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

CHAPTER 49

Rowan had been speaking to the captain of their ship when the ruk had flown past.

According to her mate, the ruk nearly slammed right into the ship thanks to the dense fog on the sea. A scout—from an armada to the south.

A skeleton crew had remained amongst them, though the scout hadn’t been privy to the royals’ plans. All she knew was that the khagan’s army had gone to Anielle.

Where they would go after that—to Rifthold, to Eyllwe—had not been decided.

So Aelin would help them decide. Make sure that when this business with Anielle was over, the khagan’s army marched northward. To Terrasen.

And nowhere else. Whatever she needed to do to convince them, offer them in exchange for it, she’d pay it. Even if hauling ass to Anielle had meant delaying her own return to Terrasen.

She supposed it’d be better to return with an army behind her than alone.

Yet now, standing in the royals’ war tent, Aelin still couldn’t quite believe just how many the khagan had sent. With more to come, Prince Sartaq had claimed.

They’d wended through the neatly organized tents and soldiers, both on foot and the downright awe-inspiring cavalry. The Darghan, the legendary riders from the steppes of the khaganate. The royal family’s mother-people, who had taken the continent for themselves.

And then they’d seen the ruks, and even miserable Lorcan had sworn in awe at the mighty, beautiful birds adorned with ornate armor, and the armed riders atop them. The scout had been one thing. An army of them had been glorious.

A glance at Rowan told her that shrewd mind was already calculating a plan.

So Aelin asked casually, flashing the royals a grin, “Where did you all plan on going after this?”

Princess Hasar, as shrewd as Aelin’s mate, returned her smile—a razor-sharp thing of little beauty. “Doubtless, you’re about to begin some scheme to convince us to go to Terrasen.”

The room tensed, but Aelin snorted. “Begin? Who says I’m not already in the thick of it?”

“Gods help us,” Chaol muttered. Rowan echoed the sentiment.

Hasar opened her mouth, but Prince Sartaq cut in, “Where we march will be decided after Anielle is secured.” The prince’s face remained grave, calculating—but not cold. Aelin had decided within moments that she liked him. And liked him even more when it came out that he had just been crowned the khagan’s Heir. With Nesryn as his potential bride.

Potential, to Aelin’s amusement, because Nesryn herself wasn’t so keen on being empress of the mightiest empire in the world.

But what Sartaq had said—

Elide blurted, “You mean to not go to Terrasen?”

Aelin kept still, her fingers curling at her sides.

Prince Sartaq said carefully, “It had been our initial plan to go north, but there might be other places like Anielle in need of liberation.”

“Terrasen needs aid,” Rowan said, his face the portrait of steely calm as he surveyed their new allies and old friends.

“And yet Terrasen has not called for it,” Hasar countered, utterly unfazed by the wall of Fae warriors glowering at her. Exactly the sort of person Aelin had hoped she’d be when she wrote to her all those months ago.

Chaol cleared his throat. Gods above, Chaol was walking again. And married to Yrene Towers, who had healed him.

A thread in a tapestry. That’s what it had felt like the night she’d left the gold for Yrene in Innish. Like pulling a thread in a tapestry, and seeing just how far and wide it went.

All the way to the southern continent, it seemed. And it had rippled back with an army and a healed, happy friend. Or as happy as any of them might be at the moment.

Aelin met Chaol’s stare. “Focus on winning this battle,” he said, nodding once in understanding at the fire she knew smoldered in her eyes, “and then we shall decide.”

Princess Hasar smirked at Aelin. “So be sure to impress us.”

Again, that tension rippled through the room.

Aelin held the princess’s stare. Smiled slightly. And said nothing.

Nesryn shifted on her feet, as if well aware what that silence could mean.

“How solid are the keep walls?” Gavriel asked Chaol, gently steering the conversation away.

Chaol rubbed at his jaw. “They’ve withstood sieges before, but Morath has been hammering them for days. The battlements are solid enough, but another few blows from the catapults and towers might start coming down.”

Rowan crossed his arms. “The walls were breached today?”

“They were,” Chaol said grimly. “By a siege tower. The ruks couldn’t arrive in time to pull it down.” Nesryn cringed, but Sartaq did not offer an apology. Chaol went on, “We secured the walls, but the Valg soldiers cut down a number of our men—from Anielle, that is.”

Aelin surveyed the map, blocking out the challenge of the fierce-eyed princess who was a mirror in so many ways. “So how do we play it? Do we slam through the lines, or pick them off one by one?”

Nesryn stabbed a finger onto the map, right atop the Silver Lake. “What if we pushed them to the lake itself?”

Hasar hummed, all traces of taunting gone. “Morath placed itself foolishly in their greed to sack the city. They didn’t estimate being trampled by the Darghan, or picked apart by the rukhin.”

Aelin glanced sidelong to Rowan. Found him already staring at her.