Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

I will find you.

Days, months, years—they bled together, as her own blood often slithered over the stone floor and into the river itself. 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.

She’d never let them break her. Never swear that blood oath. For Terrasen, for her people, whom she had left to endure their own torment for ten long years. She owed them this much. Deep, deep, deep she went, as if she could outrun what was to come, as if she could hide from it. The hammer glinted in the firelight as it rose over her knee, Cairn’s breath sucking in, anticipation and delight mingling on his face. Fenrys blinked, over and over and over. I am here, I am with you. It didn’t stop the hammer from falling. Or the scream that shattered from her throat.

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

Dorian dared a step forward. “Am I human?” Gavin’s sapphire eyes softened—just barely. “I’m not the person who can answer that.” And then the king was gone.

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.

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

He would not allow it. That final breaking. He pushed upward against the bond’s dark chain, screaming, though no sound came from his open maw. He pushed and pushed and pushed against those invisible chains, against that blood-sworn order to obey, to stay down, to watch. He defied it. All that the blood oath was. Pain lanced through him, into his very core. He blocked it out as Cairn pointed the smoldering poker at the young queen with a heart of wildfire. He would not allow it. Snarling, the male inside him thrashing, Fenrys bellowed at the dark chain binding him. He shredded into it, biting and tearing with every scrap of defiance he possessed. Let it kill him, wreck him. He would not serve. Not another heartbeat. He would not obey. He would not obey. And slowly, Fenrys got to his feet.

“I know, Aelin.” He hadn’t bought the winks and smirks for a heartbeat. Aelin let out a sob that cracked something in him. “I can’t feel me—myself anymore. It’s like she snuffed it out. Ripped me from it. She, and Cairn, and everything they did to me.” She gulped down air, and Rowan wrapped her in his arms and pulled her onto his lap. “I am so tired,” she wept. “I am so, so tired, Rowan.” “I know.” He stroked her hair. “I know.” It was all there really was to say. Rowan held her until her weeping eased and she lay still, nestled against his chest. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “You fight,” he said simply. “We fight. Until we can’t anymore. We fight.” She sat up, but remained on his lap, staring into his face with a rawness that destroyed him. Rowan laid a hand on her chest, right over that burning heart. “Fireheart.” A challenge and a summons. She placed her hand atop his, warm despite the frigid night. As if that fire had not yet gone out entirely. But she only gazed up at the stars. To the Lord of the North, standing watch. “We fight,” she breathed.

Then he said, “I meant every promise I made to you on that beach in Skull’s Bay.” And then he was gone.

“You didn’t tell me, I’m assuming, because you didn’t want me to worry.” Yrene bit her lip. “Something like that.” He snorted. “And when you were waddling around, belly near bursting?” Yrene whacked his arm. “I’m not going to waddle.” Chaol laughed, and tugged her into his arms. “You’ll waddle beautifully, was what I meant to say.” Yrene’s laughter reverberated into him, and Chaol kissed the top of her head, her temple. “We’re having a child,” he murmured onto her hair. Her arms came around him. “We are,” she whispered.

Gavriel murmured, “The Faerie Queen of the West.” Silence. Aelin blurted, “Is that an actual title?” “It is now,” Fenrys muttered. Aelin shot him a look. “With Sellene as the Fae Queen of the East,” Rowan mused. No one spoke for a good minute. Aelin sighed up at the ceiling. “What’s another fancy title, I suppose?”

Being in a female form wasn’t entirely what Dorian had expected. The way he walked, the way he moved his hips and legs—strange. So disconcertingly strange. If any of the Crochans had noticed a young witch amongst them pacing in circles, crouching and stretching her legs, they didn’t halt their work as they readied the camp to depart. Then there was the matter of his breasts, which he’d never imagined to be so … cumbersome. Not unpleasant, but the shock of bumping his arms into them, the need to adjust his posture to accommodate

their slight weight, was still fresh after a few hours.

He’d thought he’d known everything about the female body. How to make a woman purr with pleasure. He was half-tempted to find a tent and learn firsthand what certain things felt like. Not an effective use of his time. Not with the camp readying for travel.

“Tell me to stay with you, if that’s what you want.” His invisible fingers grew talons and scraped over her skin. Manon’s throat bobbed. “But you won’t say that, will you, Manon?” Her breathing turned jagged. He continued to stroke her neck, her jaw, her throat, caressing skin he’d tasted over and over. “Do you know why?” When she didn’t answer, Dorian let one of those phantom talons dig in, just slightly. She swallowed, and it was not from fear. Dorian leaned in close, tipping his head back to stare into her eyes as he purred, “Because while you might be older, might be deadly in a thousand different ways, deep down, you’re afraid. You don’t know how to ask me to stay, because you’re afraid of admitting to yourself that you want it. You’re afraid. Of yourself more than anyone else in the world. You’re afraid.” For several heartbeats, she just stared at him. Then she snarled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” and stalked away. His low laugh ripped after her. Her spine stiffened. But Manon did not turn back.

A crown for war, a crown to wear into battle. A crown to lead armies. There was no fear on her face, no doubt, as Aelin hefted her shield, flipping Goldryn in her hand once before the first of Morath’s soldiers was upon her.

