Kingdom of Ash

by Sarah J. Maas

  Manon’s hand found his belt buckle, and Dorian reached for hers, and neither spoke for some time after that.

  The release she found that night—twice—couldn’t entirely dull the edge when morning broke, gray and bleak, and Manon approached Glennis’s larger tent.

  She’d left the king sleeping, bundled in the blankets they’d shared, though she hadn’t allowed him to hold her. She’d simply turned onto her side, putting her back to him, and closed her eyes. He hadn’t seemed to care, sated and drowsy after she’d ridden him until they’d both found their pleasure, and had been quickly asleep. Had stayed asleep, while Manon had contemplated how, exactly, she was to have this meeting.

  Perhaps she should have brought Dorian. He certainly knew how to play these games. To think like a king.

  He’d killed that spider like a blue-blooded witch, though. Not an ounce of mercy.

  It shouldn’t have thrilled her the way it did.

  But Manon knew her pride would never recover, and she’d never again be able to call herself a witch, if she let him do this task for her.

  So Manon shouldered through Glennis’s tent flaps without announcing herself. “I need to speak to you.”

  She found Glennis buckling on her glamoured cloak before a tiny bronze mirror. “Prior to breakfast? I suppose you got that urgency from your father. Tristan was always rushing into my tent with his various pressing matters. I could barely convince him to sit still long enough to eat.”

  Manon discarded the kernel of information. Ironteeth didn’t have fathers. Only their mothers and mothers’ mothers. It had always been that way. Even if it was an effort to keep her questions about him at bay. How he’d met Lothian Blackbeak, what had prompted them to set aside their ancient hatred.

  “What would it take—to win the Crochans over? To join us in war?”

  Glennis adjusted her cape in the mirror. “Only a Crochan Queen may ignite the Flame of War, to summon every witch from her hearth.”

  Manon blinked at the frank answer. “The Flame of War?”

  Glennis jerked her chin toward the tent flaps, to the fire pit beyond. “Every Crochan family has a hearth that moves with them to each camp or home we make; the fires never extinguish. The flame in my hearth dates back to the Crochan city itself, when Brannon Galathynius gave Rhiannon a spark of eternally burning fire. My mother carried it with her in a glass globe, hidden in her cloak, when she smuggled out your ancestor, and it has continued to burn at every royal Crochan hearth since then.”

  “What about when magic disappeared for ten years?”

  “Our seers had a vision that it would vanish, and the flame would die. So we ignited several ordinary fires from that magic flame, and kept them burning. When magic disappeared, the flame indeed winked out. And when magic returned this spring, the flame again kindled, right in the hearth where we had last seen it.” Her great-grandmother turned toward her. “When a Crochan Queen summons her people to war, a flame is taken from the royal hearth, and passed to each hearth, one camp and village to the other. The arrival of the flame is a summons that only a true Crochan Queen may make.”

  “So I only need to use the flame in that pit out there and the army will come to me?”

  A caw of laughter. “No. You must first be accepted as queen to do that.”

  Manon ground her teeth. “And how might I achieve that?”

  “That’s not for me to figure out, is it?”

  It took all her self-restraint to keep from unsheathing her iron nails and prowling through the tent. “Why are you here—why this camp?”

  Glennis’s brows rose. “Didn’t I tell you yesterday?”

  Manon tapped a foot on the ground.

  The witch noted the impatience and chuckled. “We were on our way to Eyllwe.”

  Manon started. “Eyllwe? If you think to run from this war, I can tell you that it’s found that kingdom as well.” Long had Eyllwe borne the brunt of Adarlan’s wrath. In her endless meetings with Erawan, he’d been particularly focused on ensuring the kingdom stayed fractured.

  Glennis nodded. “We know. But we received word from our southern hearths that a threat had arisen. We journey to meet with some of the Eyllwe war bands who have managed to survive this long—to take on whatever horror Morath might have sent.”

  To go south, not north to Terrasen.

  “Erawan might be unleashing his horrors in Eyllwe just to divide you,” Manon said. “To keep you from aiding Terrasen. He’ll have guessed I’m trying to gather the Crochans. Eyllwe is already lost—come with us to the North.”

