Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Tell Darrow,” Ravi cut in, “that he can come meet us, then. Rather than make us move an entire army just to see him.” “The meeting is an excuse,” Sol said quietly. Aedion nodded. At Ravi’s narrowed brows, his elder brother clarified, “He wants to make sure that we don’t …” Sol trailed off, aware of the thief who listened to every word. But Nox smiled, as if he grasped the meaning anyway.

Darrow wanted to ensure that they didn’t take the army from here and march southward.

Aedion stopped long enough to greet those men, to offer a hand on the shoulder or a word of reassurance. Some would last the night. Many wouldn’t.

Rhoe had taught him that—the art of making his men want to follow him, die for him. But

Her emerald eyes went as cold as the winter night around them. “I don’t give a damn about your good graces. I care about this army being worn down with unnecessary movements.”

“We have enough enemies as it is,” Lysandra went on. “But if you truly wish to make me one of them as well, that’s fine. I don’t regret what I did, nor will I ever.” “Fine,” was all he could think to say.

“Go slither off somewhere else.” Hurt flashed in her eyes, quickly hidden. He was the worst sort of bastard for it.

She had enough dignity left not to beg. To not watch Aedion go into Kyllian’s tent and wonder if it was for a meeting, or because he was seeking to remind himself of life after so much killing today.

Lysandra made her way toward the comfortable tent Sol of Suria had given her near his. A kind, sharply clever man—who had no interest in women. The younger brother, Ravi, had eyed her, as all men did. But he’d kept a respectful distance, and had talked to her, not her chest, so she liked him, too. Didn’t mind having a tent in their midst.

It is the strength of this that matters, Aelin. Aelin’s fingers dug into her chest as she mouthed, The strength of this. Evalin nodded.

Evalin’s face didn’t falter. You are my daughter. You were born of two mighty bloodlines. That strength flows through you. Lives in you.

You do not yield.

Again. Again. Until she was alive with it, until her blood was raining onto her face, washing away the tears, until every pound of her fist into the iron was a battle cry. You do not yield. You do not yield. You do not yield.

It rose in her, burning and roaring, and she gave herself wholly to it. Distantly, close by, wood crashed. Like someone had staggered into something. Then shouting.

“Get me that gloriella!” The words meant nothing. He was nothing. Would always be nothing.

The top of the lid had been warped. A great hump now protruded, the metal stretched thin. As if it had come so very close to breaking entirely.

It hit him a heartbeat later. Erupted around him and roared. Over and over and over, as if it were a hammer against an anvil.

That raging, fiery song charged closer. Through him. Down the mating bond. Down into his very soul.

“North,” Gavriel said, turning his bay gelding. “The surge came from the North.” From Doranelle. A beacon in the night. Power rippling into the world, as it had done in Skull’s Bay. It filled him with sound, with fire and light. As if it screamed, again and again, I am alive, I am alive, I am alive.

with as much hope and fury and unrelenting love as he had felt from her. I will find you.

Perranth’s eyes wide. “I know,” he said, his plan forming, as cold and ruthless as the power in his veins. “We’ll draw out Maeve with a different sort of lure, then.”

Manon’s hand itched for Wind-Cleaver at her back. But Dorian said, “We’ve been looking for you for two months now.” The Crochans again tensed. “Not for violence or sport,” he clarified, the words flowing in a silver-tongued melody. “But so we might discuss matters between our peoples.”

Even from a distance, Dorian had marveled at the brooms the Crochans sat astride to soar through the sky. But now, surrounded by them … No mere myths. But warriors. Ones all too happy to end them.

Bloodred capes flowed everywhere, stark against the snow and gray peaks.

“I am Glennis. My family served the Crochan royals, long before the city fell.” The ancient witch’s eyes went to the strip of red cloth tying Manon’s braid. “Rhiannon found you, then.”

Dorian didn’t need Damaris’s confirming warmth to know her next words were true. “I was her great-grandmother.” Even the whipping wind quieted. “As I am yours.”

