Kingdom of Ash

by Sarah J. Maas

  “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.

  Nesryn chuckled. “You may be right.”

  For a few moments, they watched the army creep closer. People were fleeing in the streets now, rushing up the keep’s endless steps and battlements.

  “I’m surprised Sartaq will let his future empress fly against them,” Borte said slyly. The girl had relentlessly teased her these weeks.

  Nesryn scowled. “Where’s Yeran?”

  Borte stuck out her tongue, despite the army inching toward them. “Burning in hell, for all I care.”

  Even away from their respective aeries and ancient rivalries, the betrothed pair had not warmed to each other. Or perhaps it was part of the game the two of them played, had been playing for years now. To feign loathing, when it was so clear they’d slaughter anyone who posed a threat to the other.

  Nesryn lifted her brows, and Borte crossed her arms, her twin braids blowing in the wind. “He’s bringing the last two healers to the keep.” Indeed, a near-black ruk flapped up from the plain.

  “No inclination to finally wed before the battle?”

  Borte recoiled. “Why would I?”

  Nesryn smirked. “So you might have your wedding night?”

  Borte barked a laugh. “Who says I haven’t already?”

  Nesryn gaped.

  But Borte only inclined her head, clicked her tongue at Arcas, and rider and ruk dove into the brisk sky.

  Nesryn stared after Borte until she’d reached the plain, passing by Yeran and his ruk in a daring maneuver that some might have interpreted to be a giant, vulgar gesture to the warrior.

  Yeran’s dark ruk screeched in outrage, and Nesryn smiled, knowing Yeran was likely doing the same, even with the two healers riding with him.

  Yet Nesryn’s smile proved short-lived as she again beheld the marching army nearer and nearer with each minute. An unbroken, untiring mass of steel and death.

  Would they camp until dawn, or attack at nightfall? Would the siege be quick and lethal, or long and brutal? She’d seen their supply trains. They were prepared to stay for as long as it took to bring this city to rubble.

  And wipe out every soul dwelling within.

  The bone drums began at sundown.

  Yrene stood on the highest parapet of the keep, counting the torches sprawling into the night, and fought to keep her dinner down.

  It was no different from the other meals she’d eaten today, she told herself. The meals she had struggled to consume without gagging.

  The parapet was filled with soldiers and onlookers alike, all gazing toward the army at the border of the plain that separated them from the city’s edge, all listening in hushed silence to the relentless drumming.

  A steady, horrible beat. Meant to unnerve, to break one’s will.

  She knew they’d continue all night. Deprive them of rest, make them dread the dawn.

  The keep was as full as it could stand, hallways crammed with bedrolls. She and Chaol had yielded their room to a family of five, the children too young to make the trip to the Wastes, even on a ruk’s back. In the frigid air, an infant might go blue with cold in minutes.

  Yrene ran a hand over the waist-high stone wall. Thick, ancient stone. She beseeched it to hold out.

  Catapults. There were catapults in the army below. She’d heard Falkan’s latest report at breakfast. The plain itself was still littered with enough boulders from the days it had been a part of the lake that Morath would have no problem finding things to hurl at them.

  The warning had kept Yrene busy all day, relocating families who had taken rooms on the lake side of the keep or those who slept too close to windows or outer walls. Last-minute, and foolish not to consider it before now, but she’d been so focused these past five days on getting everyone in that she hadn’t thought of things like catapults
and shattering blocks of heavy stone.

  She’d moved their healing supplies, too. To an inner chamber where it would take the entire keep collapsing to destroy what was inside. The Torre healers had brought what they could from the fleet, but they’d made more when they arrived. Not their best work, not by any means, but Eretia had ordered that the salves and tonics need only to function, not dazzle, and to keep mixing.

  All was set. All was ready. Or as ready as they might ever be.

  So Yrene lingered on the battlements, listening to the bone drums for a while longer.

  Chaol told himself it was not his last night with his wife. He’d still made the best of it, and they had rested as much as they could stand before they were up, hours before dawn.