  The crone merely shook her head. “That may be. But we have given our word. So to Eyllwe we will go.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Darrow was waiting on horseback atop a hill when the army finally arrived at nightfall. A full day’s march, the snow and wind whipping them for every damned mile.

  Aedion, atop his own horse, broke from the column of soldiers aiming for the small camp and galloped across the ice-crusted snow to the ancient lord. He gestured with a gloved hand to the warriors behind him. “As requested: we’ve arrived.”

  Darrow barely glanced at Aedion as he surveyed the soldiers making camp. Exhausting, brutal work after a long day, and a battle before that, but they’d sleep well tonight. And Aedion would refuse to move them tomorrow. Perhaps the day after that, too. “How many lost?”

  “Less than five hundred.”

  “Good.”

  Aedion bristled at the approval. It wasn’t Darrow’s own army, wasn’t even Aedion’s.

  “What did you want that warranted us to haul ass up here so quickly?”

  “I wanted to discuss the battle with you. Hear what you learned.”

  Aedion gritted his teeth. “I’ll write a report for you, then.” He gathered the reins, readying to steer his horse back to the camp. “My men need shelter.”

  Darrow nodded firmly, as if unaware of the exhausting march he’d demanded. “At dawn, we meet. Send word to the other lords.”

  “Send your own messenger.”

  Darrow cut him a steely look. “Tell the other lords.” He surveyed Aedion from his mud-splattered boots to his unwashed hair. “And get some rest.”

  Aedion didn’t bother responding as he urged his horse into a gallop, the stallion charging through the snow without hesitation. A fine, proud beast that had served him well.

  Aedion squinted at the wailing snow as it whipped his face. They needed to build shelter—and fast.

  At dawn, he’d go to Darrow’s meeting. With the other lords.

  And Aelin in tow.

  A foot of snow fell overnight, blanketing the tents, smothering fires, and setting the soldiers sleeping shoulder to shoulder to conserve warmth.

  Lysandra had shivered in her tent, despite being curled into ghost-leopard form by the brazier, and had awoken before dawn simply because sleeping had become futile.

  And because of the meeting that was moments away from taking place.

  She strode toward Darrow’s large war tent, Ansel of Briarcliff at her side, the two of them bundled against the cold. Mercifully, the frigid morning kept any conversation between them to a minimum. No point in talking when the very air chilled your teeth to the point of aching.

  The silver-haired Fae royals entered just before them, Prince Endymion giving her—giving Aelin—a bow of the head.

  His cousin’s wife. That’s what he believed her to be. In addition to being queen. Endymion had never scented Aelin, wouldn’t know that the strange shifter’s scent was all wrong.

  Thank the gods for that.

  The war tent was nearly full, lords and princes and commanders gathered around the center of the space, all studying the map of the continent hanging from one of the wall flaps. Pins jutted from its thick canvas to mark various armies.

  So many, too many, clustered in the South. Blocking off aid from any allies beyond Morath’s lines.

  “She returns at last,” a cold voice drawled.

  Lysandra sum
moned a lazy smirk and sauntered to the center of the room, Ansel lingering near the entrance. “I heard I missed some fun yesterday. I figured I’d return before I lost the chance to kill some Valg grunts myself.”

  A few chuckles at that, but Darrow didn’t smile. “I don’t recall you being invited to this meeting, Your Highness.”

  “I invited her,” Aedion said, stepping to the edge of the group. “Since she’s technically fighting in the Bane, I made her my second-in-command.” And thus worthy of being here.

  Lysandra wondered if anyone else could see the hint of pain in Aedion’s face—pain, and disgust at the imposter queen swaggering amongst them.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” she crooned to Darrow.

  Darrow only turned back to the map as Ravi and Sol filtered in. Sol gave Aelin a respectful nod, and Ravi flashed her a grin. Aelin winked before facing the map.

  “After our rout of Morath yesterday under General Ashryver’s command,” Darrow said, “I believe we should position our troops on Theralis, and ready Orynth’s defenses for a siege.” The older lords—Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood—grunted with agreement.

