Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

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. They were Fae, but this was not her world. She flung out a hand, as if she might signal them, as if they might somehow help her when she was nothing but an invisible speck of power— The winged male, beautiful beyond reason, snapped his head toward her as she arced across his starry sky. He lifted a hand, as if in greeting. A blast of dark power, like a gentle summer night, slammed into her. Not to attack—but to slow her down. A wall, a shield, that she tore and plunged through. But it slowed her. That winged male’s power slowed her, just enough. Aelin vanished from his world without a whisper. And there it was. There it was, the pine and the snow, the snaking spine of the mountains up her continent, the tangle of Oakwald to the right, the Wastes to the left. A land of many peoples, many beings.

Aelin cupped her palms before her. A small lick of flame appeared within them. Nothing more. She looked at Rowan, then Chaol, and Dorian, their faces so haggard in the rising light of day. “It’s gone,” she said quietly. “The power.” She turned her hands, the flame rolling over them. “Only an ember remains.” They didn’t speak. But Aelin smiled. Smiled at the lack of that well within her, that churning sea of fire. And what did remain—a significant gift, yes, but nothing beyond the ordinary. All that remained of what Mala had given her, in thanks for Elena. But— Aelin reached inward, toward that place inside her soul. She put a hand to her chest. Put a hand there and felt the heart beating within. The Fae heart. The cost. She had given all of herself. Had given up her life. The human life. Her mortality. Burned away, turned to nothing but dust between worlds. There would be no more shifting. Only this body, this form. She told them so. And told them what had occurred. And when she was done, when Rowan remained holding her, Aelin held out her hand once more, just to see. Perhaps it had been a final gift of Mala’s, too. To preserve this piece of her that now formed in her hand—this droplet of water. Her mother’s gift.

An ordinary gift. A Fire-Bringer no more. But Aelin all the same.

Ansel reached for Manon’s slice of bread, pulling off a chunk and eating it. “We can share it, you know. The Wastes. If you break that curse.” Down the long table, some of the witches tensed, but did not look toward them. Ansel went on, “I’ll honor the old borders of the Witch Kingdom, but keep the rest.” The queen rose, taking Manon’s bread with her. “Just something to consider, should the opportunity arise.” Then she was gone, swaggering off to her own cluster of remaining soldiers. Manon hadn’t stared after her, but the words, the offer, had lingered. To share the land, reclaim what they’d had but not the entirety of the Wastes … Bring our people home, Manon. The words had not stopped echoing in her ears.

Darrow didn’t try to stop him as Murtaugh walked off the battlements. Slow. He looked so slow, and old, and frail. And yet he kept his chin high. Back straight. If she’d been able to choose a grandfather for herself, it would have been him.

Fenrys scanned her from head to toe, nostrils flaring as he scented her. He staggered a step closer, horror creeping across his face. Gavriel only paled. Elide gasped. “You did it, didn’t you?” But it was Lorcan who answered, stiffening, as if sensing the change that had come over her, “You—you’re not human.” Rowan snarled in warning. Aelin just looked at them, the people who’d given so much and chosen to follow her here, their doom still remaining. To succeed, and yet to utterly fail. Erawan remained. His army remained. And there would be no Fire-Bringer, no Wyrdkeys, no gods to assist them. “They’re gone?” Elide asked softly. Aelin nodded. She’d explain later. Explain it to all of them. God-killer. That’s what she was. A god-killer. She didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

“Aelin and I still have magic,” Dorian said. “Not like it was before, but we still have it. We’re not entirely helpless.” “Enough to take on Erawan?” Chaol said, his bronze eyes wary. Well aware of the answer. “And Maeve?” “We’ll have to figure out a way,” Dorian said. He prayed it was true. But there were no gods left to pray to at all.

Aelin had hid it well, but the queen had her tells, too. Her utter stillness—the predatory angle of her head. The former had been present this morning. Utter stillness while she’d been questioned, criticized, shouted at. The queen had not been this quiet since the day she’d escaped Maeve. And it was not trauma that bowed her head, but guilt. Dread. Shame.

