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

The white wolf shifted back into his Fae body. His bronze skin was ashen, his dark eyes swimming with dread. “It did.”

Rowan growled, “It didn’t taste any different to me, either.”

“A glamour—like the form she maintains,” Gavriel mused.

Nesryn nodded. “From what the spiders said, it seems entirely possible that she would be able to convince you that her blood looked and tasted like Fae blood.”

Fenrys made a sound like he was going to be sick. Aelin was inclined to do the same.

And from far away—a memory-that-was-not-a-memory stirred. Of summer nights spent in a forest glen, Maeve instructing her. Telling her a story about a queen who walked between worlds.

Who had not been content in the realm in which she’d been born, and had found a way to leave it, using the lost knowledge of ancient wayfarers. World-walkers.

Maeve had told her. Perhaps a skewed, biased tale, but she’d told her. Why? Why do it at all? Some way to win her—or to make her hesitate, should it ever come to this?

“But Maeve hates the Valg kings,” Elide said, and even from the silent, drifting place to which Aelin had gone, she could see the razor-sharp mind churning behind Elide’s eyes. “She’s hidden for this long. Surely she wouldn’t ally with them.”

“She ran at the chance to get hold of a Valg collar,” Fenrys said darkly. “Seemed convinced that she could control the prince inside it.”

Not only through Maeve’s power, but because she was a demon queen.

Aelin forced herself to take another breath. Another. Her fingers curled, gripping an invisible weapon.

Lorcan had not uttered a word. Had done nothing but stand there, pale and silent. As if he’d stopped being in his body, too.

“We don’t know her plans,” Nesryn said. “The kharankui have not seen her for millennia, and only hear whisperings carried by lesser spiders. But they still worship her, and wait for her return.”

Chaol met Aelin’s stare, his gaze questioning.

Aelin said quietly, “I was Maeve’s prisoner for two months.”

Utter silence in the tent. Then she explained—all of it. Why she was not in Terrasen, who now fought there, where Dorian and Manon had gone.

Aelin swallowed as she finished, leaning into Rowan’s touch. “Maeve wished me to reveal the location of the two Wyrdkeys. Wanted me to hand them over, but I managed to get them away before she took me. To Doranelle. She wanted to break me to her will. To use me to conquer the world, I thought. But it perhaps now seems she wanted to use me as a shield against the Valg, to guard her always.” The words tumbled out, heavy and sharp. “I was her captive until nearly a month ago.” She nodded toward her court. “When I got free, they found me again.”

Silence fell again, her new companions at a loss. She didn’t blame them.

Then Hasar hissed, “We’ll make the bitch pay for that, too, won’t we?”

Aelin met the princess’s dark stare. “Yes, we will.”



The truth had slammed into Rowan like a physical blow.

Maeve was Valg.

A Valg queen. Whose estranged husband had once invaded this world and, if Chaol was correct, wished to enter it again, should Erawan succeed in opening the Wyrdgate.

He knew his cadre, or whatever they were now called, was in shock. Knew he himself had fallen into some sort of stupor.

The female they’d served, bowed to … Valg.

They had been so thoroughly deceived they had not even tasted it in her blood.

Fenrys looked like he was going to empty the contents of his stomach onto the tent floor. For him, the truth would be the most horrendous.

Lorcan’s face remained cold and blank. Gavriel kept rubbing his jaw, his eyes swimming with dismay.

Rowan loosed a long breath.

A Valg queen.

That’s who had held his Fireheart. What sort of power had tried to break into her mind.

What power had broken into Rowan’s mind. All their minds, if she could glamour her blood to look and taste ordinary.

He felt the tension rising in Aelin, a raging storm that nearly hummed into his hands as he gripped her shoulders.

Yet her flames made no appearance. They hadn’t shown so much as an ember these weeks, despite how hard they’d trained.

Occasionally, he’d spy Goldryn’s ruby gleaming while she held it, as if fire glowed in the heart of the stone. But nothing more.

Not even when they’d tangled in their bed on the ship, when his teeth had found that mark on her neck.

Elide surveyed them all, their silence, and said to their new companions, “Perhaps we should determine a plan of action regarding tomorrow’s battle.” And give them time, later tonight, to sort through this colossal mess.

Chaol nodded. “We brought a trunk of books with us,” he said to Aelin. “From the Torre. They’re all full of Wyrdmarks.” Aelin didn’t so much as blink, but Chaol finished, “If we get through this battle, they’re yours to peruse. In case there’s anything in them that might help.” Against Erawan, against Maeve, against his mate’s terrible fate.

Aelin just vaguely nodded.

So Rowan forced himself to shove away the shock and disgust and fear, and focus upon the plan ahead. Only Gavriel seemed able to do the same, Fenrys staying where he was, and Lorcan just staring and staring at nothing.