  The rest of the keep was awake, too, the ruks restless on the tower roofs and battlements, the click and scrape of their talons on the stones echoing in every hall and chamber.

  The drums kept pounding. Had pounded all night.

  He’d kissed Yrene good-bye, and she’d seemed like she wanted to say more but had opted to hold him for a long, precious minute before they parted ways.

  It would not be the last time he saw her, he promised himself as he aimed for the battlements where his father, Sartaq, and Nesryn had agreed to meet at dawn.

  The prince and Nesryn had not yet arrived, but his father stood in armor Chaol had not glimpsed since childhood. Since his father had ridden to serve Adarlan’s wishes. To conquer this continent.

  It still fit him well, the muted metal scratched and dented. Not the finest piece of armor from the family arsenal beneath the keep, but the sturdiest. A sword hung at his hip, and a shield lay against the battlement wall. Around them, sentries tried not to watch, though their fear-wide eyes tracked every movement.

  The drums pounded on.

  Chaol came up beside his father, his own dark tunic reinforced with armor at his shoulders, forearms, and shins.

  A cane of ironwood had been sheathed down Chaol’s back, for when Yrene’s magic began to fade, and his chair waited just inside the great hall, for when her power depleted entirely.

  What his father had made of it when Chaol had explained yesterday, he hadn’t let on. Hadn’t said a single word.

  Chaol cast a sidelong glance at the man staring toward the army whose fires began winking out one by one under the rising light.

  “They used the bone drums during the last siege of Anielle,” his father said, not a tremor in his voice. “Legend says they beat the drums for three days and three nights before they attacked, and that the city was so rife with terror, so mad with sleeplessness, that they didn’t stand a chance. Erawan’s armies and beasts shredded them apart.”

  “They did not have ruks fighting with them then,” Chaol said.

  “We’ll see how long they last.”

  Chaol gritted his teeth. “If you do not have hope, then your men will not last long, either.”

  His father stared toward the plain, the army revealed with each minute.

  “Your mother left,” the man said at last.

  Chaol didn’t hide his shock.

  His father gripped the stone parapet. “She took Terrin and left. I don’t know where they fled. As soon as we realized we’d been surrounded by enemies, she took her ladies-in-waiting, their families. Departed in the dead of night. Only your brother bothered to leave a note.”

  His mother, after all she’d endured, all she’d survived in this hellish house, had finally walked out. To save her other son—their promise of a future. “What did Terrin say?”

  His father smoothed his hand over the stone. “It doesn’t matter.”

  It clearly did. But now wasn’t the time to push, to care.

  There was no fear on his father’s face. Just cold resignation.

  “If you do not lead these men today,” Chaol growled, “then I will.”

  His father looked at him at last, his face grave. “Your wife is pregnant.”

  The shock roiled through Chaol like a physical blow.

  Yrene—Yrene—

  “A skilled healer she might be, but a deft liar, she is not. Or have you not noticed her hand frequently resting on her stomach, or how green she turns at mealtime?”

  Such mild, casual words. As if his father weren’t ripping the ground out from beneath him.

  Chaol opened his mouth, body tensing. To yell at his father, to run to Yrene, he didn’t know.

  But then the bone drums stopped.

  And the army began to advance.

  CHAPTER 40

  Manon and the Thirteen had buried each and every one of the soldiers massacred by the Ironteeth. Their torn and bleeding hands throbbed, their backs ached, but they’d done it.

  When the last of the hard earth had been patted down, she’d found Bronwen lingering at the clearing edge, the rest of the Crochans having moved off to set up camp.

  The Thirteen had trudged past Manon. Ghislaine, according to Vesta, had been invited to sit at the hearth of a witch with an equal interest in those mortal, scholarly pursuits.

  Only Asterin remained in the shadows nearby to guard her back as Manon asked Bronwen, “What is it?”

  She should have tried for pleasantries, for diplomacy, but she didn’t. Couldn’t muster it.

  Bronwen’s throat bobbed, as if choking on the words. “You and your coven acted honorably.”

  “You doubted it, from the White Demon?”