  Aedion shook his head, no doubt already anticipating this. “It announces to Erawan that we’re on the run, and spreads us too far from any potential allies from the South.”

  “In Orynth,” said Lord Gunnar, older and grayer than Darrow and twice as mean, “we have walls that can withstand catapults.”

  “If they bring those witch towers,” Ren Allsbrook cut in, “then even Orynth’s walls will crumble.”

  “We have yet to see evidence of those witch towers,” Darrow countered. “Beyond the word of an enemy.”

  “An enemy turned ally,” Aelin—Lysandra—said. Darrow cut her a distasteful stare. “Manon Blackbeak did not lie. Nor were her Thirteen aligned with Morath when they fought alongside us.”

  A nod from the Fae royals, from Ansel.

  “Against Maeve,” sneered Lord Sloane, a reed-thin man with a hard face and hooked nose. “That battle was against Maeve, not Erawan. Would they have done the same against their own kind? Witches are loyal unto death, and craftier than foxes. Manon Blackbeak and her cabal might very well have played you for desperate fools and fed you the wrong information.”

  “Manon Blackbeak turned on her own grandmother, the High Witch of the Blackbeak Clan,” Aedion said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I do not think the iron splinters we found in her gut wound were a lie.”

  “Again,” Lord Sloane said, “these witches are crafty. They’ll do anything.”

  “The witch towers are real,” Lysandra said, letting Aelin’s cool, unfazed voice fill the tent. “I’m not going to waste my breath proving their existence. Nor will I risk Orynth to their power.”

  “But you’d risk the border towns?” Darrow challenged.

  “I plan to find a way to take out the towers before they can pass the foothills,” she drawled. She prayed Aedion had a plan.

  “With the fire that you’ve so magnificently displayed,” Darrow said with equal smoothness.

  Ansel of Briarcliff answered before Lysandra could come up with a suitably arrogant lie. “Erawan likes to play his little mind games, to drum up fear. Let him wonder and worry why Aelin hasn’t wielded hers yet. Contemplate if she’s storing it up for something grand.” A roguish wink at her. “I do hope it will be horrific.”

  Lysandra gave the queen a slash of a smile. “Oh, it will be.”

  She felt Aedion’s stare, the well-hidden agony and worry. But the general said, “Eldrys was to thin our numbers, make us doubt Morath’s wisdom by sending his grunts here. He wants us to underestimate him. If we move to the border, we’ll have the foothills to slow his advance. We know that terrain; he doesn’t. We can wield it to our advantage.”

  “And if he cuts through Oakwald?” Lord Gunnar pointed to the road past Endovier. “What then?”

  Ren Allsbrook replied this time. “Then we know that terrain as well. Oakwald has no love for Erawan or his forces. Its allegiance is to Brannon. And his heirs.” A glance at her, cold and yet—warming. Slightly.

  She offered the young lord a hint of a smile. Ren ignored it, facing the map again.

  “If we move to the border,” Darrow said, “we risk being wiped out, thus leaving Perranth, Orynth, and every town and city in this kingdom at Erawan’s mercy.”

  “There are arguments to be made for both,” Prince Endymion said, stepping forward. The oldest among them, though he looked not a day past twenty-eight. “Your army remains too small to risk dividing in half. All must go—either south, or back north.”

  “I would vote for the South,” said Princess Sellene, Endymion’s cousin. Rowan’s cousin. She’d been curious about Aelin, Lysandra could tell, but had stayed away. As if hesitant to forge a bond when war might destroy them all. Lysandra had wondered more than once what in the princess’s long life had made her that way—wary and solemn, yet not wholly aloof. “There are more routes for escape, if the need arises.” She pointed a tanned finger to the map, her braided silver hair shining amongst the folds of her heavy emerald cloak. “In Orynth, your backs will be against the mountains.”

  “There are secret paths through the Staghorns,” Lord Sloane said, utterly unruffled. “Many of our people used them ten years ago.”

  And so it went on. Debating and arguing, voices rising and falling.

  Until Darrow called a vote—amongst the six Lords of Terrasen only. The only official leaders of this army, apparently.

  Two of them, Sol and Ren, voted for the border.

