Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

As the Lock became forged once more, as real as her own flesh. As Aelin’s magic completely vanished.

The final breaking. To send them back, to seal the gate. She’d use her last kernel of self, the final droplet, to seal the gate shut with the Lock. And then she would be gone. Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom

“When it is done, seal the gate and think of home. The marks will guide you.”

Mala held out her hand again, and an image formed within it. Of the tattoo across Aelin’s back. The new tattoo, of spread wings, the story of her and Rowan written in the Old Language amongst the feathers. 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.”

No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds. She would not go quietly. She was not afraid. So Aelin ripped out her power. Ripped out a chunk of what Mala had given her, a force to level a world, and flung it toward the Lock. The final bit. The last bit. And then Aelin leaped through the gate.

She passed through a world where a great city had been built along the curve of a river, the buildings impossibly tall and glimmering with lights.

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.

Omg feysand

A weak hand landed on his back, running over the tattoo he’d inked. As if tracing the symbols he’d hidden there, in a desperate, wild hope. “I came back,” she rasped.

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.

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

“Do it,” Manon said, surveying the still-unfamiliar wyverns who shared the space with Abraxos. Her mount was already awake. Staring out, solitary and cold, toward the battlefield beyond the city walls. Toward the blasted stretch of earth that no snow had been able to wipe away entirely.

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.

Doomed—that lovely, wolfish grin might be in its final days of existence. They might all be in their last days of existence now. Because of her.

Even if his thoughts still drifted northward—to a golden-eyed witch who walked with death beside her and did not fear it. Did she think of him? Wonder what had become of him in Morath?

“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.”

“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.”

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.

“I would have liked to have seen it,” Manon said quietly. “The Wastes. Just once.”

So Aedion leaned in, and kissed Lysandra, kissed the woman who should have been his wife, his mate, one last time. “I love you.”

“I will find you again,” he promised her. “In whatever life comes after this.” Lysandra nodded. “In every lifetime.”

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.

For Terrasen. All of it, for Terrasen. The Lord of the North landed, the immortal flame within his antlers shining bright as he began the charge. The army around and behind her flowed down the hillside, gaining with each step, barreling toward Morath’s back ranks. Barreling toward Orynth. Toward home.

Cadre, yet more than that. Brothers—the warriors fighting at his side were his brothers. Had stayed with him through all of it. And would continue to do so now.

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.

Aedion panted, an arm braced against the gate passageway. Behind Gavriel’s shield, the enemy teemed and raged. “Are you hurt?” his father asked. His first words to him. Aedion managed to lift his head. “You found Aelin,” was all he said.

“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.

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.

Gavriel smiled at him. “Close the gate, Aedion,” was all his father said.

His tattooed throat ripped out. His sword still gripped in his hand. Gavriel. His father.

Yet Rowan lowered his head. “I hope you found peace, my brother. And in the Afterworld, I hope you find her again.”

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.

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.”

Still Aelin remained there for a moment longer, just beyond the gates to her city. Her home. Still she pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the heart thundering beneath, feeling the dust of every road she had traveled these ten years to return here. For this moment. For this purpose. So she whispered it to herself, one last time. The story. Her story. Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom …

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.

“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.”

Still Aelin held the gate against Erawan and Maeve. Didn’t let them get one step closer to the city. The final sacrifice of Aelin Galathynius for Terrasen.

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.”

“How,” Maeve asked again. “How did you not break?” “Because I am not afraid,” Aelin said.

“Tell me—” It is your own. Erawan’s eyes widened as the words came out of him. As Damaris drew it from him. But Dorian did not marvel at the sword’s power. His father’s name … Dorian.

I wiped it away from existence. Yet he only remembered it once. Only once. The first time he beheld you.

Maeve’s eyes went wide, and she made to turn. But not fast enough. Not fast enough at all as Fenrys vanished from where he knelt, and reappeared—right behind Maeve. Goldryn burned bright as he plunged it through her back. Into the dark heart within.

And when she looked up at him, there were tears on his face. Not at the dead Valg queen before them. Or even at what Aelin had done. No, her prince, her husband, her mate, gazed to the south. To the battlefield. Even as their power melded, and she burned Maeve into ash and memory, Rowan stared toward the battlefield. Where line after line after line of Valg soldiers fell to their knees mid-fight with the Fae and wolves and Darghan cavalry.

So Aelin wrenched her sword free of the pile of ashes that had been Maeve. She lifted it high to the night sky, to the stars, and let her cry of victory fill the world. Let the name she shouted ring out, the soldiers on the field, in the city, taking up the call until all of Orynth was singing with it. Until it reached the shining stars of the Lord of the North gleaming above them, no longer needed to guide her way home. Yrene. Yrene. Yrene.

Rowan’s fingers tightened around hers, but she did not look at him as they crossed the threshold, passing through the gate. No, Aelin only looked at her people, smiling broadly and freely, as she entered Orynth, and they began to cheer, welcoming her home at long last.

Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed. A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak, undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars. Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.”

Manon did not back away as he slid his arms around her. “I am sorry,” he said into her hair. Tentatively, slowly, her hands drifted across his back. Then settled, embracing him. “I miss them,” she whispered, shuddering.

Dorian only held her tighter, and let Manon lean on him for as long as she needed, Abraxos staring toward that blasted bit of earth on the plain, toward the mate who would never return, while the city below celebrated.