Kingdom of Ash

by Sarah J. Maas

  Tentative, nervous words. As if his mother, too, did not quite believe that he’d agree.

  Chaol read the rest, swallowing hard as he reached the final lines.

  I am so very proud of you. I have always been, and always will be. And I hope to see you very soon.

  Chaol set down the letter, wiped at his cheeks, and smiled at his wife. “We’re going to have to build a bigger house,” he said.

  Yrene’s answering grin was all he’d hoped for.

  The next day, Dorian found Chaol and Yrene in the sick bay that had been moved to the lower levels, the former in his wheeled chair, helping his wife tend to a wounded Crochan, and beckoned them to follow.

  They did, not asking him questions, until he found Manon atop the aerie. Saddling Abraxos for his morning ride. Where she’d been each day, falling into a routine that Dorian knew was as much to keep the grief at bay as it was to maintain order.

  Manon stilled as she beheld them, brows narrowing. She’d met Chaol and Yrene days ago, their reunion quiet but not chilly, despite how poorly Chaol’s first encounter with the witch had gone. Yrene had only embraced the witch, Manon holding her stiffly, and when they’d pulled apart, Dorian could have sworn some of the paleness, the gauntness, had vanished from Manon’s face.

  Dorian asked the Witch-Queen, “Where do you go, when everyone leaves?”

  Manon’s golden eyes didn’t leave his face.

  He hadn’t dared ask her. They hadn’t dared speak of it. Just as he had not yet spoken of his father, his name. Not yet.

  “To the Wastes,” she said at last. “To see what might be done.”

  Dorian swallowed. He’d heard the witches, both Ironteeth and Crochans, talking about it. Had felt their growing nerves—and excitement. “And after?”

  “There will be no after.”

  He smiled slightly at her, a secret, knowing smile. “Won’t there be?”

  Manon asked, “What is it that you want?”

  You, he almost said. All of you.

  But Dorian said, “A small faction of the rukhin are remaining in Adarlan to train the wyvern hatchlings. I want them to be my new aerial legion. And I would like you, and the other Ironteeth, to help them.”

  Chaol coughed, and gave him a look as if to say, You were going to tell me this when?

  Dorian winked at his friend and turned back to Manon. “Go to the Wastes. Rebuild. But consider it—coming back. If not to be my crowned rider, then to train them.” He added a bit softly, “And to say hello every now and then.”

  Manon stared at him.

  He tried not to look like he was holding his breath, like this idea he’d had mere minutes ago in the khaganate royals’ chamber wasn’t coursing through him, bright and fresh.

  Then Manon said, “It is only a few days by wyvern from the Wastes to Rifthold.” Her eyes were wary, and yet—yet that was a slight smile. “I think Bronwen and Petrah will be able to lead if I occasionally slip away. To help the rukhin.”

  He saw the promise in her eyes, in that hint of a smile. Both of them still grieving, still broken in places, but in this new world of theirs … perhaps they might heal. Together.

  “You could just marry each other,” Yrene said, and Dorian whipped his head to her, incredulous. “It’d make it easier for you both, so you don’t need to pretend.”

  Chaol gaped at his wife.

  Yrene shrugged. “And be a strong alliance for our two kingdoms.”

  Dorian knew his face was red when he turned to Manon, apologies and denials on his lips.

  But Manon smirked at Yrene, her silver-white hair lifting in the breeze, as if reaching for the united people who would soon soar westward. That smirk softened as she mounted Abraxos and gathered up the reins. “We’ll see,” was all Manon Blackbeak, High Queen of the Crochans and Ironteeth, said before she and her wyvern leaped into the skies.

  Chaol and Yrene began bickering, laughing as they did, but Dorian strode to the edge of the aerie. Watched that white-haired rider and the wyvern with silver wings become distant as they sailed toward the horizon.

  Dorian smiled. And found himself, for the first time in a while, looking forward to tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 121

  Rowan knew this day would be hard for her.

  For all of them, who had become so close these weeks and months.

  Yet a week after Aelin’s coronation, they gathered again. This time not to celebrate, but to say farewell.

