Kingdom of Ash

by Sarah J. Maas

  His father lifted a brow. “Morath is on the move, this I know. I’ve taken the precaution of having your beloved mother and brother removed to the mountains.”

  “Morath is on the move,” Chaol said, fighting the disappointment that he would see neither of the two people he needed to speak to the most, “and it is on its way directly here.”

  His father, for once, went still.

  “Ten thousand troops,” Chaol said. “They come to sack the city.”

  He could have sworn his father paled. “You know this without a doubt?”

  “I sailed with an army sent from the khagan, a legion of his ruk riders amongst them. Their scouts discovered the information. The rukhin fly here as we speak, but their Darghan soldiers won’t arrive for at least a week or longer.” He came forward—just one step. “You need to rally your forces, prepare the city. Immediately.”

  But his father swirled his wine, frowning at the red liquid within. “There are no forces here—none to make a dent in ten thousand men.”

  “Then begin the evacuation, and move as many into the keep as you can. Prepare for a siege.”

  “Last I looked, boy, I was still Lord of Anielle. You gladly turned your back on it. Twice.”

  “You have Terrin.”

  “Terrin’s a scholar. Why do you think I sent him away with his mother like a nursing babe?” His father sneered. “Have you come back to bleed for Anielle, then? To bleed for this city at last?”

  “Don’t you talk to him like that,” Yrene said with dangerous calm.

  His father ignored her.

  But Yrene stepped up to Chaol’s side once more. “I am the heir apparent to the Healer on High of the Torre Cesme. I came at your son’s behest, back to the lands of my birth, to help in this war, along with two hundred healers from the Torre itself. Your son spent the last several months forging an alliance with the khaganate, and now all of the khagan’s armies sail to this continent to save your people. So while you sit here in your miserable keep, tossing insults at him, know that he has done what no other could do, and if your city survives, it will be because of him, not you.”

  His father blinked at her. Slowly.

  It took all of Chaol’s restraint to keep from sweeping Yrene into his arms and kissing her.

  But Chaol said to his father, “Prepare for a siege, and get the defenses ready. Or the Silver Lake will run red again beneath the claws of Erawan’s beasts.”

  “I know the history of this city as well as you do.”

  Chaol debated ending it there, but he asked, “Is that why you didn’t kneel to Erawan?”

  “Or to the puppet king before him,” his father said, picking at his food.

  “You knew—that the old king was Valg-possessed?”

  His father’s fingers stilled on a crust of hearty bread, the only sign of his shock. “No. Only that he was building a host throughout the land that did not seem … natural. I am no king’s lackey, no matter what you may think of me.” He lowered his hand once more. “Of course, in my plans to get you out of harm’s way, it seems it only led you closer to it.”

  “Why bother?”

  “I meant what I said in Rifthold. Terrin is not a warrior—not at heart. I saw what was building in Morath, in the Ferian Gap, and required my eldest son to be here, to pick up the sword should I fall. And now you have returned, at the hour when the shadow of Morath has crept around us on all sides.”

  “All sides but one,” Chaol said, motioning toward the White Fangs just barely visible through the windows high above. “Rumor has it Erawan has spent these months hunting down the wild men of the Fangs. If you are so short of soldiers, call for aid.”

  His father’s mouth tightened. “They are half-savage nomads who relish killing our people.”

  “As ours have relished killing them. Let Erawan unite us.”

  “And offer them what? The mountains have belonged to us since before Gavin Havilliard sat on his throne.”

  Yrene muttered, “Offer them the damn moon, if it will convince them to help.”

  His father smirked. “Can you offer such a thing, as the heir apparent to the Healer on High?”

  “Careful,” Chaol growled.

  His father ignored that, too. “I would rather have my head on a pike than give the wild men of the Fangs an inch of Anielle’s land, let alone ask them for aid.”

  “I hope your people agree,” said Yrene.

  His father let out one of those joyless laughs. “I like you better than the assassin-queen, I think. Perhaps marrying the rabble will breed some backbone into our bloodline once more.”

