Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

Asterin cleared her throat, and the witch turned, her olive-skinned face tightening.

But she didn’t sneer. Didn’t hiss.

Mission done, Asterin turned away. But Manon said to the Crochan, jerking her chin toward the wyverns, “It’s different from using the brooms. Faster, deadlier, but you also have to feed and water them.”

Karsyn’s green eyes were wary—but curious. She glanced again at the wyverns huddled against the cold, Asterin’s blue mare pressed into Abraxos’s side, his wing draped over her.

Manon said, “Erawan made them, using methods we’re not quite sure of. He took an ancient template and brought it to life.” For there had been wyverns in Adarlan before—long ago. “He meant to breed a host of thoughtless killers, but some did not turn out as such.”

Asterin kept quiet for once.

Karsyn spoke at last. “Your wyvern seems like more of a dog than anything.”

It was not an insult, Manon reminded herself. The Crochans kept dogs as pets. Adored them, as humans did. “His name is Abraxos,” Manon said. “He is … different.”

“He and the blue one are mates.”

Asterin started. “They’re what?”

The Crochan pointed to the blue mare huddled beside Abraxos. “He is smaller, yet he dotes on her. Nuzzles her when no one is looking.”

Manon exchanged a glance with Asterin. Their mounts incessantly flirted, yes, but to mate—

“Interesting,” Manon managed to say.

“You didn’t know they did such things?” Karsyn’s brows knotted.

“We knew they bred.” Asterin stepped in at last. “But we haven’t witnessed it being for … choice.”

“For love,” the Crochan said, and Manon nearly rolled her eyes. “These beasts, despite their dark master, are capable of love.”

Nonsense, yet some kernel in her realized it to be true. Instead, Manon said, though she already knew, “What’s your name?”

But wariness again flooded Karsyn’s eyes, as if remembering whom she spoke to, that there were others who might see them conversing. “Thank you for the broom,” the witch said, and strode between the tents.

At least one of the Crochans had spoken to her. Perhaps this journey to Eyllwe would offer her the chance to speak to more. Even if she could feel each passing hour and minute weighing upon them.

Hurry northward, the wind sang, day and night. Hurry, Blackbeak.

When Karsyn was gone, Asterin remained staring at Abraxos and Narene, scratching her hair. “You really think they’re mated?”

Abraxos lifted his head from where it rested atop Narene’s back and looked toward them, as if to say, It took you long enough to figure it out.



“What am I supposed to be watching for, exactly?”

Sitting knee to knee in their tiny tent, the wind howling outside, Manon’s golden eyes narrowed as she peered into Dorian’s face. “My eyes,” he said. “Just tell me if they change color.”

She growled. “This shape-shifting is really a pressing thing to learn?”

“Indulge me,” he purred, and reached inward, his magic flaring.

Brown. You will change from blue to brown.

Liar—he supposed he was a liar for keeping his true reasons from her. He didn’t need Damaris to confirm it.

She might forbid him from going to Morath, but there was another possibility, even worse than that.

That she would insist on going with him.

Manon gave him a look that might have sent a lesser man running. “They’re still blue.”

Gods above, she was beautiful. He wondered when it would stop feeling like a betrayal to think so.

Dorian took a long breath, concentrating again. Ignoring the whispering presence of the two keys in his jacket pocket. “Tell me if it changes at all.”

“It’s that different from your magic?”

Dorian sat back, bracing his arms behind him as he sought the words to explain. “It’s not like other sorts of magic, where it flows through my veins, and half a thought has it changing from ice to flame to water.”

She studied him, head angled in a way he’d witnessed the wyverns doing. Right before they devoured a goat whole. “Which do you like the best?”

An unusually personal question. Even though this past week, thanks to the tent’s relative warmth and privacy, they’d spent hours tangling in the blankets now beneath them.

He’d never had anything like her. He sometimes wondered if she’d never had anything like him, either. He’d seen how often she found her pleasure when he took the reins, when her body writhed beneath his and she lost control entirely.

But the hours in this tent hadn’t yielded any sort of intimacy. Only blessed distraction. For both of them. He was glad of it, he told himself. None of this could end well. For either of them.

“I like the ice best,” Dorian admitted at last, realizing he’d let the silence drip on. “It was the first element that came out of me—I don’t know why.”

“You’re not a cold person.”

He arched a brow. “Is that your professional opinion?”

Manon studied him. “You can descend to those levels when you are angry, when your friends are threatened. But you are not cold, not at heart. I’ve seen men who are, and you are not.”

“Neither are you,” he said a bit quietly.

The wrong thing to say.

Manon stiffened, her chin lifting. “I am one hundred seventeen years old,” she said flatly. “I have spent the majority of that time killing. Don’t convince yourself that the events of the past few months have erased that.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” He doubted anyone had ever spoken to her that baldly—relished that he now did, and kept his throat intact.

She snarled in his face. “You’re a fool if you believe the fact that I am their queen wipes away the truth that I have killed scores of Crochans.”

“That fact will always remain. It’s how you make it count now that matters.”

Make it count. Aelin had said as much back in those initial days after he’d been freed of the collar. He tried not to wonder whether the icy bite of Wyrdstone would soon clamp around his neck once more.

“I am not a softhearted Crochan. I will never be, even if I wear their crown of stars.”

He’d heard the whispers about that crown amongst the Crochans this week—about whether it would be found at last. Rhiannon Crochan’s crown of stars, stolen from her dying body by Baba Yellowlegs herself. Where it had gone after Aelin had killed the Matron, Dorian had not the faintest idea. If it had stayed with that strange carnival she’d traveled with, it could be anywhere. Could have been sold for quick coin.

Manon went on, “If that is what the Crochans expect me to become before they join in this war, then I will let them venture to Eyllwe tomorrow alone.”

“Is it so bad, to care?” The gods knew he’d been struggling to do so himself.

“I don’t know how to,” she growled.

Ridiculous. An outright lie. Perhaps it was because of the high likelihood that he’d be collared again at Morath, perhaps it was because he was a king who’d left his kingdom in an enemy’s grip, but Dorian found himself saying, “You do care. You know it, too. It’s what makes you so damn scared of all this.”

Her golden eyes raged, but she said nothing.

“Caring doesn’t make you weak,” he offered.

“Then why don’t you heed your own advice?”

“I care.” His temper rose to meet hers. And he decided to hell with it—decided to let go of that leash he’d put on himself. Let go of that restraint. “I care about more than I should. I even care about you.”

Another wrong thing to say.

Manon stood—as high as the tent would allow. “Then you’re a fool.” She shoved on her boots and stomped into the frigid night.



I even care about you.

Manon scowled as she turned in her sleep, wedged between Asterin and Sorrel. Only hours remained until they were to move out—to head to Eyllwe and whatever force might be waiting to ally with the Crochans. And in need of help.

Caring doesn’t make you weak.

The king was a fool. Little more than a boy. What did he know of anything?

Still the words burrowed under her skin, her bones. Is it so bad, to care?

She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.