Kingdom of Ash

by Sarah J. Maas

  Beside him, he knew Lorcan and Gavriel were avoiding counting them, too. For centuries, they had known these people, lived amongst them. Called them friends.

  But were any aware who was held in their midst? Had they heard her screams?

  “That’s the palace,” Gavriel said to Elide, pointing toward the cluster of domes and elegant buildings set on the eastern edge, right along the lip of the massive waterfall.

  None of them spoke as they scanned the column-lined building that housed the queen’s private quarters. And their own suites. No lights burned within.

  “It doesn’t confirm anything,” Lorcan said. “Whether Maeve left, or if Aelin remains.”

  Rowan listened to the wind, scented it, but felt nothing. “The only way to confirm either is to go into the city.”

  “Are those two bridges the only way in?” Elide frowned toward the twin stone bridges on the southern and northern sides of Doranelle. Both open, both visible for miles around.

  “Yes,” Lorcan said, his voice tight.

  The river was too wide, too wild, to swim. And if any other ways in existed, Rowan had never learned them.

  “We should make a wide sweep of the basin,” Lorcan said, studying the city in the heart of the plain. To the north, the forested foothills flowed to the towering wall of the Cambrian Mountains. To the west, the plain rolled into farmland, endless and open, to the sea. And in the east, past the waterfall, the grassy plain yielded to ancient forests, more mountains beyond them.

  His mountains. The place he’d once called home, where that mountain house had stood until it had been burned. Where he’d buried Lyria and had one day expected to be laid to rest himself.

  “We need an exit strategy as well,” Rowan said, though he’d already been considering it. Where to run afterward. Maeve would send out her best to hunt them down.

  That had once included him. He’d been sent to track and dispatch the Fae who turned too monstrous for even Maeve to stomach, rogue Fae who had no business existing anymore. He’d trained the hunters Maeve would now unleash. Had taught them the veiled paths, the places Fae preferred to hide.

  He’d never considered that would someday be used against him.

  “We take a day,” Lorcan said.

  Rowan leveled a cold look at him. “A day is more than we can spare.”

  Aelin was down there. In that city. He knew it, could feel it. He’d been plunging into his power for the past two days, readying for the killing he’d unleash, the flight they’d make. The strain of holding it back yanked on him, on any lingering control.

  Lorcan said, “We’ll pay for a hasty plan if we don’t take the time. Your mate will pay, too.”

  His former commander’s control was also on a knife’s edge. Even Gavriel, calm and steady, was pacing. All of them had descended into their power, drawing it up from the very dregs.

  But Lorcan was right. Rowan would say the same if their positions were reversed.

  Gavriel pointed to a rocky outcropping on the hill face below them. “It’s shielded from sight. We camp there tonight, make our assessments tomorrow. Get some rest.”

  The idea was abhorrent. Sleeping while Aelin was mere miles away. His ears strained, as if he might pick up her screams on the wind. But Rowan said, “Fine.”

  He didn’t need to declare that they wouldn’t risk a fire. The air was chill, but mild enough that they could survive.

  Rowan stepped down the hill face, offering a hand to Elide to help her skirt the dangerous, rocky plunge. She took his hand with shaking fingers.

  Still she hadn’t balked to come with them, to do any of this.

  Rowan found another foothold before turning to assist her. “You don’t need to go into the city. We’ll decide on the escape route and you can meet us there.”

  When Elide didn’t answer, Rowan looked up at her.

  Her eyes weren’t on him. But on the city ahead.

  Wide with terror. Her scent became drenched in it.

  Lorcan was there in a heartbeat, hand at her shoulder. “What is—”

  Rowan twisted toward the city. The hilltop had been a border.

  Not of the city limits, but of an illusion. A pretty, idyllic illusion for any scouting its fringes to report. For what now surrounded the city on every side, even on the eastern plain …

  An army. A great army lay camped there.

  “She’s summoned most of her forces,” Gavriel breathed, wind whipping his hair across his face.