  The day had dawned, clear and sunny, yet still brutally cold. As it would be for a time.

  Aelin had asked them all to stay last night. To wait out the winter months and depart in the spring. Rowan knew she’d been aware her request was unlikely to be granted.

  Some had seemed inclined to think it over, but in the end, all but Rolfe had decided to go.

  Today—as one. Scattering to the four winds. The Ironteeth and Crochans had left before first light, vanishing swiftly and quietly. Heading westward toward their ancient home.

  Rowan stood beside Aelin in the castle courtyard, and he could feel the sorrow and love and gratitude that flowed through her as she took them in. The khaganate royals and rukhin had already said their good-byes, Borte the most reluctant to say farewell, and Aelin’s embrace with Nesryn Faliq had been long. They had whispered together, and he’d known what Aelin offered: companionship, even from thousands of miles away. Two young queens, with mighty kingdoms to rule.

  The healers had gone with them, some on horseback with the Darghan, some in wagons, some with the rukhin. Yrene Westfall had sobbed as she had embraced the healers, the Healer on High, one last time. And then sobbed into her husband’s arms for a good while after that.

  Then Ansel of Briarcliff, with what remained of her men. She and Aelin had traded taunts, then laughed, and then cried, holding each other. Another bond that would not be so easily broken despite the distance.

  The Silent Assassins left next, Ilias smiling at Aelin as he rode off.

  Then Prince Galan, whose ships remained under the watch of Ravi and Sol in Suria and who would ride there before departing to Wendlyn. He had embraced Aedion, then clasped Rowan’s hand before turning to Aelin.

  His wife, his mate, his queen had said to the prince, “You came when I asked. You came without knowing any of us. I know I’ve already said it, but I will be forever grateful.”

  Galan had grinned. “It was a debt long owed, cousin. And one gladly paid.”

  Then he, too, rode off, his people with him. Of all the allies they’d cobbled together, only Rolfe would remain for the winter, as he was now Lord of Ilium. And Falkan Ennar, Lysandra’s uncle, who wished to learn what his niece knew of shape-shifting. Perhaps build his own merchant empire here—and assist with those foreign trade agreements they’d need to quickly make.

  More and more departed under the winter sun until only Dorian, Chaol, and Yrene remained.

  Yrene embraced Elide, the two women swearing to write frequently. Yrene, wisely, just nodded to Lorcan, then smiled at Lysandra, Aedion, Ren, and Fenrys before she approached Rowan and Aelin.

  Yrene remained smiling as she looked between them. “When your first child is near, send for me and I will come. To help with the birth.”

  Rowan didn’t have words for the gratitude that threatened to bow his shoulders. Fae births … He didn’t let himself think of it. Not as he hugged the healer.

  For a moment, Aelin and Yrene just stared at each other.

  “We’re a long way from Innish,” Yrene whispered.

  “But lost no longer,” Aelin whispered back, voice breaking as they embraced. The two women who had held the fate of their world between them. Who had saved it.

  Behind them, Chaol wiped at his face. Rowan, ducking his head, did the same.

  His good-bye to Chaol was quick, their embrace firm. Dorian lingered longer, graceful and steady, even as Rowan found himself struggling to speak past the tightness in his throat.

  And then Aelin stood before Dorian and Chaol, an
d Rowan stepped back, falling into line beside Aedion, Fenrys, Lorcan, Elide, Ren, and Lysandra. Their fledgling court—the court that would change this world. Rebuild it.

  Giving their queen space for this last, hardest good-bye.

  She felt as if she had been crying without end for minutes now.

  Yet this parting, this final farewell …

  Aelin looked at Chaol and Dorian and sobbed. Opened her arms to them, and wept as they held each other.

  “I love you both,” she whispered. “And no matter what may happen, no matter how far we may be, that will never change.”

  “We will see you again,” Chaol said, but even his voice was thick with tears.

  “Together,” Dorian breathed, shaking. “We’ll rebuild this world together.”

  She couldn’t stand it, this ache in her chest. But she made herself pull away and smile at their tear-streaked faces, a hand on her heart. “Thank you for all you have done for me.”

