, or a moment of the time, the life you bought me.” Tears were rolling and rolling down Yrene’s face. “I didn’t waste any of it.”

Aelin closed her eyes, smiling through her own tears, and when she opened them, she took Yrene’s shaking hands. “Now it is my turn to thank you.” But Aelin’s gaze fell upon the wedding band on Yrene’s finger, and when she glanced to Chaol, he grinned. “No longer Yrene Towers,” Chaol said softly, “but Yrene Westfall.”...

Yrene’s head tilted back to take in the warrior’s full height, her eyes widening—not only at Rowan’s size, but at the pointed ears, the slightly elongated canines and tattoo. Aelin said, “Then let me introduce you, Lady Westf...

“My mate,” Aelin added, fluttering her lashes at the Fae male. Rowan rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t entirely contain his smile as he inclined his head to Yrene. Yrene bowed, but Aelin snorted. “None of that, please. It’ll go right to his immortal head.” Her grin softened as Yrene blushed, and Aelin held up the scrap of paper. “May I keep this?” She eyed Yrene’s locket. “Or does it go in there?” Yrene folded the queen’s fingers around the paper. “It is yours, as it always was. A piece of your bravery that helped me find my own.” Aelin shook her head, as if to dismiss the claim. But Yrene squeezed Aelin’s closed hand. “It gave me courage, the words you wrote. Every mile I traveled, every long hour I studied and worked, it gave me courage. I thank you for that, too.”

Fenrys threw a roguish wink at the queen. “Moonbeam.” “It is not,” Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh. Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. “I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?” Another blood-sworn Fae male in her court. Across the tent, Sartaq cursed in his own tongue. As if he’d heard of Lorcan, and Gavriel, and Fenrys.

“Shall we discuss where you all plan to march once we beat the living shit out of this army?”

Aelin arched a brow. “Hopefully, the horse I stole didn’t belong to you.” A cough from Fenrys. Aelin threw the warrior a grin over her shoulder.

finished. “The stygian spiders, the kharankui, answer to their Valg queen. The only Valg queen. To Maeve.”

Yrene and Aelin were no longer the girls they’d been in Innish, yes, but that wildfire still remained in the queen’s spirit. Wildfire touched with insanity.

But not before the queen threw a grin over her shoulder to Yrene and Chaol and said, eyes bright—with joy and warmth this time, “Congratulations.”

Rowan rolled his eyes, but smiled. Just as Aelin had seen him smile when they’d both scented what was on Yrene. The child in her.

They had always known her, the Little Folk. Had saved her life ten years ago, and saved their lives these past few weeks. They had known her, and left gifts for her. Tribute, she’d thought, to Brannon’s Heir. Not to … Gavriel murmured, “The Faerie Queen of the West.” Silence.

“The Faerie Queen of the West,” Aelin said, tasting the words on her tongue.

The Crochan Queen, crowned anew.

The Crochans murmured, shifting. Glennis took the crown, and the stars dimmed. A small smile graced the crone’s face. “No,” she said, “it does not.”

Then the ancient witch knelt in the snow. “What was stolen has been restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon Crochan, Queen of Witches.”

Dorian, standing amongst them, smiled, brighter and freer than she’d ever seen.

“Queen of Witches,” Crochan and Blackbeak declared as one voice. As one people.

A call went down the line. The queen has come.

The queen has come.

“The queen!” the men shouted. “To the queen!” And as Rowan fought his way closer, as that cry went down the battlements and Anielle men ran to aid her, he realized that Aelin did not need an ounce of flame to inspire

“To Lord Chaol! To the queen!” How far they both were from Rifthold. From the assassin and the captain.

Elide looked at them again. Looked at all of them. And then asked quietly, “Where is Lorcan?” None of them turned. Elide asked, louder, “Where is Lorcan?”