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 …

Manon let the words settle as she shifted her gaze to the western horizon. Perhaps she’d deserve that honor if she succeeded in bringing them back to a home they’d never set eyes on. If they survived this war and all the terrible things they must do before it was over.

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.

It is the strength of this that matters. No matter where you are, no matter how far, this will lead you home.

You do not yield.

Aelin slammed her hand into the lid. Cairn paused. Aelin pounded her fist into the iron again. Again. You do not yield. Again. You do not yield. Again. Again.

She learned that there were indeed other worlds. Not the dark, blasted realm in which they lived, but worlds beyond that, living atop one another and never realizing it. Worlds where the sun was not a watery trickle through the ash-clouds, but a golden stream of warmth. Worlds where green existed. She had never heard of such a color. Green. Nor had she heard of blue—not the shade of sky that was described. She could not so much as picture it.”

And slowly, Fenrys got to his feet.

By the time Cairn awoke, chained to that metal table, Rowan was ready.

“You once told me at Mistward that if I ever took a whip to you, then you’d skin me alive.” His eyes didn’t stray from hers as he said with lethal quiet, “I took it upon myself to bestow that fate on Cairn on your behalf. And when I was done, I took the liberty of removing his head from his body, then burning what remained.” A pause, a ripple of doubt. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to do it yourself.”

Silver lined her eyes. “To whatever end.” A reminder—and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they’d sworn on that ship. To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terrasen, ancient promises to the gods be damned.

Enjoy your evening, we’ll see you on the battlements tomorrow, and please do rot in hell.”

The snarl that ripped from Manon’s throat rang across the mountains themselves.

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

He’d never seen such a glorious sight. In every land, every battle, he had never seen anything as glorious as Aelin before the throat of the siege tower, holding the line. Dawn breaking around them, Rowan loosed a battle cry and tore into Morath.

Death became a melody in her blood, every movement a dance as the tide of soldiers pouring from the tower slowed.

Still Elide kept riding. Racing against death itself. Princess Hasar said quietly, “The girl is a fool. The bravest I’ve ever seen, but a fool nonetheless.”

Every thunderous beat of Farasha’s hooves, over the corpses of the fallen, echoed Elide’s silent prayer as they raced across the endless plain. Hold the gate.

Lorcan allowed himself a rare smile.

Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.

Aelin awoke to the scent of pine and snow, and knew she was home. Not in Terrasen, not yet, but in the sense she would always be home, if Rowan was with her.

The screams and snarling had quieted, at least. As if even Morath’s dungeon-masters maintained ordinary hours of working.

work-life balance

“Thank you. Perhaps it is our lot—to never have the fathers we wish, but to still hope they might surpass what they are, flaws and all.”

Elide kept her breathing steady, shoulders back. “I do not care why you are here. I do not care what they plan to do with you. But I want you to know that once I walk from this room, I will never think of you again. Your name will be erased from Perranth, from Terrasen, from Adarlan. There will never be a whisper of you, nor any reminder. You will be forgotten.”

“Together, Fireheart,” was all he said.

I don’t know what to do, she said silently. He kissed the top of her head. Together.

Aedion said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Better than shitting your pants, sweetheart.”

She was done making herself appear nice for men whom she had no interest in being nice to.

“We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”

“Beautiful,” he murmured. Elide’s mouth curled as the word settled within her.

So Lorcan did.

Manon rose in the saddle, sliding a leg under her, body tensing to make the jump ahead. And she said to Abraxos, touching his spine, “I love you.” It was the only thing that mattered in the end. The only thing that mattered now.

Her Second, her cousin, her friend, smiled, eyes bright as stars. “Live, Manon.” Manon blinked. Asterin smiled wider, kissed Manon’s brow, and whispered again, “Live.” Manon didn’t see the blow coming.

And it was not darkness, but light—light, bright and pure as the sun on snow, that erupted from Asterin. Light, as Asterin made the Yielding. As the Thirteen, their broken bodies scattered around the tower in a near-circle, made the Yielding as well. Light. They all burned with it. Radiated it. Light that flowed from their souls, their fierce hearts as they gave themselves over to that power. Became incandescent with it.

Then little more than a scrap of hate and memory as Asterin exploded. As she and the Thirteen Yielded completely, and blew themselves and the witch tower to smithereens.

Abraxos lay beside her, his tail curling around her while she bowed over her knees and wept. Behind her, had she looked, she would have seen Glennis. And Bronwen. Petrah Blueblood. Aedion Ashryver and Lysandra and Ren Allsbrook. Prince Galan and Captain Rolfe and Ansel of Briarcliff, Ilias and the Fae royals beside them. Had she looked, she would have seen the small white flowers they bore. Would have wondered how and where they had gotten them in the dead heart of winter. Had she looked, she would have seen the people gathered behind them, so many they streamed all the way to the city gates. Would have seen the humans standing side by side with the Crochans and Ironteeth. All come to honor the Thirteen.

“Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.”

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.

And as Chaol Westfall dismounted and ran the last few feet toward Dorian, the King of Adarlan wept.

She passed through a world where a great city had been built along the curve of a river, the buildings impossibly tall and glimmering with lights.

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.

Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.

Where one missed a soldier, the other felled him. Where one struck, the other guarded.

“That’s where Aelin is,” was all Fenrys said.

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.

Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed. A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak, undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars. Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.” His heart strained as he understood.

She went still. “Who?” Manon’s throat bobbed. “All.”

Yrene had long suspected that love of learning was what had kept the Healer on High young at heart all these years.

“We’ll see,” was all Manon Blackbeak, High Queen of the Crochans and Ironteeth, said before she and her wyvern leaped into the skies.