Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7) by Sarah J. Maas

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.