  Rowan counted the campfires covering the dark terrain like a blanket of stars. He’d never seen such a Fae host assembled. The ones he and the cadre had led into war didn’t come close.

  Aelin could be anywhere in that force. In the camps, or in the city itself.

  They’d have to be clever. Cunning. And if Maeve had not fallen for their diversion …

  “She brought an army to keep us out?” Elide asked.

  Lorcan glanced at Rowan, his dark eyes full of warning. “Or to keep Aelin in.”

  Rowan surveyed the encamped army. What did those dwelling in Doranelle, who rarely saw any sort of forces beyond the warriors who sometimes stalked through their city, make of the host?

  “We have allies in the city,” Gavriel offered. “We could try to make contact. Learn where Maeve is, what the host rallied here to do. If there’s been any mention of Aelin.”

  Rowan’s uncle, Ellys, the head of their House, had remained when Maeve’s armada had sailed. A hard male, a smart male, but a loyal one. He’d trained Enda in his image, to be a sharp-minded courtier. But he’d also trained Rowan when he could, giving him some of his first lessons in swordplay. He’d grown up in his uncle’s household, and it had been the only home he’d known until he’d found that mountain. But would Ellys’s loyalty skew toward Maeve or to their own bloodline, especially in the wake of the House of Whitethorn’s betrayal in Eyllwe?

  His uncle might already be dead. Maeve might have punished him on behalf of all the cousins whom Rowan had begged to aid them. Or Ellys, seeking to reenter Maeve’s good graces after their betrayal, might sell them out before they could find Aelin.

  And as for the others, the few allies they might have …

  “Maeve is capable of worming her way into a person’s mind,” Rowan said. “She likely knows who our allies are and might have already compromised them.” He braced a hand on Goldryn’s hilt, the warm metal a comforting touch. “We don’t risk it.”

  Lorcan grunted his agreement.

  Elide said, “Maeve doesn’t know me—or barely does. No one here would recognize me, especially if I can … adjust my appearance. Like I did with spreading those lies about the Valg prince. I could try to get into the city tomorrow and see if there’s anything to learn.”

  “No.”

  Lorcan’s reply was a knife in the dark.

  Elide said to him, cool and unfazed, “You’re not my commander. You’re not in my court.”

  She turned to Rowan. But he was.

  He outranked her. Rowan tried not to recoil. Aelin had laid this upon him.

  Lorcan hissed, “She doesn’t know the city layout, doesn’t know how to handle the guards—”

  “Then we teach her,” Gavriel cut in. “Tonight. We teach her what we know.”

  Lorcan bared his teeth. “If Maeve remains in Doranelle, she will sniff her out.”

  “She won’t,” Elide said.

  “She found you on that beach,” Lorcan snapped.

  Elide lifted her chin. “I am going into that city tomorrow.”

  “And what are you going to do? Ask if Aelin Galathynius has been strutting about town? Ask if Maeve’s available for high tea?” Lorcan’s snarl ripped through the air.

  Elide didn’t back down for a heartbeat. “I’m going to ask after Cairn.”

  They all stilled. Rowan wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard her correctly.

  Elide steadily surveyed them. “Surely a young, mortal woman is allowed to inquire about a Fae male who jilted her.”


  Lorcan went pale as the moon above them. “Elide.” When she didn’t reply, Lorcan whirled on Rowan. “We’ll scout, there’s another way to—”

  Elide only said to Rowan, “Find Cairn, and we find Aelin. And learn if Maeve remains.”

  Fear no longer bloomed in Elide’s eyes. Not a trace remained in her scent.

  So Rowan nodded, even as Lorcan tensed. “Good hunting, Lady.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The snow-crusted plains of Terrasen flowed southward, right to the rolling foothills that spread to the horizon.

  Earlier this summer, Lysandra had crossed those foothills with her companions—with her queen. Had watched Aelin ascend one, and stride to the carved granite stone jutting from its top. The marker of the border between Adarlan and Terrasen. Her friend had taken a step beyond the stone, and had been home.

