Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Vesta swore as the buckle on her saddle came undone. Dorian didn’t dare to look, to confirm that the invisible hands of his magic had worked.

we abandon these mountains,” Asterin argued, “then we’ll be far more trackable in the open lands. Both our enemies and the Crochans will spot us before we ever find them.”

The bear was blasted back, hitting the snow with an icy thump. It was instantly up again, racing for Manon. Only Manon.

He knew that light. A shifter.

The stygian spider had found her, somehow. After all these months, after the thousands of leagues Manon had traveled over sky and earth and sea, the spider from whom she’d stolen the silk to reinforce Abraxos’s wings had found her.

Manon drew Wind-Cleaver as Dorian held the spider in place with his magic, the king showing little signs of strain. Powerful—he grew more powerful each day.

And supposed that whatever bond lay between them was also proof he had little fear of pain or death. A good trait for a witch, yes. But in a mortal? It would likely wind up getting him killed.

Perhaps it was not a lack of fear, but rather a lack of … of whatever mortals deemed vital to their souls.

took two decades from a young merchant’s life in exchange for my silk. The gift of his shifting flowed through his life force—some

“How do you think I found you?” the spider asked. Manon stilled. “So many possessions left at Morath. Your scents all over them.”

“Shall I tell you what I spied a mere fifty miles south of here? Who I saw, Blackbeak?” Manon stiffened. “Crochans,” the spider

A path would find him here, Gavin had said. A path into Morath. Not a physical road, not a course of travel, but this.

I learned to wield the abilities the shape-shifter had transferred to me.” Damaris warmed in his hand. Truth.

And this … A way into Morath—as something else entirely. In another’s skin.

He could kill them all. Whether by choking the air from them or snapping their necks. He could kill them all, and the wyverns included. The knowledge carved out another hollow within him. Another empty spot.

He shrugged. “If you want someone to warm your bed who cowers at your every word and obeys every command, look elsewhere.”

Didn’t balk from Manon’s words as she said, “If you find so little value in your existence that it compels you to trust this thing, then by all means, bring her along.” A challenge to look not toward Morath or the spider, but inward. She saw exactly what gnawed on his empty chest, if only because a similar beast gnawed on her own.

And for once, she did not meet anyone’s stare. Didn’t do anything but gaze southward. The witch was keeping secrets, too. But were hers as dire as his?

which settled on Aelin, narrowing with pleasure. Maeve seemed content to

“The dragons didn’t survive that war. And they never rose again.” Her lips curved, and Aelin knew Maeve had ensured it. Other fire-wielders—hunted and killed.

“And you,” her father went on, “like the many great women and men of this House, shall use it to defend our kingdom.” Her eyes rose to his face, handsome and unlined. Solemn and kingly. “That is your charge, your sole duty.” He braced a hand on the rim of the shield, tapping it for emphasis. “To defend, Aelin. To protect.”

Connall stopped above Fenrys, his hand shaking. Fenrys only snarled up at him. Connall raised his knife into the air between them.

The blade plunged down. Not into Fenrys. But Connall’s own heart.

“There is no one here to help you.” Maeve’s voice was as empty as the gaps between stars. “And there is no one coming for you.”

Not as a trickle of blood snaked down Maeve’s cheek. Black blood. As dark as night.

A blink, and the blood flowed red. Its scent as coppery as her own. A trick of the light. A hallucination, another dream—

An onyx wind snapped for Aelin, wrapping around her neck. It squeezed, and she knew no more.

Aelin blinked three times. Are you all right? Two blinks answered. No. Lingering salt tracks streaked his cheeks.

No. Let him stay in this form for a while longer, let him mourn as a male and not a wolf. Let him stay in this form so she could hear a friendly voice, feel a gentle touch— She began to cry.

couldn’t start to explain that it wasn’t the glass, the shredded skin down to the bone. He wasn’t coming. He wasn’t coming to get her.

Salt overpowered the tang of her blood, and she knew he was crying. The scent of their tears filled the tiny room as he worked. Neither of them said a word.

Location was as important as numbers, was all he’d said. Not to Lysandra, of course. He barely said a damn word to her these days. Now certainly wasn’t the time to think of it. To care.

They’d let rest some of the Bane upon hearing how few Erawan had sent, and had filled the ranks with a mixture of soldiers from the Lords of Terrasen’s own small forces and those from Prince Galan Ashryver and Queen

Ansel of the Wastes, both of whom had additional warriors on the way.

No need to reveal they had a small battalion of Fae soldiers courtesy of Prince Endymion and Princess Sellene Whitethorn, or that the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert were amongst them, too. There would be a time when the surprise of their presence would be needed, Aedion had argued during the quick war council they’d conducted upon returning to the camp. Lysandra, winded from carrying him, Ren, and Murtaugh wi...

She didn’t dare see whose swords were still swinging. They would count their dead after the battle.

So Lysandra kept killing, the blood of her enemy like spoiled wine on her tongue.

They won, though Aedion was well aware that victory against five thousand troops was likely fleeting, considering Morath’s full host had yet to come.

The Lords of Suria had lost their father to Adarlan’s butchering blocks a decade ago, their mother surviving the wars and Adarlan’s occupation through her cunning and the fact that her prosperous port-city was too valuable to the empire’s trade route to decimate.

Aedion nodded. Far better than he’d anticipated. The lines had held, thanks to the Bane he’d interspersed amongst them. The Valg had tried to maintain order, yet once human blood began spilling, they had descended into battle lust and lost control, despite the screaming of their commanders.

Knew the five thousand troops Erawan had sent, ambushing Galan Ashryver’s ships by Ilium before setting upon Eldrys, were just to wear them down. No ilken, no Ironteeth, no Wyrdhounds.

“Darrow ordered us to Orynth, if we survived,” Sol countered, frowning at his brother.

War by committee. It was absurd. Every choice he made, every battlefield he picked, he had to argue for it. Convince them.

As if these troops weren’t for their queen, hadn’t come for Aelin when she’d called. As if the Bane served anyone else.

Had Aelin been here, one breath from her and the five thousand troops they’d exhausted themselves killing today would have been ash on the wind.

None of the lords around him had questioned where their queen was.

The Lords of Suria had no love for Darrow or the other lords who had led the forces in that final, doomed stand.

Ravi continued, “I say we head south. Mass our forces at the border, rather than let Morath creep so close to Orynth.”

“The rest of Ansel’s troops are making their way northward now. We could meet them. Perhaps have them hammer from the west while we strike from the north.”

A sound idea, and one Aedion had contemplated. Yet to convince Darrow