  Chaol’s blood roared in his ears, but Yrene’s lips curved into a smile. “You’re exactly as I’d pictured you to be,” she said. His father only inclined his head.

  “Prepare this city, this keep,” Chaol managed to say through his gritted teeth. “Or you’ll deserve everything you bring down upon it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Fifteen minutes later, Chaol could feel Yrene still trembling as they entered a small yet warm bedroom. One of the few cozy places in this horrible keep. A bed and a half-rusted washing basin filled most of the space, a ewer of steaming water beside it.

  Not exactly a bedroom fit for a lord’s son. He fought the heat that warmed his cheeks.

  “I was disowned, remember,” Chaol said, leaning against the shut door, their packs discarded at his feet. “This bedroom is meant for a guest.”

  “I’m sure your father had it selected just for you.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  Yrene snarled. “He’s worse than you portrayed.”

  Chaol gave her a tired, small smile. “And you were brilliant.” Utterly brilliant.

  His father, at least, had agreed to begin the evacuations for those on the outskirts of the city, and by the time they’d made their way to this room, the keep had already been abuzz with readying for a siege. If his father needed help planning it, the man hadn’t let on. Tomorrow, after they rested tonight, he’d see for himself what his father had in mind.

  But for now, after almost two days of flying through the frigid air, he needed to rest.

  And his wife, however bold and fearless, needed to rest as well, whether she admitted it or not.

  So Chaol pushed off the door, prowling to where Yrene paced in front of the bed. “I’m sorry for what he said to you.”

  She waved him off. “I’m sorry you ever had to deal with him for longer than that conversation.”

  Her temper, despite all that loomed, despite the bastard ruling over this city, warmed something in him. Enough so that Chaol closed the distance between them, halting her pacing by taking her hand. He brushed his thumb over her wedding band.

  “I wish you were meeting her instead—my mother,” he said softly.

  The fierceness in her eyes banked. “I do, too.” Her mouth quirked to the side. “Though I’m surprised your father cared enough to send them away at a whisper of a threat.”

  “They’re assets to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sent them with a good part of the trove.”

  Yrene glanced around in doubt.

  “Anielle is one of the richer territories in Adarlan, despite what this keep suggests.” He kissed her knuckles, her ring. “There are chambers full of treasure in the catacombs. Gold, jewels, armor—rumor has it the wealth of an entire kingdom is down there.”

  Yrene let out an impressed hum, but said, “I should have told Sartaq and Nesryn to bring more healers than the fifty we selected.” Hafiza would remain with the foot soldiers and cavalry, but Eretia, her second-in-command, would fly with the ruks and lead the group, Yrene included.

  “We’ll make do with what we have. I doubt there was a single magically gifted healer in this city until an hour ago.”

  Her throat bobbed. “Can this keep survive a siege long enough for the terrestrial army to get here? It doesn’t look like it can withstand another winter, let alone an army at its doorstep.”

  “This keep
has stood for well over a thousand years—it survived Erawan’s second army, even when they sacked Anielle. It will outlast this third war of his, too.”

  “Where will the people evacuate to? The mountains are already covered in snow.”

  “There are passes through them—dangerous, but they could make it to the Wastes if they stay together and bring enough supplies.” Heading north of Anielle was a death trap, with the witches holding the Ferian Gap, and going too far south would take them to Morath’s doorstep. To go east would take them in the path of the army they sought to outrun. “They might be able to hide in Oakwald, along the edge of the Fangs.” He shook his head. “There are no good options, not at this time of year.”

  “A lot of them won’t make it,” she said softly.

  “They’ll stand a better chance in the Fangs than here,” he said with equal quiet. They were still his people, had still shown him kindness, even when his own father had not. “I’ll see to it that my father sends some of the soldiers who are too old to fight with them—they’ll remember the way.”

  “I know I’m nothing more than the rabble,” Yrene said, and Chaol snickered, “but those who do choose to stay, who are let into the keep … Perhaps while we wait for our own forces, I could help find room for them. Supplies. See if there are any healers among them who might have access to the herbs and ingredients we need. Get bandages ready.”