“Not so impressive, is it?” “I never cared if you had magic or not.” “Why? Everyone else did.” A flat question. Yes, when they’d been children, so many had feared what manner of power Aelin possessed. What she’d grow into. “Who you are isn’t your magic,” Elide said simply. “Isn’t it?” Aelin rested her head on the back of the tub. “I liked my magic. Loved it.” “And being human?” Elide knew she shouldn’t have dared ask, but it slipped out. Aelin glanced sidelong at her. “Am I still human, deep down, without a human body to possess?” Elide considered. “I suppose you’re the only person who can decide that.” Aelin hummed, dunking under the water again. When she emerged, Elide asked, “Are you afraid? Of facing Erawan in battle?” Aelin hugged her knees, her tattoo flexing across her back. She was quiet for a long while. “I am afraid of not reaching Orynth in time,” she said at last. “If Erawan chooses to drag his carcass up there to fight me, I’ll deal with it then.” “And Maeve? What if she arrives with Erawan, too?” But Elide knew the answer. They would die. All of them.

Elide considered. Then pulled the golden ring from her finger. Silba’s ring—not Mala’s. “Here,” she said, extending the ring between their tubs, suds dripping off her fingers. Aelin blinked at the ring. “Why?” “Because between the two of us, you’re more likely to face Erawan or Maeve.” Aelin didn’t reach for it. “I’d rather you keep it.” “And I’d rather you have it,” Elide challenged, holding the queen’s stare. She asked softly, “Haven’t you given enough, Aelin? Won’t you let one of us do something for you?” Aelin glanced down to the ring. “I failed. You realize that, don’t you?” “You put the keys back in the gate. That is not failure. And even if you had failed in that, I would give this ring to you.” “I owe it to your mother to see that you survive this.” Elide’s chest tightened. “You owe it to my mother to live, Aelin.” She leaned closer, practically pushing the ring into Aelin’s face. “Take it. If not for me, then for her.” Aelin stared at the ring again. And then took it. Elide tried not to sigh as the queen slid it onto her finger.

Borte grinned. “You’re alive. You made it. We all thought you’d be dead.” She drew a line across her neck for emphasis, and Elide cringed. “Sartaq is probably going to have me leading one of the flanks into battle, but I’ve done that. Been good at that.” That grin widened. “I want to lead your flank.” “I don’t have a flank.” “Then who shall you ride with into battle?” “I hadn’t gotten that far,” Aelin said, lifting a brow. “Since I expected to be dead.” “Well, when you do, expect me to be in the skies above you. I’d hate for the battle to be dull.” Only the fierce-eyed rukhin would have the nerve to call marching on a hundred thousand soldiers dull.

Against the snow, he was nearly invisible with his white fur. Would have been invisible were it not for the golden flame flickering between his proud, towering antlers. The Lord of the North. And at his feet, all around him … The Little Folk. Snow clinging to her lashes, a small sound came out of Aelin as the creature nearest curled its hand, beckoning. As if to say, Follow us. The others gaped in silence at the magnificent, proud stag who had come to greet them. To guide home the Queen of Terrasen. But then the wind began to whisper, and it was not the song that Rowan usually heard. No, it was a voice that they all heard as it streamed past them. Doom is upon Orynth, Heir of Brannon. You must hurry. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold skittered down Rowan’s skin. “The storm,” Aelin blurted, the words swallowed by the snow. You must hurry. We will show you the way, swift and unseen. Aelin only stilled. Said to that voice, as ancient as the trees, as old as the rocks between them, “You have already helped me so many times.” And you have given much yourself, Heir of Brannon. We who remember him know he would have made such a choice, had he been able to do so. Oakwald shall never forget Brannon, or his Heir. Aelin straightened, scanned the trees, the snow-whipped wind. Dryad. That was the word he sought. Dryad. A tree spirit. “What is your cost?” Aelin asked, her voice louder now. “Do you really want to ask?” Fenrys muttered. Rowan snarled at him. But Aelin had gone ...

“A stupid cow I might be,” she muttered, rotating the book to show Rowan the page she sought, “but not without options.”