  Four of them, Darrow, Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood, voted to move to Orynth.

  Darrow simply said, when silence had fallen, “Should our allies not wish to risk our plan, they may depart. We hold you to no oaths.”

  Lysandra almost started at that.

  Aedion growled, even as worry flashed in his eyes.

  But Prince Galan, who had kept silent and watchful, a listener despite his frequent smiles and bold fighting on both sea and land, stepped forward. Looked right at Aelin, his eyes—their eyes—glowing bright. “Poor allies we would indeed make,” he said, his Wendlynian accent rich and rolling, “if we abandoned our friends when their choices veered from ours. We promised our assistance in this war. Wendlyn will not back from it.”

  Darrow tensed. Not at the words, but at the fact that they were directed at her. At Aelin.

  Lysandra bowed her head, putting a hand on her heart.

  Prince Endymion lifted his chin. “I swore an oath to my cousin, your consort,” he said, and the other lords bristled. Since Aelin was not queen, Rowan’s own title was still not recognized by them. Only the other lords, it seemed. “Since I doubt we will be welcome in Doranelle again, I would like to think that this may perhaps be our new home, should all go well.”

  Aelin would have agreed. “You are welcome here—all of you. For as long as you like.”

  “You are not authorized to make such invitations,” Lord Gunnar snapped.

  None of them bothered to answer. But Ilias of the Silent Assassins gave a solemn nod that voiced his agreement to stay, and Ansel of Briarcliff merely winked again at Aelin and said, “I came this far to help you beat that bastard into dust. I don’t see why I’d go home now.”

  Lysandra didn’t fake the gratitude that tightened her throat as she bowed to the allies her queen had gathered.

  A tall, dark-haired young man entered the tent, his gray eyes darting around the gathered company. They widened when they beheld her—Aelin. Widened, then glanced to Aedion as if to confirm. He marked the golden hair, the Ashryver eyes, and paled.

  “What is it, Nox,” Darrow growled. The messenger straightened, and hurried to the lord’s side, murmuring something in his ear. “Send him in,” was Darrow’s only answer.

  Nox stalked out, graceful despite his height, and a shorter, pale-skinned man entered.

  Darrow extended a hand for the letter. “You had a message from Eldrys?”

>   Lysandra smelled the stranger the moment Aedion did.

  A moment before the stranger smiled and said, “Erawan sends his regards.”

  And unleashed a blast of black wind right at her.

  CHAPTER 17

  Lysandra ducked, but not fast enough to avoid the lash of power that sliced down her arm.

  She hit the ground, rolling, as she’d learned under Arobynn’s careful tutelage. But Aedion was already in front of her, sword out. Defending his queen.

  A flash of light and cold—from Enda and Sellene—and the Morath messenger was pinned to his knees, his dark power lashing against an invisible barrier of ice-kissed wind.

  Around the tent, all had fallen back, weapons glinting. Flanking the downed man, Ilias and Ansel had their swords already angled toward him, their defensive poses mirror images. Trained into their very bones by the same master, under the same blistering sun. Neither looked at the other, though.

  Ren, Sol, and Ravi had slipped into position at Lysandra’s—at Aelin’s—side, their own blades primed to spill blood. A fledgling court closing ranks around its queen.

  Never mind that the older lords had stumbled behind the safety of the refreshment table, their weathered faces ashen. Only Galan Ashryver had taken up a place near the tent exit, no doubt to intercept their assailant should he try to flee. A bold move—and a fool’s one, considering what knelt in the center of the tent.

  “Did no one smell that he was a Valg demon?” Aedion demanded, hauling Lysandra to her feet with her uninjured arm. But there was no collar on the stranger, no ring on his bare, pale hands.

  Lysandra’s stomach churned as she clasped a hand to the throbbing gash on her upper arm. She knew what beat within the man’s chest. A heart of iron and Wyrdstone.

  The messenger laughed, hissing. “Run to your castle. We’re—”

  He sniffed the air. Looked right at Lysandra. At the blood leaking down her left arm, seeping into the ocean blue of Aelin’s worn tunic.

  His dark eyes widened with surprise and delight, the word taking form on his lips. Shifter.