  Perhaps it made Lysandra a fool, but she had not realized that the next time she’d see the foothills again, wearing the feathers of a bird, it would be in war.

  Or as a scout for an army thousands of soldiers strong, marching far behind her. She’d left Aedion to figure out how to explain Aelin’s sudden disappearance when she’d departed for this scouting mission. To glean where they might at last intercept Morath’s legions—and give the general a lay of the terrain ahead. Fae scouts in their own avian forms had flown to the west and east to see what they might learn as well.

  Her silvery falcon’s wings wrangled the bitter wind, setting her soaring with a speed that shot liquid lightning through her heart. Beyond the ghost leopard, this form had become a favorite. Swift, sleek, vicious—this body had been built to ride the winds, to run down prey.

  The snow had stopped, but the sky remained gray, not a hint of the sun to warm them. The cold was a secondary concern, made bearable by her layers of feathers.

  For long miles, she flew and flew, scanning the empty terrain. Villages they had passed through during the summer had been emptied, their inhabitants fleeing north. She prayed they’d found safe harbor before the snows, that the magic-wielders within those villages got far from Morath’s nets. There had been a girl in one of the towns who had been blessed with a powerful water gift—had she and her family been taken in behind Orynth’s thick walls?

  Lysandra caught an updraft and soared higher, the horizon revealing more of itself. The first of the foothills passed below, ridges of light and shadow under the cloudy sky. Getting the army over them would not be a simple task, but the Bane had fought near here before. They undoubtedly knew the path through, despite the snowdrifts piled high in the hollows.

  The wind screamed, shoving northward. As if warding her from flying south. Begging her not to continue.

  Hills crowned with stones appeared—the ancient border markings. She swept past them. A few hours lingered until darkness fell. She’d fly until night and cold rendered her unable, and find some tree to hunker down in until she could resume scouting at dawn.

  She sailed farther south, the horizon bleak and empty.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Until she beheld what marched toward them and nearly tumbled from the sky.

  Ren had taught her how to count soldiers, yet she lost track each time she attempted to get a number on the neat lines stomping across Adarlan’s northern plains. Right toward the foothills that spanned both territories.

  Thousands. Five, ten, fifteen thousand. More.

  Again and again, she stumbled on counting. Twenty, thirty.

  Lysandra rose higher into the sky. Higher, because winged ilken flew with them, soaring low over the black-armored troops, monitoring all that passed below.

  Forty. Fifty.

  Fifty thousand troops, overseen by ilken.

  And amongst them, on horseback, rode beautiful-faced young men. Black collars at their throats, above their armor.

  Valg princes. Five in total, each commanding a legion.

  Lysandra counted the force again. Thrice.

  Fifty thousand troops. Against the twenty-five thousand they had gathered.

  One of the ilken spotted her and flapped upward.

  Lysandra banked hard and swept back north, wings beating like hell.

  The two armies met in the snow-covered fields of southern Terrasen.

  Terrasen’s general-prince had ordered them to wait, rather than rush to meet Morath’s legions. To let Erawan’s hordes exhaust themselves on the foothills, and to send an advance force of the Silent Assassins to pick off soldiers struggling amid the bumps and hollows.

  Only some of the assassins returned.

  The dark power of the Valg princes swept ahead, devouring all in their path.

  And still, the Fire-Bringer did not blast the Valg to ash. Did nothing but ride at her cousin’s side.

  Ilken descended upon their camp in the night, unleashing chaos and terror, shredding soldiers with their poison-slick claws before escaping to the skies.

  They ripped the ancient border-stones from their grassy hilltops as they passed into Terrasen.

  Barely winded, unfazed by the snow, and hardly thinned out, Morath’s army left the last of the foothills.

  They rushed down the hillsides, a black wave breaking over the land. Right onto the spears and shields of the Bane, the magic of the Fae soldiers keeping the power of the Valg princes at bay.

  It could not stand against the ilken, however. They swept through it like cobwebs in a doorway, some spewing their venom to melt the magic.

