Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

Watches were set, both on the ground and in the sky. If the two surviving Matrons were to retaliate for their humiliating defeat, it would be now. The Crochans and Asterin had spent much of their time today laying misleading tracks, but only time would tell if they’d escaped.

The night was frigid enough that they took the time to erect tents, the wyverns huddling together against one of the rocky overhangs. And though no fires would have been wiser, the cold threatened to be so lethal that Glennis had taken the sacred flame from the glass orb where it was held while traveling and ignited her fire. Others had followed suit, and while glamours would be in place to hide the camp, the fires, from enemy eyes, Dorian couldn’t entirely forget that the Ironteeth Matrons had found them regardless.

They hadn’t spoken of where they were going next. What they would do. If they would part ways at last, or remain as one united group.

Manon had not asked or pushed them for an alliance, to go to war. Hadn’t demanded to know where they flew, such was their dire need to get far from their camp this morning.

But tomorrow, Dorian thought as he slid under the blankets of his bedroll, a lick of flame of his own making warming the space, tomorrow would force them to confront a few things.

Bone-tired, chilled despite the magic that warmed him, Dorian slumped his head against the roll of supplies he used for a pillow.

Sleep had almost dragged him under when a burst of cold slithered into the tent, then vanished. He knew who it was before she sat beside his bedroll, and when he opened his eyes, he found Manon with her knees drawn up, arms braced atop them.

She stared into the dimness of his tent, the space illumined with silvery light from the glowing stars on her brow.

“You don’t have to wear it all the time,” he said. “We’re allowed to take them off.”

Golden eyes slid toward him. “I’ve never seen you wear a crown.”

“The past few months haven’t provided much access to the royal collection.” He sat up. “And I hate wearing them anyway. They dig mercilessly into my head.”

A hint of a smile. “This is not so heavy.”

“Since it seems made of light itself, I’d imagine not.” Though that crown would weigh heavily in other ways, he knew.

“So you’re talking to me,” she said, not bothering to segue gracefully.

“I talked to you before.”

“Is it because I am now queen?”

“You were queen prior to today.”

Her golden eyes narrowed, scanning him for the answer she sought. Dorian let her do it, and returned the favor. Her breathing was steady, her posture at ease for once.

“I thought it would be more satisfying. To see her run.” Her grandmother. “When you killed your father, what did you feel?”

“Rage. Hate.” He didn’t balk from the truth in his words, the ugliness.

She chewed on her lower lip, no sign of those iron teeth. A rare, silent admission of doubt. “Do you think I should have killed her?”

“Some might say yes. But humiliating her like that,” he said, considering, “might weaken her and the Ironteeth forces more than her death. Killing her might have rallied the Ironteeth against you.”

“I killed the Yellowlegs Matron.”

“You killed her, spared the Blueblood witch, and your grandmother fled. That’s a demoralizing defeat. Had you killed them all, even killed just your grandmother and the Yellowlegs Matron, it could have turned their deaths into noble sacrifices on behalf of the Ironteeth Clans.”

She nodded, her golden eyes settling on him again with that preternatural clarity and stillness. “I am sorry,” she said. “For how I spoke when I learned of your plans to go to Morath.”

He was stunned enough that he just blinked. Stunned enough that humor was his only shield as he said, “Seems like that Crochan do-gooder behavior is rubbing off on you, Manon.”

A half smile at that. “Mother help me if I ever become so dull.”

But Dorian’s amusement faded away. “I accept your apology.” He held her gaze, letting her see the truth in it.

It seemed answer enough for her. Answer, and somehow the final clue to what she sought.

Her golden eyes guttered. “You’re leaving,” she breathed. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t bother to lie. “Yes.”

It was time. She had faced her grandmother, had challenged what she’d created. It was time for him to do the same. He didn’t need Damaris’s confirming warmth or the spirits of the dead to tell him that.

“How?”

“You witches have brooms and wyverns. I’ve learned to make my own wings.”

For a few breaths, she said nothing. Then she lowered her knees, twisting to face him fully. “Morath is a death trap.”

“It is.”

“I—we cannot go with you.”

“I know.”

He could have sworn fear entered her eyes. Yet she didn’t rage at him, roar at him—didn’t so much as snarl. She only asked, “You’re not afraid to go alone?”

“Of course I’m afraid. Anyone in their right mind would be. But my task is more important than fear, I think.”

Anger flickered over her face, her shoulders tensing.

Then it faded and was replaced by something he had seen only earlier today—that queen’s face. Steady and wise, edged with sorrow and bright with clarity. Her eyes dipped to the bedroll, then lifted to meet his own. “And if I asked you to stay?”

The question also took him by surprise. He carefully thought through his answer. “I’d need a very convincing reason, I suppose.”

Her fingers went to the buckles and buttons of her leathers, and began to loosen them. “Because I don’t want you to go,” was all she said.

His heart thundered as she revealed inch after inch of bare, silken skin. Not a seductive removal of her clothing, but rather an offer laid bare.

Her fingers began to shake, and Dorian moved at last, helping her to remove her boots, then her sword belt. He left her jacket open, the swells of her breasts just visible between the lapels. They rose and fell in an uneven rhythm that only turned more unsteady as she reached between them and began to remove his own jacket.

Dorian let her. Let her peel off his jacket, then the shirt beneath.

Outside, the wind howled.

And when they kneeled before each other, bare from the waist up, that crown of stars still atop her head, Manon said softly, “We could make an alliance. Between Adarlan, and the Crochans. And any Ironteeth who might follow me.”

It was her answer, he realized. To his request for a convincing reason to remain.

She took his hand, and interlaced their fingers.

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.

“You don’t want that,” he said with equal quiet. “You would never want to be shackled to any man like that.”

He could see the truth there, in her beautiful face. That she agreed with him. But she shook her head, the starlight dancing on her hair. “The Crochans have not offered to fly to war. I have not yet dared ask them. But if I had the strength of Adarlan beside me, perhaps they might be convinced at last.”

If they had not been convinced by today’s triumph, then nothing would change their minds. Even their queen offering up the freedom she craved so badly.

That Manon would even consider it, though …

Dorian twined a wave of her silver hair around his finger. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to drink her in.

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.

But he could see the bars of the cage that would creep closer, tighter, every day. And either break her wholly, or turn her into something neither of them wished her to ever be.

“You would marry me, all so we could aid Terrasen in this war?”

“Aelin is willing to die to end this conflict. Why should she bear the brunt of sacrifice?”

And there it was, her answer, though he knew she didn’t realize it.

Sacrifice.