“What would you decide?” Darrow’s question was quiet, tentative. She considered it. No one had ever asked her such a thing. “I should have very much liked to live at Caraverre,” Evangeline admitted. She knew he did not recognize it, but it didn’t matter now, did it? “Murtaugh showed me the land—the rivers and mountains right nearby, the forests and hills.” An ache throbbed in her chest. “I saw the gardens by the house, and I would have liked to have seen them in spring.” Her throat tightened. “I would have liked for that to have been my home. For this … for all of Terrasen to have been my home.” Darrow said nothing, and Evangeline set a hand on the castle stones, gazing to the west now, as if she could see all the way to Allsbrook and the small territory in its shadow. To Caraverre. “That’s what Terrasen has always meant to me, you know,” Evangeline went on, speaking more to herself. “As soon as Aelin freed Lysandra, and offered to let us join her court, Terrasen has always meant home. A place where … where the sort of people who hurt us don’t get to live. Where anyone, regardless of who they are and where they came from and what their rank is can dwell in peace. Where we can have a garden in the spring, and swim in the rivers in the summer. I’ve never had such a thing before. A home, I mean. And I would have liked for Caraverre, for Terrasen, to have been mine.” She chewed on her lip. “So I would choose to fight. Until the very end. For my home, new as it is. I choose to ...

Darrow unbuckled the sword at his side and extended it to Aedion. Silence began to ripple through the hall at the sight of the sword—Aedion’s sword. The Sword of Orynth. Darrow held it between them, the ancient bone pommel gleaming. “Terrasen is your home.” Aedion’s haggard face remained unmoved. “It has been since the day I arrived here.” “I know,” Darrow said, gazing at the sword. “And you have defended it far more than any natural-born son would ever be expected to. Beyond what anyone might ever reasonably be asked to give. You have done so without complaint, without fear, and have served your kingdom nobly.” He extended the sword. “You will forgive a proud old man who sought to do so as well.” Aedion slid his arm from Lysandra’s shoulder, and took the sword in his hands. “Serving this kingdom has been the great honor of my life.”

Abraxos shifted his wing so that it shielded her from the wind. “I would have liked to have seen it,” Manon said quietly. “The Wastes. Just once.” Abraxos huffed, nudging her gently with his head. She stroked a hand over his snout.

So Aedion leaned in, and kissed Lysandra, kissed the woman who should have been his wife, his mate, one last time. “I love you.” Sorrow filled her beautiful face. “And I you.” She gestured to the western gate, to the soldiers waiting for its final cleaving. “Until the end?” Aedion hefted his shield, flipping the Sword of Orynth in his hand, freeing the stiffness that had seized his fingers. “I will find you again,” he promised her. “In whatever life comes after this.” Lysandra nodded. “In every lifetime.” Together, they turned toward the stairs that would take them down to the gates. To death’s awaiting embrace.

A horn cleaved through the air, through the battle, through the world. Aedion went still. Whirled toward the direction of that horn, to the south. Beyond Morath’s teeming ranks. Beyond the sea of blackness, to the foothills that bordered the edge of Theralis’s sprawling plain. Again, that horn blared, a roar of defiance. “That’s no horn of Morath,” Lysandra breathed. And then they appeared. Along the edge of the foothills. A line of golden-armored warriors, foot soldiers and cavalry alike. More and more and more, a great line spreading across the crest of the final hill. Filling the skies, stretching into the horizon, flew mighty, armored birds with riders. Ruks. And before them all, sword raised to the sky as that horn blew one last time, the ruby in the blade’s pommel smoldering like a small sun … Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.

They had traveled through the night yesterday. And when dawn had broken, the Lord of the North had knelt beside Aelin and offered himself as her mount. There was no saddle for him; none would ever be permitted or needed. Any rider he allowed on his back, Aelin knew, would never fall.

Aedion’s drained legs shook, his arms strained, but he held his ground. For whatever few breaths he had left. Aelin had come. It was enough.

wield it to her best advantage. And use the training that had been instilled in her for the past ten years. She had been an assassin long before she’d mastered her power.

While Aelin threw herself at the rungs lining the catapult’s wheeled base, and began pushing. Turning it. Away from Orynth, from the castle. Precisely as Aelin had told him Sam Cortland had done in Skull’s Bay, the catapult’s mechanisms allowed her to rotate its base. Rowan wondered if the young assassin was smiling now—smiling to see her heaving the catapult into position.

“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.