  He nodded, pride filling his chest to the point of pain. A lady. If not by blood, then by nobility of character. His wife was more of a lady than any other he’d met, in any court.

  “Then let us prepare for war, husband,” Yrene said, sorrow and dread filling her eyes.

  And it was the sight of that kernel of fear, not for herself but what they were undoubtedly soon to take part in, to witness, that had him sweeping her into his arms and laying her upon the bed. “War can wait until morning,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Dawn broke, and the ruks arrived.

  So many ruks they blotted out the watery sun, the boom of wings and rustle of feathers filling the skies.

  People cried out this time, their voices a herald of the screams to come when that army reached their doorstep.

  On the plain before the southern side of the keep, flowing to the lake edge itself, the ruks settled. It had long been kept clear of settlement, the flat expanse riddled with hot springs and prone to annual flooding, though a few stubborn farmers still tried to coax crops from the hard soil.

  It had once been part of the lake itself, before the Western Falls tucked into the Fangs had been dammed up, their roaring waters quieted to a trickle that fed the lake. For centuries, Chaol’s ancestors had debated breaking the dam, letting that raging river run free once more, now that their ancient forges had given way to a few water-powered mills that could easily be moved elsewhere.

  Yet the destruction breaking that dam would cause, even if they gathered every water-wielder in the realm to control the flow, would be catastrophic. The entire plain would flood in a matter of minutes, some of the city being swept away as well. The waters would barrel down from the mountains, destroying everything in their path in a mighty wave that would flow to Oakwald itself. The lowest levels of the keep, the gate that opened onto the plain, would be wholly submerged.

  So the dam had stayed, and the grassy plain with it.

  The ruks settled themselves in neat rows, and Chaol and Yrene watched from the battlements, other sentries breaking from their posts to join them, as the riders began setting up camp with whatever supplies their mounts had carried. The healers would be brought up later, though a few might remain down in their camp until Morath’s legion arrived.

  Two dark shapes soared overhead, and the sentries fell back to their posts as Nesryn and Sartaq landed on the battlement wall, a small falcon alighting beside the former’s ruk. Falkan Ennar, then.

  Nesryn leaped off her ruk in an easy movement, her face grave as any pocket of Hellas’s realm. “Morath is three days away, possibly four,” she said breathlessly.

  Sartaq came up behind her, the ruks needing no hitching post. “We kept high overhead, out of sight, but Falkan was able to get closer.” The shifter remained in falcon form by Salkhi.

  Yrene stepped forward. “What did you see?”

  Nesryn shook her head, her normally golden-brown skin bloodless. “Valg and men, mostly. But they all look fast—vicious.”

  Chaol reined in his grimace. “No sign of the witches?”

  “None,” Sartaq said, running a hand over his braided hair. “Though they might be waiting to sweep down from the Ferian Gap when the army arrives here.”

  “Let’s pray they don’t,” Yrene said, surveying the ruks in the valley below.

  A thousand ruks. It had seemed like a gift from the gods, seemed like an impossibly large number. And yet seeing them assembled on the plain …

  Even the mighty birds might be swept away in the tide of battle.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Do you know the story of the queen who walked through worlds?”

  Seated on the mossy carpet of an ancient glen, one hand toying with the small white flowers strewn across it, Aelin shook her head.

  In the towering oaks that formed a lattice over the clearing, small stars blinked and shimmered, as if they’d been snared by the branches themselves. Beyond them, bathing the forest with light bright enough to see by, a full moon had risen. All around them, faint, lilting singing floated on the warm summer air.

  “It is a sad story,” her aunt said, one corner of her red-painted mouth curling upward as she leaned back on her seat carved into a granite boulder. Her usual place, while they had these lessons, these long, peaceful chats deep into the balmy summer nights. “And an old one.”

  Aelin lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t I a little old for faerie stories?” She’d indeed just celebrated her twentieth birthday three days ago, in another clearing not too far from here. Half of Doranelle had come, it had seemed, and yet her mate had found a way to sneak her from the revelry. All the way to a secluded pool in the forest’s heart. Her face still warmed to think of that moonlit swim, what Rowan had made her feel, how he’d worshipped her in the sun-warmed water.