  Dorian bowed his head. “Those are words I’d never thought I’d hear from you.”

  She barked a rasping laugh, and gave him a shove. “You’re a king now. Such insults are beneath you.”

  He grinned, wiping at his face.

  Aelin smiled at Chaol, at his wife waiting beyond him. “I wish you every happiness,” she said to him. To them both.

  Such light shone in Chaol’s bronze eyes—that she had never seen before. “We will see each other again,” he repeated.

  Then he and Dorian turned toward their horses, toward the bright day beyond the castle gates. Toward their kingdom to the south. Shattered now, but not forever.

  Not forever.

  Aelin was quiet for a long time afterward, and Rowan stayed with her, following as she strode up to the castle battlements to watch Chaol, Dorian, and Yrene ride down the road that cut through the savaged Plain of Theralis. Until even they had vanished over the horizon.

  Rowan kept his arm around her, breathing in her scent as she rested her head against his shoulder.

  Rowan ignored the faint ache that lingered there from the tattoos she’d helped him ink the night before. Gavriel’s name, rendered in the Old Language. Exactly how the Lion had once tattooed the names of his fallen warriors on himself.

  Fenrys and Lorcan, a tentative peace between them, also now bore the tattoo—had demanded one as soon as they’d caught wind of what Rowan planned to do.

  Aedion, however, had asked Rowan for a different design. To add Gavriel’s name to the Terrasen knot already inked over his heart.

  Aedion had been quiet while Rowan had worked—quiet enough that Rowan had begun telling him the stories. Story after story about the Lion. The adventures they’d shared, the lands they’d seen, the wars they’d waged. Aedion hadn’t spoken while Rowan had talked and worked, the scent of his grief conveying enough.

  It was a scent that would likely linger for many months to come.

  Aelin let out a long sigh. “Will you let me cry in bed for the rest of today like a pathetic worm,” she asked at last, “if I promise to get to work on rebuilding tomorrow?”

  Rowan arched a brow, joy flowing through him, free and shining as a stream down a mountain. “Would you like me to bring you cakes and chocolate so your wallowing can be complete?”

  “If you can find any.”

  “You destroyed the Wyrdkeys and slew Maeve. I think I can manage to find you some sweets.”

  “As you once said to me, it was a group effort. It might also require one to acquire cakes and chocolate.”

  Rowan laughed, and kissed the top of her head. And for a long moment, he just marveled that he could do it. Could stand with her here, in this kingdom, this city, this castle, where they would make their home.

  He could see it now: the halls restored to their splendor, the plain and river sparkling beyond, the Staghorns beckoning. He could hear the music she’d bring to this city, and the laughter of the children in the streets. In these halls. In their royal suite.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, peering up at his face.

  Rowan brushed a kiss to her mouth. “That I get to be here. With you.”

  “There’s lots of work to be done. Some might say as bad as dealing with Erawan.”

  “Nothing will ever be that bad.”

  She snorted. “True.”

  He tucked her in closer. “I am thinking about how very grateful I am. That we made it. That I found you. And how, even with all that work to be done, I will not mind a moment of it because you are with me.”

  She frowned, her eyes dampening. “I’m going to have a terrible headache from all this crying, and you’re not helping.”

  Rowan laughed, and kissed her again. “Very queenly.”

  She hummed. “I am, if anything, the consummate portrait of royal grace.”

  He chuckled against her mouth. “And humility. Let’s not forget that.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, winding her arms around his neck. His blood heated, sparking with a power greater than any force a god or Wyrdkey could summon.

  But Rowan pulled away, just far enough to rest his brow against hers. “Let’s get you to your chambers, Majesty, so you can commence your royal wallowing.”

  She shook with laughter. “I might have something else in mind now.”

  Rowan let out a growl, and nipped at her ear, her neck. “Good. I do, too.”

  “And tomorrow?” she asked breathlessly, and they both paused to look at each other. To smile. “Will you work to rebuild this kingdom, this world, with me tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, and every day after that.” For every day of the thousand blessed years they were granted together. And beyond.