Father and son, they would do this. Defeat this. But when his father did not join his side, Aedion turned. Gavriel had gone directly to the gate. To the golden line of his shield, now pushing back, back, back. Shoving that wall of enemy soldiers with it, buckling with every heartbeat. Down the passage. Through the archway. No. Gavriel smiled at him. “Close the gate, Aedion,” was all his father said. And then Gavriel stepped beyond the gates. That golden shield spreading thin. No. The word built, a rising scream in Aedion’s throat. But Bane soldiers were rushing to the gate doors. Heaving them closed. Aedion opened his mouth to roar at them to stop. To stop, stop, stop. Gavriel lifted his sword and dagger, glowing golden in the dying light of the day. The gate shut behind him. Sealing him out.

Golden light flashed on the battlefield. Then went dark.

It was the golden hair he spotted first. Before the mound of Valg he’d piled high. The gate he’d shut for them. The city he’d secured. A terrible, rushing sort of stillness took over Aedion’s body. 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.

Keep going. They had to keep going. Gavriel would wish him to. Had given his life for it. Yet Rowan lowered his head. “I hope you found peace, my brother. And in the Afterworld, I hope you find her again.” Rowan stooped, grunting at the pain in his thigh, and hauled Gavriel over his good shoulder. And then he climbed. Up the siege ladder still anchored beside the western gate. Onto the walls. Each step heavier than the last. Each step a memory of his friend, an image of the kingdoms they had seen, the enemies they had fought, the quiet moments that no song would ever mention. Yet the songs would mention this—that the Lion fell before the western gate of Orynth, defending the city and his son. If they survived today, if they somehow lived, the bards would sing of it.

His blood and kin, yet the warrior over his shoulder—Gavriel had also been family. Even when he had not realized it. The impossible, hideous weight at his shoulder grew worse with every step to where Aedion stood at the foot of the stairs, the Sword of Orynth dangling from his hand. “He could have stayed,” was all Aedion said as Rowan gently set Gavriel down on the first of the steps. “He could have stayed.” Rowan looked at his fallen friend. His closest friend. Who had gone with him into so many wars and dangers. Who had deserved this new home as much as any of them. Rowan closed Gavriel’s unseeing eyes. “I will see you in the Afterworld.” Aedion’s golden hair hung limp with blood and sweat, the ancient sword in his hands caked with black blood. Soldiers streamed past him, down the battlement stairs, yet Aedion only stared at his father. A bloodied rock in the stream of war. Then Aedion walked into the streets. Tears and screaming would come later.

Gone. His friend, his brother was gone.

But Evangeline pointed a finger. Out toward the gates, toward Maeve and Erawan. “Look.” And there she was. In the deepening blues of descending night, amid the snow beginning to fall, Aelin Galathynius had appeared before the sealed southern gate. Had appeared before Erawan and Maeve. Her unbound hair billowed in the wind like a golden banner, a last ray of light with the dying of the day. Silence fell. Even the screaming stopped as all turned toward the gate. But Aelin did not balk. Did not run from the Valg queen and king who halted as if in delight at the lone figure who dared face them. Lysandra let out a strangled sob. “She—she has no magic left.” The shifter’s voice broke. “She has nothing left.” Still Aelin lifted her sword. Flames ran down the blade. One flame against the darkness gathered. One flame to light the night. Aelin raised her shield, and flames encircled it, too. Burning bright, burning undaunted. A vision of old, reborn once more. 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.

She would not have long. Not long at all until they realized that the power that made him hesitate was no more. But she had not remained outside the southern gate to defeat them. Only to buy time. For those in the city she loved so greatly to get away. To run, and live to fight tomorrow. She had made it home. It was enough.

But Erawan’s eyes slitted in amusement. “Was it fate, you think, that we encountered each other in Rifthold without recognizing the other?”

“Keep her safe,” was all Chaol said. Perhaps the only order, Yrene realized, he would ever give his king. Their king. It was why she loved him. Why she knew that the child in her womb would never spend a single moment wondering if it was loved. Dorian bowed his head. “With my life.” Then the king offered a hand to help Yrene onto Lysandra’s back. “Let’s make it count.”

He fought far down the city walls, Whitethorn and Fenrys nearby, Aedion unleashing himself upon soldier after soldier with a ferocity that Lorcan knew came from deep, brutal grief. Gavriel was dead. Had died to give his son and those at the western gate a chance to shut them again. Lorcan tucked away the pang in his chest at the thought of it. That the Lion was no more. Which of them would be next?