  Mate. The word was still a surprise. As it had been to arrive here at spring’s end and see him beside her aunt’s throne and simply know. And in the months since, their courting … Aelin indeed blushed at the thought of it. What they’d done in that forest pool had been the culmination of those months. And an unleashing. The mating marks on her neck—and on Rowan’s—proved it. She would not be returning to Terrasen alone when autumn arrived.

  “No one is too old for faerie stories,” her aunt said, faint smile growing. “And as you are part faerie yourself, I would think you’d have some interest in them.”

  Aelin smiled back, bowing her head. “Fair enough, Aunt.”

  Aunt wasn’t entirely accurate, not with generations and millennia separating them, but it was the only thing the queen had suggested Aelin call her.

  Maeve settled further into her seat. “Long ago, when the world was new, when there were no human kingdoms, when no wars had marred the earth, a young queen was born.”

  Aelin folded her legs beneath her, angling her head.

  “She did not know she was a queen. Amongst her people, power was not inherited, but simply born. And as she grew, her strength rose with her. She found the land she dwelled in to be too small for that power. Too dark and cold and grim. She had gifts similar to many wielded by her kind, but she had been given more, her power a sharper, more intricate weapon—enough that she was different. Her people saw that power and bowed to it, and she ruled them.

  “Word spread of her gifts, and three kings came to seek her hand. To form an alliance between their throne and the one she had built for herself, small as it might have been. For a time, she thought it would be the newness, the challenge that she had always craved. The three kings were brothers, each mighty in his own right, their power vast and ter
rifying. She picked the eldest among them, not for any particular skill or grace, but for his countless libraries. What she might learn in his lands, what she might do with her power … It was that knowledge she craved, not the king himself.”

  A strange story. Aelin’s brows rose, but her aunt continued on.

  “So they were wed, and she left her small territory to join him in his castle. For a time, she was contented, both by her husband and the knowledge his home offered her. He and his two brothers were conquerors, and spent much of their time away, leashing new lands to their shared throne. She did not mind, not when it gave her freedom to learn as she would. But her husband’s libraries contained knowledge even he did not realize was held within. Lore and wisdom from worlds long since turned to dust. She learned that there were indeed other worlds. Not the dark, blasted realm in which they lived, but worlds beyond that, living atop one another and never realizing it. Worlds where the sun was not a watery trickle through the ash-clouds, but a golden stream of warmth. Worlds where green existed. She had never heard of such a color. Green. Nor had she heard of blue—not the shade of sky that was described. She could not so much as picture it.”

  Aelin frowned. “A pitiful existence.”

  Maeve nodded grimly. “It was. And the more she read about these other worlds, where long-dead wayfarers had once roamed, the more she wanted to see them. To know the kiss of the sun on her face. To hear the morning songs of sparrows, the crying of gulls over the sea. The sea—that, too, was foreign to her. An endless sprawl of water, with its own moods and hidden depths. All they had in her lands were shallow, murky lakes and half-dried streams. So while her husband and his two brothers were off waging yet another war, she began to ponder how she might find a way into one of those worlds. How she might leave.”

  “Is such a thing even possible?” Something nagged at her, as if it might indeed be true, but perhaps that was one of her own mother’s tales, or even Marion’s, tugging on her memory.

  Maeve nodded. “It was. Using the very language of existence itself, doors might be opened, however briefly, between worlds. It was forbidden, outlawed long before her husband and his brothers were born. Once the last of the ancient wayfarers had died out, the paths between realms were sealed, their methods of world-walking lost with them. Or so all had thought. But deep in her husband’s private library, she found the old spells. She began with small experiments. First, she opened a door to the realm of resting, to find one of those wayfarers and ask her how it was properly done.” A knowing smile. “The wayfarer refused to tell her. So the queen began to teach herself. Opening and closing doors long since forgotten or sealed. Peering deep into the workings of the cosmos. Her own world became a cage. She grew tired of her husband’s warring, his casual cruelty. And when he went away to war once again, the queen gathered her closest handmaidens, opened a door to a new world, and left the one she’d been born into.”