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

All of them did. Yrene clung a bit tighter at night, whispering about the strangeness of the land, its hollow silence. As if the land itself does not sing, she’d said a few times now, shuddering as she did.

A far better place, Chaol thought as they rode northward, skirting the edge of the Fangs on their right, for Erawan to make his empire. Hell, they might have given it to him if he’d set up his fortress deep on the plain and kept to it.

“We’re a day out from the Gap,” one of the wild men—Kai—said to Chaol as they rode through an unusually sunny morning. “We’ll camp south of the Northern Fang tonight, and tomorrow morning’s march will take us into the Gap itself.”

There was another reason the wild men had allied with them, beyond the territory they stood to gain. Witches had hunted their kind this spring—entire clans and camps left in bloody ribbons. Many had been reduced to cinders, and the few survivors had whispered of a dark-haired woman with unholy power. Chaol was willing to bet it had been Kaltain, but had not told the wild men that particular threat, at least, had been erased. Or had incinerated herself in the end.

It wouldn’t matter to them anyway. Of the two hundred or so wild men who had joined their army since they’d left Anielle, all had come to the Ferian Gap to extract vengeance on the witches. On Morath. Chaol refrained from mentioning that he himself had killed one of their kind almost a year ago.

It might as well have been a decade ago, for all that had happened since he’d killed Cain during his duel with Aelin. Yulemas was still weeks away—if they survived long enough to celebrate it.

Chaol said to the slim, bearded man, who made up for his lack of his clansmen’s traditional bulk with quick wit and sharp eyes, “Is there a place that might hide an army this large tonight?”

Kai shook his head. “Not this close. Tonight will be the greatest risk.”

Chaol glanced to the distant healers’ wagons where Yrene rode, working on any soldiers who had fallen ill or injured on the trek. He hadn’t seen her since they’d awoken, but he’d known she’d spent their ride today healing—the tightness in his spine grew with each mile.

“We’ll just have to pray,” said Chaol, turning to the towering mountain taking shape before them.

“The gods don’t come to these lands,” was all Kai said before he fell back with a group of his own people.

A horse eased up beside his own, and he found Aelin bundled in a fur-lined cloak, a hand on Goldryn’s hilt. Gavriel rode behind her, Fenrys at his side. The former kept an eye upon the western plains; the latter monitoring the wall of peaks to their right. Both golden-haired Fae males remained silent, however, as Aelin frowned at Kai’s disappearing form. “That man has a flair for the dramatic that should have earned him a place on some of Rifthold’s finest stages.”

“Fine praise indeed, coming from you.”

She winked, patting Goldryn’s ruby pommel. The stone seemed to flare in response. “I know a kindred spirit when I see one.”

Despite the battle that waited ahead, Chaol chuckled.

But then Aelin said, “Rowan and the cadre have been tunneling into their power for the past few days.” She nodded over her shoulder to Fenrys and Gavriel, then to where Rowan rode at the head of the company, the Fae Prince’s silver hair bright as the sun-on-snow around them. “So have I. We’ll make sure nothing harms this army tonight.” A knowing glance toward the healers’ wagons. “Certain areas will be especially guarded.”

Chaol nodded his thanks. Having Aelin able to use her powers, having her companions wielding them, too, would make the battle far, far easier. Wyverns might not even be able to get close enough to touch their soldiers if Aelin could blast them from the skies, or Rowan could snap their wings with a gust of wind. Or just rip the air from their lungs.

He’d seen enough of Fenrys’s and Gavriel’s fighting in Anielle to know that even without as much magic, they’d be lethal. And Lorcan … Chaol didn’t look over his shoulder to where Lorcan and Elide rode. The dark warrior’s powers weren’t anything Chaol ever wished to face.

With an answering nod, Aelin trotted to Rowan’s side, the ruby in Goldryn’s hilt like a small sun. Fenrys followed, guarding the queen’s back even amongst allies. Yet Gavriel remained, guiding his horse beside Farasha. The black mare eyed the warrior’s roan gelding, but made no move to bite him. Thank the gods.

The Lion gave him a slight smile. “I did not have the chance to congratulate you on your happy news.”

An odd thing for the warrior to say, given that they’d barely spoken beyond councils, but Chaol bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Gavriel stared toward the snow and mountains—toward the distant north. “I was not granted the opportunity you have, to be present from the start. To see my son grow into a man.”

Chaol thought of it—of the life growing in Yrene’s womb, of the child they’d raise. Thought of what Gavriel had not experienced. “I’m sorry.” It was the only thing, really, to say.

Gavriel shook his head, tawny eyes glowing golden, flecks of emerald emerging in the blinding sun. “I did not tell you for sympathy.” The Lion looked at him, and Chaol felt the weight of every one of Gavriel’s centuries weighing upon him. “But rather to tell you what you perhaps already know: to savor every moment of it.”