Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

She took his hand, and he tried not to shudder in relief, tried not to fall to his knees as she slid the ruby ring onto his finger. It fit him perfectly, the ring no doubt forged for the king lying in this barrow.

Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. “To whatever end,” he whispered.

Silver lined her eyes. “To whatever end.”

A reminder—and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they’d sworn on that ship.

To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terrasen, ancient promises to the gods be damned.

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I’ll make the tattoo again.” She swallowed, but nodded. “And,” he added, “I’d like to add another. To me—and to you.”

Her brows flicked up, but he squeezed her hand. You’ll have to wait and see, Princess.

Another hint of a smile. She didn’t balk from the silent words this time. Typical.

He opened his mouth to voice the question he’d been dying to ask for days now. May I kiss you? But she pulled her hand from his.

Admiring the wedding band sparkling on her finger, her mouth tightened as she turned over her palm. “I’ll need to retrain.”

Not a single callus marked her hands.

Aelin frowned at her too-thin body. “And pack on some muscle again.” A slight quiver graced her words, but she curled her hands into fists at her sides and smirked at her clothes—the Mistward clothes. “It’ll be just like old times.”

Trying. She was dredging up that swagger and trying. So he would, too. Until she didn’t need to any more.

Rowan gave her a crooked grin. “Just like old times,” he said, following her out of the barrow and back toward the ebony river, “but with far less sleep.”

He could have sworn the passageway heated. But Aelin kept going.

Later. That conversation, this unfinished business between them, would come later.





CHAPTER 38


The queen and her consort needed a private moment, it seemed. Elide had been more surprised to see Fenrys in his beautiful male form than the gold that he and Gavriel bore, near-spilling out their pockets.

Lorcan laughed softly as they packed the treasure into their bags. More than some people could dream of. “At least she’s thinking one step ahead.”

Fenrys stilled where he crouched before his bag, the gold in his hands shimmering like his hair. There was nothing remotely warm in his dark eyes. “We’re only in this position because of you.”

Elide tensed as Lorcan stiffened. Gavriel halted his packing, a hand drifting to the dagger at his side.

But the dark-haired warrior inclined his head. “So I have been reminded,” he said, but didn’t glance to Elide.

Fenrys bared his teeth. “When we’re out of this,” he hissed, “you and I will settle things.”

Lorcan’s smile was a brutal slash of white. “It shall be my pleasure.”

Elide knew he meant it. He’d be glad to take on whatever Fenrys threw his way, to engage in that devastating, bloody conflict.

Gavriel let out a sigh, his tawny eyes meeting Elide’s. Nothing could be said or done to convince them otherwise.

Yet Elide found herself drawing in breath to suggest that fighting amongst each other, vengeance or no, wouldn’t be fulfilling, when Aelin and Rowan emerged from the passage.

Goldryn hung at the queen’s side, undoubtedly given back to her by the prince. Its glittering ruby looked like an amethyst in the blue lantern light, bobbing with each of Aelin’s steps.

They’d barely stepped onto the boat when a hissing flitted from the passage they’d vacated.

Tensing, Rowan and Gavriel swiftly shoved the boat from the shore. The creatures tugging them along lurched into motion, pulling them farther into the river.

Blades gleamed, all the immortal warriors deathly still.

Aelin didn’t draw Goldryn, though. Didn’t lift a burning hand. She merely lingered by Elide, her face like stone.

The hissing grew louder. Shadowed, scabbed hands clawed at the passage archway, recoiling wherever they met the light.

“Someone’s pissed about the treasure,” Fenrys muttered.

“They can get in line,” Aelin said, and Elide could have sworn that the gold in the queen’s eyes glowed. A flare of deep-hidden light, then nothing.

An ice-kissed wind snapped through the caves. The hissing stopped.

Shuddering, Elide murmured, “I don’t think I should care to return to these lands.”

Fenrys chuckled, a sensuous laugh that didn’t meet his eyes. “I agree with you, Lady.”



They drifted into the blackness for another day, then two. Still the sea did not appear.

Aelin was sleeping, a dreamless, heavy slumber, when a strong hand clasped her shoulder. “Look,” Rowan whispered, his breath brushing her ear.

She opened her eyes to pale light.

Not the ocean, she realized as she sat up, the others rousing, undoubtedly at Rowan’s word.

Overhead, clinging to the cavern ceiling as if they were stars trapped beneath the rock, small blue lights glowed.

Glowworms, like those in the lantern. Thousands of them, made infinite by the reflection in the black water. Stars above and below.

From the corner of her eye, Aelin glimpsed Elide press a hand to her chest.

A sea of stars—that’s what the cave had become.

Beauty. There was still beauty in this world. Stars could still glow, still burn bright, even buried under the earth.

Aelin breathed in the cool cave air, the blue light. Let it flow through her.

Rattle the stars. She’d promised to do that. Had done so much toward it, yet more remained. They had to hurry. How many suffered at Morath’s claws?

Beauty remained—and she would fight for it. Needed to fight.

It was a constant thrum in her blood, her bones. Right alongside the power that she shoved down deep and dismissed with each breath. Fight—one last time.

She’d escaped so she might do it. Would think of all those still defying Morath, defying Maeve, while she trained. She wouldn’t hesitate. Didn’t dare to pause.

She’d make this time count. In every way possible.

The emerald on her marriage band glistened with its own fire.

Selfish of her, to enforce that bond when her very blood destined her for a sacrificial altar, and yet she had gotten out of the boat to find them. The rings. Raiding the trove had been an afterthought. But if she was to have no scars on her, no reminder of where she’d been and who she was and what she’d promised, then she’d needed this one scrap of proof.

Aelin could have sworn the living stars overhead sang, a celestial choir that floated through the caves.

A star-song carried along the river current, running beside them, for the last miles to the sea.





CHAPTER 39


The enemy’s army arrived not in three days, or four, but five.

A blessing and a curse, Nesryn decided. A blessing, for the time it granted them to prepare, for the ruks to carry some of the most vulnerable of Anielle’s people to a snow-blasted camp beyond the Fangs.

And a curse for the fear it allowed to fester in the keep, now teeming with those who would not or could not make the journey. By sunset on the fourth day, they could see the black lines marching for them through the swaths of Oakwald that they hewed down.

By dawn on the fifth day, they were near the outskirts of the lake, the plain.

Nesryn sat atop Salkhi on one of the keep’s spires, Borte on Arcas beside her.

“For a demon army, they march slower than my ej’s own mother.”

Nesryn snorted. “Armies have supply trains—and this one had a river to cross and a forest to fell.”

Borte sniffed. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble for such a small city.”

Indeed, the ruk riders had not been impressed by Anielle, certainly not after camping in Antica before their passage to these lands.

“Save this city, take the Ferian Gap to the north of it, and we could clear a path northward. It might be an ugly place, but it’s vital.”

“Oh, the land is beautiful,” Borte said, gazing toward the lake sparkling under the winter light, steam from the nearby hot springs drifting across its surface. “But the buildings …” She made a face.