  Aelin kissed him again and took his hand, guiding him into the castle. Into their home. “To whatever end?” she breathed.

  Rowan followed her, as he had his entire life, long before they had ever met, before their souls had sparked into existence. “To whatever end, Fireheart.” He glanced sidelong at her. “Can I give you a suggestion for what we should rebuild first?”

  Aelin smiled, and eternity opened before them, shining and glorious and lovely. “Tell me tomorrow.”

  A Better World

  Brutal winter gave way to soft spring.

  Throughout the endless, snowy months, they had worked. On rebuilding Orynth, on all those trade agreements, on making ties with kingdoms no one had contacted in a hundred years. The lost Fae of Terrasen had returned, many of the wolf-riders with them, and immediately launched into rebuilding. Right alongside the several dozen Fae from Doranelle who had opted to stay, even when Endymion and Sellene had returned to their lands.

  All across the continent, Aelin could have sworn the ringing of hammers sounded, so many peoples and lands emerging once more.

  And in the South, no land worked harder to rebuild than Eyllwe. Their losses had been steep, yet they had endured—remained unbroken. The letter Aelin had written to Nehemia’s parents had been the most joyous of her life. I hope to meet you soon, she’d written. And repair this world together.

  Yes, they had replied. Nehemia would wish it so.

  Aelin had kept their letter on her desk for months. Not a scar on her palm, but a promise of tomorrow. A vow to make the future as brilliant as Nehemia had dreamed it could be.

  And as spring at last crept over the Staghorns, the world became green and gold and blue, the stained stones of the castle cleaned and gleaming above it all.

  Aelin didn’t know why she woke with the dawn. What drove her to slip from under the arm that Rowan had draped over her while they slept. Her mate remained asleep, exhausted as she was—exhausted as they all were, every single evening.

  Exhausted, both of them, and their court, but happy. Elide and Lorcan—now Lord Lorcan Lochan, to Aelin’s eternal amusement—had gone back to Perranth only a week ago to begin the rebuilding there, now that the healers had finished their work on the last of the Valg-possessed. They would return in three weeks, though. Along with all the other lords who
had journeyed to their estates once winter had lightened its grasp. Everyone would converge on Orynth, then. For Aedion and Lysandra’s wedding.

  A Prince of Wendlyn no longer, but a true Lord of Terrasen.

  Aelin smiled at the thought as she slipped on her dressing robe, shuffling her feet into her shearling-lined slippers. Even with spring fully upon them, the mornings were chill. Indeed, Fleetfoot lay beside the fire on her little cushioned bed, curled up tightly. And as equally exhausted as Rowan, apparently. The hound didn’t bother to crack open an eye.

  Aelin threw the blankets back over Rowan’s naked body, smiling down at him when he didn’t so much as stir. He much preferred the physical rebuilding—working for hours on repairing buildings and the city walls—to the courtly bullshit, as he called it. Meaning, anything that required him to put on nice clothing.

  Yet he’d promised to dance with her at Lysandra and Aedion’s wedding. Such unexpectedly fine dancing skills, her mate had. Only for special occasions, he’d warned after her coronation.

  Sticking out her tongue at him, Aelin turned from their bed and strode for the windows that led onto the broad balcony overlooking the city and plain beyond. Her morning ritual—to climb out of bed, ease through the curtains, and emerge onto the balcony to breathe in the morning air.

  To look at her kingdom, their kingdom, and see that it had made it. See the green of spring, and smell the pine and snow of the wind off the Staghorns. Sometimes, Rowan joined her, holding her in silence when all that had happened weighed too heavily upon her. When the loss of her human form lingered like a phantom limb. Other times, on the days when she woke clear-eyed and smiling, he’d shift and sail on those mountain winds, soaring over the city, or Oakwald, or the Staghorns. As he loved to do, as he did when his heart was troubled or full of joy.

  She knew it was the latter that sent him flying these days.

  She would never stop being grateful for that. For the light, the life in Rowan’s eyes.

  The same light she knew shone in her own.

  Aelin reached the heavy curtains, feeling for the handle to the balcony door. With a final smile to Rowan, she slipped into the morning sun and chill breeze.