Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

Even moving as fast as they could, the khagan’s army was too slow. Too slow, and too large, to reach Terrasen in time.

In the week that they’d been pushing northward, Aelin begging Oakwald, the Little Folk, and Brannon for forgiveness as she razed a path through the forest, they were only just now nearing Endovier, and the border mere miles beyond it. From there, if they were lucky, it’d be another ten days to Orynth. And would likely become a disaster if Morath had kept forces stationed at Perranth after the city’s capture.

So they’d chosen to skirt the city on its western flank, going around the Perranth Mountains rather than cutting to the lowlands for the easier trek across the land. With Oakwald as their cover, they might be able to sneak up on Morath at Orynth.

If there was anything left of Orynth by the time they arrived. They were still too far for the ruk riders to do any sort of scouting, and no messengers had crossed their paths. Even the wild men of the Fangs, who had remained with them and now swore to march to Orynth to avenge their kin did not know of a faster path.

Aelin tried not to think of it. Or about Maeve and Erawan, wherever they might be. Whatever they might have planned.

Endovier, the only outpost of civilization they’d seen in a week, would be their first news since leaving the Ferian Gap.

She tried not to think of that, either. Of the fact that they would be passing through Endovier tomorrow, or the day after. That she’d see those gray mountains that had housed the salt mines.

Lying on her stomach atop her cot—no point in making anyone set up a royal bed for her and Rowan when they would be marching within a few hours—Aelin winced against the stinging burn along her back.

The clink of Rowan’s tools and the crackle of the braziers were the only sounds in their tent.

“Will it be done tonight?” she asked as he paused to dip his needle in the pot of salt-laced ink.

“If you stop talking,” was his dry reply.

Aelin huffed, rising onto her elbows to peer over a shoulder at him. She couldn’t see what he inked, but knew the design. A replica of what he’d written on her back this spring, the stories of her loved ones and their deaths, written right where her scars had been. Exactly where they’d been, as if he had their memory etched in his mind.

But another tattoo lay there now. A tattoo that sprawled across her shoulder bones as if it were a pair of spread wings. Or so he’d sketched for her.

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.

Aelin rested her chin atop her hands. “We’ll be near Endovier soon.”

Rowan resumed working, but she knew he’d listened to every word, thought through his response. “What do you want to do about it?”

She winced at the sting of a particularly sensitive spot near her spine.

“Burn it to the ground. Blast the mountains into rubble.”

“Good. I’ll help you.”

A small smile curved her lips. “The fabled warrior-prince wouldn’t tell me to avoid carelessly expending my strength?”

“The fabled warrior-prince would tell you to stay the course, but if destroying Endovier will help, then he’ll be right there with you.”

Aelin fell silent while Rowan continued working for another few minutes.

“I don’t remember the tattoo taking this long the last time.”

“I’ve made improvements. And you’re getting a whole new marking.”

She hummed, but said nothing more for a time.

Rowan kept at it, wiping away blood when necessary.

“I don’t think I can,” Aelin breathed. “I don’t think I can stand to even look at Endovier, let alone destroy it.”

“Do you want me to?” A calm, warrior’s question. He would, she knew. If she asked him, he’d fly to Endovier and turn it into dust.

“No,” she admitted. “The overseers and slaves are all gone anyway. There’s no one to destroy, and no one to save. I just want to pass it and never think of it again. Does that make me a coward?”

“I’d say it makes you human.” A pause. “Or whatever a similar saying might be for the Fae.”

She frowned at her interlaced fingers beneath her chin. “It seems I’m more Fae these days than anything. I even forget sometimes—when the last time was that I was in my human body.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” His hands didn’t falter.

“I don’t know. I am human, deep down, Faerie Queen nonsense aside. I had human parents, and their parents were human, mostly, and even with Mab’s line running true … I’m a human who can turn into Fae. A human who wears a Fae body.” She didn’t mention the immortal life span. Not with all they had ahead of them.

“On the other hand,” Rowan countered, “I’d say you were a human with Fae instincts. Perhaps more of them than human ones.” She felt him smirk. “Territorial, dominant, aggressive …”

“Your skills when it comes to complimenting women are unparalleled.”

His laugh was a brush of hot air along her spine. “Why can’t you be both human and Fae? Why choose at all?”

“Because people always seem to demand that you be one thing or another.”

“You’ve never bothered to give a damn what other people demand.”

She smiled slightly. “True.”

She gritted her teeth as his needle pierced along her spine. “I’m glad you’re here—that I’ll see Endovier again for the first time with you here.”

To face that part of her past, that suffering and torment, if she couldn’t yet look too closely at the last several months.

His tools, the numbing pain, halted. Then his lips brushed the top of her spine, right above the start of the new tattoo. The same tattoo he’d had Gavriel and Fenrys inking on his own back these past few days, whenever they stopped for the night. “I’m glad to be here, too, Fireheart.”

For however much longer the gods would allow it.



Elide slumped onto her cot, groaning softly as she bent to untie the laces of her boots. A day of helping Yrene in the wagon was no easy task, and the prospect of rubbing salve into her ankle and foot seemed nothing short of divine. The work, at least, kept the swarming thoughts at bay: what she’d done to Vernon, what had befallen Perranth, what awaited them at Orynth, and what they could ever do to defeat it.

From the cot opposite hers, Lorcan only watched, an apple half peeled in his hands. “You should rest more often.”

Elide waved him off, yanking away her boot, then her sock. “Yrene is pregnant—and throwing up every hour or so. If she doesn’t rest, I’m not going to.”

“I’m not entirely certain Yrene is fully human.” Though the voice was gruff, humor sparked in Lorcan’s eyes.

Elide fished the tin of salve from her pocket. Eucalyptus, Yrene had said, naming a plant Elide had never heard of, but whose smell—sharp and yet soothing—she very much enjoyed. Beneath the pungent herb lay lavender, rosemary, and something else mixed in with the opaque, pale liniment.

A rustle of clothing, and then Lorcan was kneeling before her, Elide’s foot in his hands. Nearly swallowed by his hands, actually. “Let me,” he offered.

Elide was stunned enough that she indeed let him take the tin from her grip, and watched in silence as Lorcan dipped his fingers into the ointment. Then began rubbing it into her ankle.

His thumb met the spot on her ankle where bone ground against bone. Elide let out a groan. He carefully, with near-reverence it seemed, began easing the ache away.

These hands had slaughtered their way across kingdoms. Bore the faint scars to prove it. And yet he held her foot as if it were a small bird, as if it were something … holy.

They had not shared a bed—not when these cots were too small, and Elide often passed out after dinner. But they shared this tent. He’d been careful, perhaps too careful, she sometimes thought, to give her privacy when changing and bathing.