Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Hellas guards Lorcan,” Fenrys murmured. “And Anneith, his consort, watches over Elide. Perhaps they will find each other.” “Hellas’s horse,” Chaol said. They turned toward him, dragging their eyes from the field. Chaol shook his head and gestured to the field, to the black mare and her rider. “I call Farasha Hellas’s horse. I’ve done so from the moment I met her.”

“Lorcan!” She screamed it, so loud it was a wonder her throat didn’t bleed. “Lorcan!” The dam remained intact. Which of her breaths would be her last? “LORCAN!” A pained groan answered from behind.

The woman beneath was not beautiful, not in the classical way. Yet with her jet-black hair, her dark eyes, her red lips … She was striking. Mesmerizing.

Maeve

The pulse of Erawan’s power slithered over Dorian. So similar—so terribly similar to the oily power of that Valg prince. “Do you know what you have—” The Valg king silenced himself. Straightened his shoulders.

He knows

“And how do you propose we are to find what we seek?” Dorian smiled at the Fae Queen. The Valg Queen. “Leave that to me.”

Shes playing him

“I usually keep another Fae female with me. One who has powers that work against the Valg. Different from those Aelin Galathynius possesses.”

The owl

Dorian glanced to the windows. To the night beyond. He had to go—quickly. But he still said, The king I wish to be is the opposite of what you are. He gave Maeve a smile. And there is only one witch who will be my queen.

“It’s up to you whether you want the healing at all. I only want you to have a better idea of the road ahead.” She smiled at the lady. “It’s up to you to decide how you wish to face it.”

“What is that?” Ren murmured. Pointing to the horizon. Sharp—Ren’s eyes had to be sharper than most humans, since it was still just a smudge on the horizon to Aedion.

So Manon said, looking them each in the eye, “I would rather fly with you than with ten thousand Ironteeth at my side.” She smiled slightly. “Tomorrow, we will show them why.” Her coven grinned, wicked and defiant, and touched two fingers to their brows in deference. Manon returned the gesture, bowing her head as she did. “We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”

Aedion instantly parried, a slash upward that the Valg prince dodged with a hop to the side. The demon’s eyes were wide as he took in the shield. Then Aedion. Then the Valg prince hissed, “Fae bastard.” Aedion didn’t know what it meant, didn’t care as he took another blast upon his shield, the battlements already slick with blood both black and red.

Pressing herself against the stones of the tower wall, Evangeline let Darrow read the letter. The Crochans and wyverns were so much closer up here. This high, she stood on their level, the world a blur below. Evangeline laid her palms flat against the icy stones, as if she could draw some strength from them.

Glennis stayed until the end. And when they were alone on the silent battlefield, Manon’s great-grandmother put a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, her voice somehow distant, “Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home

For hours, Manon knelt on the battlefield, Abraxos at her side. As if she might stay with them, her Thirteen, for a little while longer. And far away, across the snow-covered mountains, on a barren plain before the ruins of a once-great city, a flower began to bloom.

Chaol’s hands curled at his sides as he fought to keep his mouth shut. Rowan seemed to be doing the same as the two rulers squared off.

“What if they brought you together. To not pick one or the other, but to share the burden. With each other.”

Will they both survive if iys two people

She threaded her fingers through his hair. “I wanted that thousand years with you,” she said softly. “I wanted to have children with you. I wanted to go into the Afterworld together.” Her tears landed in his hair. Rowan lifted his head. “Then fight for it. One more time. Fight for that future.” She gazed at him, at the life she saw in his face. All that he offered. All that she might have, too.

what the FUCK

She’d left Goldryn in their tent. The sword would be of little use where they were going.

?

“No sweet farewells, Princess?” Rowan asked as she traced the mark with her foot. “They seem dramatic,” Aelin said. “Far too dramatic, even for me.” But Rowan halted her, the second symbol half-finished. Tipped back her chin. “Even when you’re … there,” he said, his pine-green eyes so bright under the moon. “I am with you.” He laid a hand on her heart. “Here. I am with you here.” She laid her own hand on his chest, and breathed his scent deep into her lungs, her heart. “As I am with you. Always.” Rowan kissed her. “I love you,” he whispered onto her mouth. “Come back to me.”

The stars seemed to shift closer, the mountains peering over Aelin’s and Dorian’s shoulders, as she sliced her knife a third time, down her forearm. Deep and wide, skin splitting. To open the gate, she must become the gate. Erawan had begun the process of turning Kaltain Rompier into that gate—had put the stone within her arm not for safekeeping, but to prepare her body for the other stones. To turn her into a living Wyrdgate that he might control.

Oh

My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. “Ready?” Aelin breathed. Dorian nodded.

Gone. Where light and life had flowed within her, there was nothing. Not an ember. Only a droplet, just one, of water.

Aelin took the kernel of power from her palm. It was the sunrise contained in a seed. “When it is done, seal the gate and think of home. The marks will guide you.”

He’d suspected, somehow. That it might come to this. Had asked her to teach him so he might make this gamble. And when Aelin looked behind her, to the archway into her own world, she indeed could … feel them. As if the Wyrdmarks he’d secretly inked onto her were a rope. A tether home. A lifeline into eternity. One last deceit.

She passed through a world of snowcapped mountains under shining stars. Passed over one of those mountains, where a winged male stood beside a heavily pregnant female, gazing at those very stars. Fae.

Acotar?

She willed herself, willed the world to halt. Just as the Wyrdgate slammed shut with a thunderous crack, all other doors with it. And Aelin plunged back into her own body.

Aelin held out her other hand, and the kernel of flame sputtered to life within it. An ordinary gift. A Fire-Bringer no more. But Aelin all the same.

Holy fuck

Erawan hissed at Maeve, “If she spoke true, you are carrion.” And before Aelin could muster an ember to strike, a dark, sinewy form swept from the blackness behind Erawan and snatched him up. An ilken.

Lys?

She made herself look. To face down that place of pain and despair. It would always leave a mark, a stain on her, but she would not let it define her. Hers was not a story of darkness.

The young healer smiled at him, and the white light around her hands winked out as her eyes shifted from gold to sapphire. “I’m not Yrene.”

Aelin was dead. He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to.

“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.”

“Rise,” Darrow said, “Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen.”