  Then the ilken landed, or shattered through their defenses entirely. And even a shape-shifter in the form of a wyvern armed with poisoned spikes could not take them all down.

  Even a general-prince with an ancient sword and Fae instincts could not slice through their necks fast enough.

  In the chaos, no one noticed that the Fire-Bringer did not appear. That not an ember of her flame glowed in the screaming night.

  Then the foot soldiers reached them.

  And that cobbled-together army began to sunder.

  The right flank broke first. A Valg prince unleashed his power, men lying dead in his wake. It took Ilias of the Silent Assassins sneaking behind enemy lines to decapitate him for the slaughter to staunch.

  The Bane’s center lines held, yet they lost yard after yard to claws and fangs and sword and shield. So many of the enemy that the Fae royals and their kin couldn’t choke the air from their throats fast enough, widely enough. Whatever advances the Fae’s magic bought them did not slow Morath for long.

  Morath’s beasts pushed them northward that first day. And into the night.

  And at dawn the next day.

  By nightfall on the second, even the Bane’s line had buckled.

  Still Morath did not stop coming.

  CHAPTER 23

  Elide had never seen such a place as Doranelle.

  The City of Rivers, they called it. She’d never imagined that a city could be built in the heart of several as they met and poured into a mighty basin.

  She didn’t let the awe show on her face as she strode through the winding, neat streets.

  Fear was another companion that she kept at bay. With the Fae’s heightened sense of smell, they could detect things like emotion. And though a good dose of fear would aid in her cover, too much would spell her doom.

  Yet this place seemed like a paradise. Pink and blue flowers draped from windowsills; little canals wended between some of the streets, ferrying people in bright, long boats.

  She’d never seen so many Fae, had never thought they’d be utterly normal. Well, as normal as possible, with their grace and those ears and canines. Along with the animals rushing around her, flitting past, so many forms she couldn’t keep track of them. All perfectly content to go about their daily business, buying everything from crusty loaves of bread to jugs of some sort of oil to vibrant swaths of fabric.

  Yet ruling over everything, squatting in the palace on the eastern side of Doranelle, was Maeve. And this city, Rowan had told Elide, had been built from stone to keep Brannon
or any of his descendants from razing it to the ground.

  Elide fought the limp that grew with each step farther into the city—farther away from Gavriel’s magic. She’d left them in the forested foothills where they’d camped the night before, and Lorcan had again tried to argue against her going. But she’d rummaged through their various packs until she’d found what she needed: berries Gavriel had gathered yesterday, a spare belt and dark green cape from Rowan, a wrinkled white shirt from Lorcan, and a tiny mirror he used for shaving.

  She hadn’t said anything when she’d found the white strips of linen at the bottom of Lorcan’s bag. Waiting for her next cycle. She hadn’t been able to find the words, anyway. Not with what it would crumple in her chest to even think them.

  Elide kept her shoulders loose, though her face remained tight as she paused at the edge of a pretty little square around a burbling fountain. Vendors and shoppers milled about, chatting in the midmorning sunshine. Elide paused by the square’s arched entrance, putting her back to it, and fished the little mirror out of her cloak pocket, careful not to jostle the knives hidden there as well.

  She flicked open the compact, frowning at her reflection—half of the expression not entirely faked. She’d crushed the berries at dawn and carefully lined her eyes with the juices, turning them red-rimmed and miserable-looking. As if she’d been weeping for weeks.

  Indeed, the face that pouted back at her was rather wretched.

  But it wasn’t the reflection she wanted to see. But rather the square behind her. Surveying it outright might raise too many questions, but if she was merely staring into a compact mirror, no more than a self-conscious girl trying to fix her frazzled appearance … Elide smoothed some strands of her hair while monitoring the square beyond.

  A hub of sorts. Two taverns lined its sides, judging by the wine barrels that served as tables out front and the empty glasses atop them, yet to be collected. Between the two taverns, one seemed to attract more males, some in warrior garb. Of the three squares she’d visited, the taverns she’d spotted, this was the only one with soldiers.