“You didn’t rutting die,” she snapped. “And you’re not dead yet. We’re not dead yet. So get in that saddle.” When Lorcan did nothing other than breathe and breathe and breathe, Elide spoke again. “I promised to always find you. I promised you, and you promised me. I came for you because of it; I am here because of it. I am here for you, do you understand? And if we don’t get onto that horse now, we won’t stand a chance against that dam. We will die.”

“No.” The salt of her tears filled his nose. Lorcan brushed his mouth over her damp cheek, ignoring the roaring pain in his body. The horse galloped and galloped, as if she might outrace death itself. “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.”

Lysandra’s green eyes slid toward him, dim with exhaustion and sorrow. “Deep down,” she said quietly, “some part of me thought I’d live to see her sitting here.” She pointed to the dais, to where the antler throne had once been. “Deep down, I thought we might actually make it somehow. Even with Morath, and the Lock, and all of it.” There was no hope in her face. It was perhaps because of it that she bothered to speak to him. “I thought so, too,” Aedion said with equal quiet, though the words echoed in the vast, empty chamber. “I thought so, too.”

At last, Maeve loosed a breath through her nose. “You came to Morath for a key and will leave with a bride.” He nearly sagged with relief. “I will leave with both. And quickly.”

“But who do you wish to be?” A careful question. “Not like Erawan. Or his brothers. I never have.” “That’s not exactly an answer.” “Do you know who and what you wish to be?” A challenge—and genuine question. “I’m figuring it out,” he said. Strange. So strange, to have this conversation. Sparing them both for the time being, Dorian rubbed at his face. “The key is in his tower. I’m sure of it.”

Who do you wish to be? A king worthy of his crown. A king who would rebuild what had been shattered, both within himself and in his lands.

Tell Erawan, Dorian said, halting on the windowsill, that I did it for Adarlan. For Sorscha and Kaltain and all those destroyed by it. As Adarlan itself had been destroyed. But from utter ruin, it might be built again. If not by him, then by others. Perhaps that would be his first and only gift to Adarlan as its king: a clean slate, should they survive this war.

Aedion grinned, and ruffled her red-gold hair. “The battle won’t be pretty,” he said as Evangeline sipped her milk. “And you will likely throw up again. But just remember that this fear of yours? It means you have something worth fighting for—something you care so greatly for that losing it is the worst thing you can imagine.” He pointed to the frost-covered windows. “Those bastards out there on the plain? They have none of that.” He laid his hand on hers and squeezed gently. “They have nothing to fight for. And while we might not have their numbers, we do have something worth defending. And because of that, we can overcome our fear. We can fight against them, to the very end. For our friends, for our family …” He squeezed her hand again at that. “For those we love …” He dared to look up at Lysandra, whose green eyes were lined with silver. “For those we love, we can rise above that fear. Remember that tomorrow. Even if you throw up, even if you spend the whole night in the privy. Remember that we have something to fight for, and it will always triumph.” Evangeline nodded. “I will.”

“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. Then her face crumpled, and Aedion only stared at her, unafraid of the words he’d spoken. Only afraid of the dark mass that swept toward them, staying within formation above that endless army. Afraid of what that legion would do to her, to Evangeline.

Evangeline had decided that she no longer wished to be page to Lord Darrow, but rather a Crochan witch. One of the women even went so far as to give the wide-eyed girl an extra red cloak, which Evangeline was still wearing when Lysandra tucked her into bed. She’d help Darrow tomorrow, Evangeline promised as she nodded off. After she made sure the Crochans had all the help they needed.

“Just …” Lysandra pressed her lips together. “Don’t die tomorrow. That’s all I ask.” “So you can have time to think about what you plan to do with my declaration.” “Precisely.” Aedion’s grin turned predatory. “May I ask something of you, then?” “I don’t think you’re in a position to make requests, but fine.” That wolfish grin remained as he whispered in her ear, “If I don’t die tomorrow, may I kiss you when the day is done?” Lysandra’s face heated as she pulled back, yielding a step. She was a trained courtesan, gods above. Highly trained. And yet the simple request reduced her knees to wobbling. She mastered herself, squaring her shoulders. “If you don’t die tomorrow, Aedion, then we’ll talk. And see what comes of it.” Aedion’s wolfish grin didn’t so much as falter. “Until tomorrow night, then.” Hell waited for them tomorrow. Perhaps their doom. But she wouldn’t kiss him, not now. Wouldn’t give that sort of promise or farewell. So Lysandra walked from the hall, heart racing. “Until tomorrow.”

The story of them. Rowan and Aelin. A story that had begun in rage and sorrow and become something entirely different. She was glad to have him leave it at that. At the happiness.

Home. This, with him. This was home, as she had never had. For however long they might share it.

Glennis stayed until the end. And when they were alone on the silent battlefield, Manon’s great-grandmother put a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, her voice somehow distant, “Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.”

My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid.

