Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. “To whatever end,” he whispered. Silver lined her eyes. “To whatever end.”

This was the sort of court he’d be joining—this whirlwind of … Lorcan didn’t know what the word was for it. He doubted any of his five centuries had prepared him for it, though.

So Manon nudged Abraxos, and he leaped into the sky, the Thirteen following suit. Not a child of war. But of peace.

Chaol was inclined to agree as Aelin Galathynius, Rowan Whitethorn, and several others entered the tent.

Perhaps Aelin would not remember, perhaps their encounter years ago had meant nothing to her at all, but Chaol drew Yrene forward. “Aelin, allow me to introduce—” “Yrene Towers,” the queen breathed as his wife stepped to his side. The two women stared at each other. Yrene’s mouth quivered as she opened the silver locket and pulled out a piece of paper. Hands trembling, she extended it to the queen.

“Fenrys … You know, I don’t actually know your family name.” Fenrys threw a roguish wink at the queen. “Moonbeam.” “It is not,” Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh. Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. “I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?”

“Because I’m trying to understand. How you could come to love a monster.” “Why?” He pushed into her space. She didn’t balk one step. Indeed, her eyes were blazing as she hissed, “Because it will help me understand how I did the same.”

Then she prowled toward him. “I’m surprised you’re not groping yourself.” “Who says I haven’t already?”

Manon was glowing, as if the stars atop her head pulsed through her body. A wondrous and mighty beauty, like no other in the world. Like no one had ever been, or would be again.

This death, though … It was not her death to claim. It did not belong to the parents whose spirits lingered at her side, who might have been there all along, leading her toward this. Who had not left her, even with death separating them. No, it did not belong to them, either. She looked behind her. Toward the Second waiting beside Dorian. Tears slid down Asterin’s face. Of pride—pride and relief.

Then the ancient witch knelt in the snow. “What was stolen has been restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon Crochan, Queen of Witches.”

Death had been her curse and her gift and her friend for these long, long years. She was happy to greet it again under the golden morning sun.

“Where is he?” Elide’s voice broke. Fenrys faced her now. Then Rowan and Aelin. Elide begged, voice breaking, “Where is Lorcan?”

“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.”

Maeve’s death blow. Spent here, to save the army that might mean Terrasen’s salvation. To spare the lives on the plain.

It was more intimate than anything they’d shared, more vulnerable than she’d ever allowed herself to be. “An alliance,” she said, throat bobbing, “between you and me.” Her golden eyes lifted to his, the offer gleaming there. To marry. To unite their peoples in the strongest, most unbreakable of terms.

She would be his wife, his queen. She was already his equal, his match, his mirror in so many ways. And with their union, the world would know it.

She nodded, unable to find words. She had offered him everything, and had thought he’d meant to accept it. Had thought he did accept it, with what they’d done afterward. Yet it had been a farewell. One last coupling before he ventured into the jaws of death. He would not cage her, would not accept what she’d given. As if he knew her better than she knew herself.

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 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.

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.”

“We came,” Manon said, loud enough that all on the city walls could hear, “to honor a promise made to Aelin Galathynius. To fight for what she promised us.” Darrow said quietly, “And what was that?” Manon smiled then. “A better world.”

Manon returned the gesture, bowing her head as she did. “We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”

“I’m glad to be here, too, Fireheart.” For however much longer the gods would allow it.

So Lorcan did.

It was not Abraxos who landed at the crossroads. And there was no sign of Manon Blackbeak. Light flashed again. And then Dorian Havilliard stood there, his jacket and cape stained and worn.

Abraxos, Abraxos— Hers. He was hers, and she was his, and the Darkness had chosen them to be together.

But Abraxos’s wings faltered. His tail, trying so valiantly to strike the bull, began to slow. No. No. Not like this. Anything but this.

Abraxos began to fall. Not fall. But dive—trying to get lower. To reach the ground, hauling that bull with him. So Manon might survive.

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.”

But they all looked at one another. Like they’d had some unspoken conversation and agreement. The Thirteen stalked toward their own mounts. Sorrel clasped Manon’s shoulder as she passed, then climbed onto her wyvern’s back. Leaving Asterin before Manon.

Her Second, her cousin, her friend, smiled, eyes bright as stars. “Live, Manon.”

Clearing a path right to the tower as Asterin swept in from the back, aiming for the uppermost level. Imogen went down first. Then Lin. And Ghislaine, her wyvern swarmed by their enemy. Then Thea and Kaya, together, as they had always been. Then the green-eyed demon twins, laughing as they went. Then the Shadows, Edda and Briar, arrows still firing. Still finding their marks. Then Vesta, roaring her defiance to the skies. And then Sorrel. Sorrel, who held the way open for Asterin, a solid wall for Manon’s Second as she soared in. A wall against whom the waves of Ironteeth broke and broke.

And then Asterin was there. Asterin was barreling toward that open stretch of air, for the tower itself, bought with the lives of the Thirteen. With their final stand.

But Asterin was already there. 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.

As she and the Thirteen Yielded completely, and blew themselves and the witch tower to smithereens.

The approaching rider halted, another—a beautiful woman Dorian could only describe as golden—right behind. But Dorian stared at the rider before him. At the posture of the body, the commanding seat he possessed. And as Chaol Westfall dismounted and ran the last few feet toward Dorian, the King of Adarlan wept.

Chaol didn’t hide his tears, the shaking that overtook him as he collided with Dorian and embraced his king.

And Chaol realized that it was indeed a queen standing before them, not the assassin he’d dragged out of a salt mine a few miles down the road. Not even the woman he’d seen in Rifthold.

Rowan just stared and stared at his mate. His reason for breathing.

Elide asked softly, “What is your vote, Aelin?” Aelin tore her eyes from Rowan, and he felt the absence of that stare like a frozen wind as she said, “It doesn’t matter.”

She bared her teeth. “It’s been decided.” He crossed his arms. “Then you and I will do it. Together.” Her heart stopped in her chest. He went on, “You are not forging the Lock alone.”

Rowan fell to his knees before her, putting his head in her lap as his arms wrapped around her waist. “I can’t bear it, Aelin. I can’t.”

Her eyes opened, and only bleak resolve lay within. “We do it now,” she said hoarsely. “Before the others. Before good-byes.” Dorian nodded. She only asked, “Do you want Chaol to be there?”

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

My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. “Ready?” Aelin breathed.

Yet his father looked to Aelin. “Let me do this. Let me finish this.” “What?” The word snapped from Dorian. “You were not chosen,” Aelin said, though the coldness in her voice faltered. “Nameless is my price,” the king said. Aelin went still.

She had lied. His Fireheart had lied. And he would now watch her die.

“I was given a message for you,” he said softly. His edges blurred, as the last of his power drained away. But he still smiled. Still looked at peace. “Your parents are … They are so very proud of you. They asked me to tell you that they love you so very much.”

“And that the debt has been paid enough, Fireheart.” Then he was gone. The last of him flowed into the Lock. Wiped from existence.