Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Who, it turned out, is Queen of Terrasen.” A mirthless laugh. “What a prize you might have had then, my son, if you’d managed to keep her.” “Yrene is the finest healer of her generation,” Chaol said with deadly quiet. “Her worth is greater than any crown.” And in this war, it might very well be.

“Have you come back to bleed for Anielle, then? To bleed for this city at last?” “Don’t you talk to him like that,” Yrene said with dangerous calm.

So while you sit here in your miserable keep, tossing insults at him, know that he has done what no other could do, and if your city survives, it will be because of him, not you.”

“It had never been her world, not really. She had been born to rule others.”

They had found a way to permanently open a gate between worlds, and had made three keys to do so. To wield those keys was to control all worlds, to have the power of eternity in the palm of your hand. She wished to find them, only so she might possess the strength to banish any enemies, banish her husband’s youngest brother back to his realm. To protect her new, lovely world. It was all she ever wanted: to dwell in peace, without the shadow of her past hunting her.”

“It shall be rather easy, I suppose, to instead bend them to my will. Well, bend one to my will and wrest it from Erawan’s control, once I put its collar around your neck.”

So they had begun with rumors, fed by Elide at taverns and markets, at the places where Rowan knew Maeve’s spies would be listening. Whispers of a Fae garrison who had captured a Valg prince—the strange collars they found on him.

Rowan’s uncle, Ellys, the head of their House, had remained when Maeve’s armada had sailed.

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.

She hadn’t said anything when she’d found the white strips of linen at the bottom of Lorcan’s bag. Waiting for her next cycle. She hadn’t been able to find the words, anyway. Not with what it would crumple in her chest to even think them.

The dark-haired beauty from the tavern was standing behind her.

Essar,”

Essar said softly, “Lorcan and I were involved for a time.”

“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.”

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

“He and the blue one are mates.” Asterin started. “They’re what?”

Abraxos and Narene,

“You’re not a cold person.” He arched a brow. “Is that your professional opinion?” Manon studied him. “You can descend to those levels when you are angry, when your friends are threatened. But you are not cold, not at heart. I’ve seen men who are, and you are not.” “Neither are you,” he said a bit quietly.

Rhiannon Crochan’s crown of stars, stolen from her dying body by Baba Yellowlegs herself.

“Caring doesn’t make you weak,”

“I care about more than I should. I even care about you.”

“Your eyes are brown.”

“Let’s see how your entire body reacts to flame without your special little gift. Perhaps you’ll burn like the rest of us.”

“You can scream all you like, if it pleases you.”

“When you finish breaking me apart for the day, how does it feel to know that you are still nothing?”

“You were only given the oath for this. For me. Without me, you’re nothing. You’ll go back to being nothing. Less than nothing, from what I’ve heard.”

And he hissed, “Not with a shattered spine, she can’t,” before he brought the poker slamming down for Aelin’s back. With a roar, Fenrys leaped. And with it, he snapped the blood oath completely.

The chain between her legs snapped.

Aelin did not hesitate. She sprinted for the tent flaps. And into the morning beyond.

Another onslaught of soldiers barreled for him, and Rowan angled his long knife. His power blasted away their fired arrows, then blasted away the archers. Turning them all to bloodied splinters.

He’d reached the first of the hollows that flowed to the camp edge, the dips narrow and steep, when Aelin Galathynius appeared.

The male’s sword fell short of his intended target, but hit precisely where she wished. In the center of the chains that bound her hands. Iron snapped. Then the male’s sword was in her freed hands. Then his throat was spraying blood.

Rowan was instantly before her, hands going to the mask on her face, the chains, the blood coating her arms, her torn body— Aelin let out another sob, and then moaned, “Fenrys.”

Cairn groaned as unconsciousness gave way. By the time Cairn awoke, chained to that metal table, Rowan was ready.

Rowan wrapped an ice-kissed wind around the tent, blocking out all sound, and began.

Fenrys.

Rowan reached out a trembling hand, the only sign of the agony Elide had little doubt was coursing through him. Gently, he laid his hands on her wrists; gently, he closed his fingers around them. Halting the brutal clawing and digging. Aelin sobbed, her body shuddering with the force of it. “Take it off. ” Rowan’s eyes flickered, panic and heartbreak and longing shining there. “I will. But you have to be still, Fireheart. Just for a few moments.”

The hiss and sigh of the lock filled the clearing. The shackle tumbled to the moss.

A flare of light, a click of metal, and then it slid free.

Aside from a bruise along her ribs, there was nothing. Not a mark. Not a callus. Not a single scar. The ones Elide had marked in those days before Aelin had been taken were gone. As if someone had wiped them away.

Nearly every inch of her was covered in new skin, unvarnished as fresh snow. The blood coating her had burned away to reveal it.

He glimpsed her neck as she passed. Even the twin bite marks, his mark of claiming, had vanished.

Aelin spoke again, and Fenrys blinked once in answer. She deemed that answer enough.

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.

Severing the blood oath to one queen had snapped his life force, his soul. Swearing the blood oath to another might very well repair that cleaving, the ancient magic binding Fenrys’s fading life to Aelin’s.

Live.

Una, the pretty, brown-haired Crochan and another of Manon’s cousins,

As Kaltain Rompier, clad in an onyx gown and dark hair unbound, smiled sadly at him.

Stay to the keep. It is Erawan’s stronghold, and likely the only place he would trust to store the key.”

Who do you wish to be? “Someone worthy of my friends,” he said into the quiet night. “A king worthy of his kingdom.” For a heartbeat, snow-white hair and golden eyes flashed into his mind. “Happy,” he whispered,