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

Then he was gone. The last of him flowed into the Lock. Wiped from existence. She barely felt the tears on her face as she fell to her knees. As she gave and gave her magic, her very self. My name is Aelin Ashryver Galath— A choking scream tore out of her as the last of the Lock sealed. As the Lock became forged once more, as real as her own flesh. As Aelin’s magic completely vanished.

“To a better world,” Mala said, and walked through the doorway into her own. A better world. A world with no gods. No masters of fate. A world of freedom.

A beam of light shot to the archway behind her. Beginning to seal it, too. She would live. She would live, and they could all go to hell. A better world. With no gods, no fates. A world of their own making. Aelin bellowed and bellowed, the sound ringing out across all worlds. They would not beat her. They would not get to take this, this most essential kernel of self. Of soul. Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom.… Her kingdom. Her home. She would see it again. It was not over. Behind her, the archway slowly sealed. The odds were slim; the odds were insurmountable. She had not been destined to escape this—to reach this point and still be breathing. Aelin’s hand drifted to her heart and rested there. It is the strength of this that matters, her mother had said, long ago. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home. No matter where she was. No matter how far. Even if it took her beyond all known worlds. Aelin’s fingers curled, palm pressing into the pounding heart beneath. This will lead you home.

The archway to Erilea inched closed. World-walker. Wayfarer. Others had done it before. She would find a way, too. A way home. 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 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. They were Fae, but this was not her world.

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. She told them so. And told them what had occurred. And when she was done, when Rowan remained holding her, Aelin held out her hand once more, just to see. Perhaps it had been a final gift of Mala’s, too. To preserve this piece of her that now formed in her hand—this droplet of water. Her mother’s gift. What Aelin had saved until the end, had not wanted to part with until the very last dregs of her were given to the Lock, to the Wyrdgate. Aelin held out her other hand, and the kernel of flame sputtered to life within it. An ordinary gift. A Fire-Bringer no more. But Aelin all the same.

“What would you decide?” Darrow’s question was quiet, tentative. She considered it. No one had ever asked her such a thing. “I should have very much liked to live at Caraverre,” Evangeline admitted. She knew he did not recognize it, but it didn’t matter now, did it? “Murtaugh showed me the land—the rivers and mountains right nearby, the forests and hills.” An ache throbbed in her chest. “I saw the gardens by the house, and I would have liked to have seen them in spring.” Her throat tightened. “I would have liked for that to have been my home. For this … for all of Terrasen to have been my home.” Darrow said nothing, and Evangeline set a hand on the castle stones, gazing to the west now, as if she could see all the way to Allsbrook and the small territory in its shadow. To Caraverre. “That’s what Terrasen has always meant to me, you know,” Evangeline went on, speaking more to herself. “As soon as Aelin freed Lysandra, and offered to let us join her court, Terrasen has always meant home. A place where … where the sort of people who hurt us don’t get to live. Where anyone, regardless of who they are and

where they came from and what their rank is can dwell in peace. Where we can have a garden in the spring, and swim in the rivers in the summer. I’ve never had such a thing before. A home, I mean. And I would have liked for Caraverre, for Terrasen, to have been mine.” She chewed on her lip. “So I would choose to fight. Until the very end. For my home, new as it is. I choose to fight.” Darrow was silent for so long that she peered up at him.

Darrow unbuckled the sword at his side and extended it to Aedion. Silence began to ripple through the hall at the sight of the sword—Aedion’s sword. The Sword of Orynth. Darrow held it between them, the ancient bone pommel gleaming. “Terrasen is your home.” Aedion’s haggard face remained unmoved. “It has been since the day I arrived here.” “I know,” Darrow said, gazing at the sword. “And you have defended it far more than any natural-born son would ever be expected to. Beyond what anyone might ever reasonably be asked to give. You have done so without complaint, without fear, and have served your kingdom nobly.” He extended the sword. “You will forgive a proud old man who sought to do so as well.” Aedion slid his arm from Lysandra’s shoulder, and took the sword in his hands. “Serving this kingdom has been the great honor of my life.” “I know,” Darrow repeated, and glanced down to Evangeline before he looked to Lysandra. “Someone very wise recently told me that Terrasen is not merely a place, but an ideal. A home for all those who wander, for those who need somewhere to welcome them with open arms.” He inclined his head to Lysandra. “I formally recognize Caraverre and its lands, and you as its lady.”

Indeed, she could barely make out the red cloaks. Manon Blackbeak had not broken her vow. And neither would she. Aelin glanced at her hand, hidden beneath the gauntlet. To where a scar should have been. I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come.

Father and son, they would do this. Defeat this.

A terrible, rushing sort of stillness took over Aedion’s body. He stopped hearing the battle. Stopped seeing the fighting around him, above him. Stopped seeing everything but the fallen warrior, who gazed toward the darkening sky with sightless eyes. His tattooed throat ripped out. His sword still gripped in his hand. Gavriel. His father.

Lysandra let out a strangled sob. “She—she has no magic left.” The shifter’s voice broke. “She has nothing left.” Still Aelin lifted her sword. Flames ran down the blade. One flame against the darkness gathered. One flame to light the night. Aelin raised her shield, and flames encircled it, too. Burning bright, burning undaunted. A vision of old, reborn once more.