  “I did not think the Ironteeth bothered to care for human lives.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. Manon only said, “My grandmother informed me that I am no longer an Ironteeth witch, so it seems who they do or do not care for no longer bears any weight with me.” She kept walking toward the trees where the Thirteen had vanished, and Bronwen fell into step beside her. “It was the least I could do,” Manon admitted.

  Bronwen glanced at her sidelong. “Indeed.”

  Manon eyed the Crochan. “You lead your witches well.”

  “The Ironteeth have long given us an excuse to be highly trained.”

  Something like shame washed through her again. She wondered if she’d ever find a way to ease it, to endure it. “I suppose we have.”

  Bronwen didn’t reply before peeling off toward the small fires.

  But as Manon went in search of Glennis’s own hearth, the Crochans looked her way.

  Some tipped their heads toward her. Some offered grim nods.

  She saw to it that the Thirteen were tending to their hands, and found herself unable to sit. To let the weight of the day catch up to her.

  Around them, around each fire, Crochans argued quietly on whether to return home or head farther south into Eyllwe. Yet if they went into Eyllwe, what would they do? Manon barely heard as the debate raged, Glennis letting each of the seven ruling hearths arrive at its own decision.

  Manon didn’t linger to hear what they chose. Didn’t bother to ask them to fly northward.

  Asterin stalked to Manon’s side, offering her a strip of dried rabbit while the Thirteen ate, the Crochans continuing their quiet debates. The wind sang through the trees, hollow and keening.

  “Where do we go at dawn?” Asterin asked. “Do we follow them, or head northward?”

  Did they cling to this increasingly futile quest to win them over, or did they abandon it?

  Manon studied her bleeding, aching hands, the iron nails crusted with dirt.

  “I am a Crochan,” she said. “And I am an Ironteeth witch.” She flexed her fingers, willing the stiffness from them. “The Ironteeth are my people, too. Regardless of what my grandmother may decree. They are my people, Blueblood and Yellowlegs and Blackbeak alike.”

  And she would bear the weight of what she’d created, what she’d trained, forever.

  Asterin said nothing, though Manon knew she listened to every word. Knew the Thirteen had stopped eating to listen, too.

  “I want to bring them home,” Manon said to them, to the wind that flowed all the way to the Wastes. “I want
to bring them all home. Before it is too late—before they become something unworthy of a homeland.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Asterin asked softly, but not weakly.

  Manon finished the strip of dried meat, and swigged from her waterskin.

  The answer did not lie in picking one over the other, Crochan over Ironteeth. It never had.

  “If the Crochans will not rally a host, then I’ll find another. One already trained.”

  “You cannot go to Morath,” Asterin breathed. “You won’t get within a hundred miles. The Ironteeth host might be already too far gone to even consider siding with you.”

  “I’m not going to Morath.” Manon slid her frozen hand into her pocket. “I’m going to the Ferian Gap. To whatever of the host remains there under Petrah Blueblood’s command. To ask them to join us.”

  Asterin and the Thirteen had been stunned into silence. Letting them dwell on it, Manon had turned into the trees. Had picked up Dorian’s scent and followed it.

  And seen him conversing with the spirit of Kaltain Rompier, the woman healed and lucid in death. Freed from her terrible torment. Shock had rooted Manon to the spot.

  Then she’d heard of Dorian’s plans to infiltrate Morath. Morath, where the third and final Wyrdkey was kept. He’d known, and hadn’t told her.

  Kaltain had vanished into the night air and then Dorian had shifted. Into a beautiful, proud raven.

  He hadn’t been training to entertain himself. Not at all.

  Manon snarled, “When, exactly, were you going to inform me that you were about to retrieve the third Wyrdkey?”

  Dorian blinked at her, his face the portrait of calm assurance. “When I left.”

  “When you flew off as a raven or a wyvern, right into Erawan’s net?”

  The temperature in the clearing plunged. “What difference does it make if I told you weeks ago or now?”

  She knew there was nothing kind, nothing warm on her face. A witch’s face. A Blackbeak’s face. “Morath is suicide. Erawan will find you in any form you wear, and you will wind up with a collar around your throat.”