The Ironteeth had found them. Far sooner than Manon had planned.

How the Ironteeth patrol had found them, Dorian didn’t know. He supposed the fires would be a giveaway.

No time to question how they’d been found, whether the spider had indeed laid a trap—certainly not as Manon’s voice rang out, ordering the Thirteen into defensive positions.

Not an order for the Thirteen, but the Crochans. Glennis shouted, some magic no doubt amplifying her voice, “Follow her command!” Just like that, the Crochans fell back, forming a solid unit in the air above the tents.

Each of the Thirteen marked a target with every swipe through the gathered attackers. The Yellowlegs had no such organization.

“You think it mere coincidence that they arrive, and then we’re attacked?” “They fought with us, not against us,” Glennis said. She turned to Manon. “Do you swear it?” Manon’s golden eyes glowed in the firelight. “I swear it. I did not lead them here.” Glennis nodded, but Dorian stared at Manon. Damaris had gone cold as ice. So cold the golden hilt bit into his skin. Glennis, somehow satisfied, nodded again. “Then we shall talk—later.” Bronwen spat on the bloody ground and prowled off. A lie. Manon had lied.

She was a liar, and a killer, and would likely have to be both again before this was through. But Manon had no regrets about what she’d done. Had no room in her for regret.

She’d seen that look in his eyes. Like he knew.

they did not have the time to waste in wooing them. So she’d picked the only method she knew: battle. Had soared off on her own earlier that day, to where she knew Ironteeth would be patrolling nearby, waited until the great northern wind carried her scent southward. And then bided her time.

“I myself bore your grandfather, who mated a Crochan Queen before she died giving birth to your father.”

Another thing they’d inherited from the Fae: their difficulty conceiving and the deadly nature of childbirth. A way for the Three-Faced Goddess to keep the balance, to avoid flooding the lands with too many immortal children who would devour her resources.

“Our men dwell at our homes, where they are safe. This camp is an outpost while we conduct our business.” The Crochans had always given birth to more males than the Ironteeth, and had adopted the Fae habit of selecting mates—if not a true mating bond, then in spirit.

Tristan. That had been his name. Had her grandmother even known it before she’d killed him?

Manon tensed. If Rhiannon’s mother were here—

“She was slaughtered by a Yellowlegs sentinel in the river plains of Melisande. Years ago.” A flicker of shame went through Manon at the relief that flooded her.

That same night, just before Rhiannon began her three-day battle against the Ironteeth High Witches, my mother smuggled the baby princess out on her broom.” The crone’s throat bobbed. “Rhiannon was her dearest friend—a sister to her. My mother wanted to stay, to fight until the end, yet she was asked to do this for her people. Our people. Until the day of her death, my mother believed Rhiannon went to hold the gates against the High Witches as a distraction. To get that last Crochan scion out while the Ironteeth looked the other way.”

It wasn’t enough to stop Bronwen, though, as the witch looked Manon over and snarled, “You are not our queen. We will never fly with you.”

Ruthless. What Manon had done tonight, leading the Ironteeth to this camp … Dorian didn’t have a word for it other than ruthless.

Her small hand drifted to her middle, just above her navel. “A little seed of power. I will the shift, think of what I wish to be, and the change starts within here first. Always, the heat comes from here.”

That is the secret to the shifting. Be what you wish.”

He thought of brown eyes. Pictured Chaol’s bronze eyes, fierce after one of their sparring sessions. Not how they had been before his friend had sailed to the southern continent.

He willed it toward her—willed it to find that seed of power within her. To learn it.

His magic wrapped around her, and he could feel it—each hateful, horrible year of existence. Each— His mouth dried out. Bile surged in his throat at the scent his magic detected. He’d never forget that scent, that vileness. He’d bear the mark on his throat forever as proof.

Valg. The spider, somehow, was Valg. And not possessed, but born.