Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

He had been hunting for her since the moment she was taken from him. His mate. He barely remembered his own name.

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A princess who was to live for a thousand years. Longer. That had been her gift. It was now her curse.

Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom …

There was nothing kind in the prince’s face. Nothing warm. Only cold-blooded predator. Hell-bent on finding the queen who held his heart.

All he had was an unmarked grave for a healer no one would remember, a broken empire, and a shattered castle.

And tell him thank you—for walking that dark path with me back to the light. It had been his honor. From the very beginning, it had been his honor, the greatest of his immortal life. An immortal life they would share together—somehow. He’d allow no other alternative. Rowan silently swore it to the stars. He could have sworn the Lord of the North flickered in response.

She didn’t tell the Healer on High that she wasn’t entirely sure how much longer she’d be a help—not yet. Hadn’t whispered a word of that doubt to anyone, even Chaol. Yrene’s hand drifted across her abdomen and lingered.

Omg

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

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. And then silence. Like it had been cut off. Extinguished.

He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he’d wrapped around his heart, he’d still found Aelin. Every horizon he’d gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he’d seen and wondered what lay beyond … It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it. They’d walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.

She had wanted to believe him, but this dream, this illusion she’d been spun … Not an illusion. He had come for her. Rowan. Rowan Whitethorn. Now Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, her husband and king-consort. Her mate. She mouthed his name. He had come for her. Rowan.

Aelin laid hers atop his, and his callused fingers squeezed gently. “I wanted it to be you,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “For months and months, even in Wendlyn, I wondered why you weren’t my mate instead. It tore me up, wondering it, but I still did.” He opened his eyes, and they burned like green fire. “All this time, I wanted it to be you.”

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.

His name on her lips had been a summons he could never deny, even when death had held him so gently, nestled beneath all those he’d felled, and waited for his last breaths.

“I love you,” he whispered in Elide’s ear. “I have loved you from the moment you picked up that axe to slay the ilken.” Her tears flowed past him in the wind. “And I will be with you …” His voice broke, but he made himself say the words, the truth in his heart. “I will be with you always.”

As Aelin opened her hand toward it. Fire erupted. Cobalt fire. The raging soul of a flame. A tidal wave of it. Taller than the raging waters, it blasted from her, flaring wide. The wave slammed into it. And where water met a wall of fire, where a thousand years of confinement met three months of it, the world exploded.

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.

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.

And so Morath began to crumble. Smiling at Maeve, Dorian pulled out. Pulled away, even as he held her mind.

He met Lysandra’s stare, her eyes emerald-bright. “I lost my family ten years ago. Tomorrow I will fight for the new one I’ve made.” Not only for Terrasen and its court and people. But also for the two ladies in this room. I wanted it to be you in the end. He almost spoke her words then. Almost said them back to Lysandra as something like sorrow and longing entered her face. But Aedion ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Dude

But Aedion kept his attention fixed on Lysandra. “Please. I am begging you. I am begging you, Lysandra, to go.” Her chin lifted. “You are not asking our other allies to run.” “Because I am not in love with our other allies.” For a heartbeat, she blinked at him.

Asterin tackled the Blackbeak Matron to the ground, Manon’s grandmother little more than a shadow against the brightness. 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.

“I have always wanted a sister,” Dorian said, and leaned to kiss Yrene on either cheek. “Welcome to Adarlan, Lady.”

“You’re last, Rowan.” “I vote no. Not now, not ever.” Her eyes were cold, distant. The way they’d been in Mistward. “It’s decided, then,” Chaol said quietly. Sadly. “At dawn, the Lock will be forged and the keys go back into the gate,” Dorian finished. Rowan just stared and stared at his mate. His reason for breathing.

Here we go

Rowan kissed her. “I love you,” he whispered onto her mouth. “Come back to me.”

No. The mating bond writhed, as if in agony, as if in terror. He halted, Aelin’s name on his lips. Rowan fell to his knees as the three Wyrdkeys within Aelin’s arm dissolved into her blood. Like dew in the sun.

A flick of Mala’s fingers and symbols rose from it. Hidden within the words, the feathers. Wyrdmarks. Rowan had hidden Wyrdmarks in her tattoo. Had inked Wyrdmarks all over it. “A map home,” Mala said, the image fading. “To him.”

The others gaped in silence at the magnificent, proud stag who had come to greet them. To guide home the Queen of Terrasen.

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.”

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.

Maeve extended a hand before her, darkness swirling in her cupped palm. “There are no gods left to watch, I’m afraid. And there are no gods left to help you now, Aelin Galathynius.” Aelin smiled, and Goldryn burned brighter. “I am a god.” She unleashed herself upon them.

Chaol awoke to warm, delicate hands stroking over his brow, his jaw. He knew that touch. Would know it if he were blind.

“You could just marry each other,” Yrene said, and Dorian whipped his head to her, incredulous. “It’d make it easier for you both, so you don’t need to pretend.” Chaol gaped at his wife.

Aelin kissed him again and took his hand, guiding him into the castle. Into their home. “To whatever end?” she breathed. Rowan followed her, as he had his entire life, long before they had ever met, before their souls had sparked into existence. “To whatever end, Fireheart.”