With a nod to Lorcan and Fenrys, Rowan shifted, a hawk instantly soaring over the walls. Lorcan looked to Fenrys. Found the male bristling. Aware of the change beyond the walls. It was time. “We finish this together,” Fenrys snarled, and shifted as well, a white wolf leaping clean off the battlements and into the city streets below. Toward the gate. Lorcan glanced at the castle, where he knew Elide was watching. 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.

The keys were gone. And so was the Fire-Bringer. They would have no use for her. No need to enslave her, save to torment her. It could go either way. Death or enslavement. But there would be no keys, no ability for Erawan to craft more Wyrdstone, or bring in his Valg to possess others.

The darkness around Maeve writhed. “The Queen Who Was Promised is no more,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Now you’re nothing but an assassin with a crown. And a commoner’s gift of magic.” Twin whips of brutal power speared for Aelin’s either side. Throwing up her shield, swinging Goldryn with her other arm, Aelin deflected, flame flashing. The shield buckled, but Goldryn burned steady. But she felt it. The familiar, unending pain. The shadows that could devour. Pressing closer. Eating away at her power. Maeve glanced to the blazing sword. “Clever of you, to imbue the sword with your own gifts. No doubt done before you yielded everything to the Wyrdgate.” “A precaution, should I not return,” Aelin panted. “A weapon to kill Valg.” “We shall see.” Maeve struck again. Again.

Cairn ran a hand over the rim of the coffin. “I broke some part of you, didn’t I?” I name you Elentiya, “Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.” Aelin traced her metal-encrusted fingers over her palm. Where a scar should be. Where it still remained. Would always remain, even if she could not see it. Nehemia—Nehemia, who had given everything for Eyllwe. And yet … And yet, Nehemia had still felt the weight of her choices. Still wished to be free of her burdens. It had not made her weak. Not in the slightest.

Her hands curled into fists. Iron groaned. Spirit that could not be broken. You do not yield. She would endure it again, if asked. She would do it. Every brutal hour and bit of agony. And it would hurt, and she would scream, but she’d face it. Survive against it. Arobynn had not broken her. Neither had Endovier. She would not allow this waste of existence to do so now. Her shaking eased, her body going still. Waiting. Maeve blinked at her. Just once. Aelin sucked in a breath—sharp and cool. She did not want it to be over. Any of it. Cairn faded into the wind. Then the chains vanished with him. Aelin sat up in the coffin. Maeve backed away all of a step.

Hers was not a story of darkness. This would not be the story. She would fold it into herself, this place, this fear, but it would not be the whole story. It would not be her story.

Aelin answered the queen’s smile with one of her own. “Did you forget what I told you on that beach in Eyllwe?” When Maeve merely blinked at her again, Aelin attacked. Blasting with a shield of fire, she drove Maeve to the side—and launched a spear of blue flame. Maeve dodged the assault with a wall of dark power, but Aelin went on the offensive, striking again and again and again. Those words she’d snarled to Maeve in Eyllwe rang between them: I will kill you. And she would. For what Maeve had done, to her, to Rowan and Lyria, to Fenrys and Connall and so many others, she’d wipe her from memory.

“Do you know how long I have looked for you?” The wind tossed his golden hair. “Do you even know what you can do?” She hesitated, slamming into the balcony rail behind her, the drop so hideously endless. “How do you think we took the keys in the first place?” A hateful, horrible smile. “In my world, your kind exists, too. Not healers to us, but executioners. Death-maidens. Capable of healing—but also unhealing. Unbinding the very fabric of life. Of worlds.” Erawan smirked. “So we took your kind. Used them to unbind the Wyrdgate. To rip the three pieces of it from its very essence. Maeve never learned it—and never shall.” His jagged breathing deepened as he savored each word, each step closer. “It took all of them to hew the keys from the gate—every one of the healers amongst my kind. But you, with your gifts—it would only take you to do it again.

Erawan went still. Tried and failed to move. Looked at the stones of the balcony then. At the bloody mark he’d stridden across, too focused on his prey to notice. A Wyrdmark. To hold. To trap. 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.”