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

“Yes,” Elide and Aelin said, then shared a rare smile.

A miracle, that smile on Aelin’s mouth.

But Elide’s faded as she said, “This storm could last days. It could dump three feet.”

Lorcan, lingering near the brazier, grunted. “Even once the snow stops, there will be that to contend with. Soldiers losing toes and fingers to the cold and wet.”

Aelin’s smile vanished entirely. “I’ll melt as much as I can.”

She would. She’d bring herself to the edge of burnout to do it. But together, if they linked their powers, the force of Rowan’s magic might be enough to melt a path. To keep the army warm.

“We’ll still have an army who arrives at Orynth exhausted,” Gavriel said, rubbing his jaw.

How many days had Rowan seen him gaze northward, toward the son who fought in Orynth? Wondering, no doubt, if Aedion still lived.

“They’re professionals,” Fenrys said drily. “They can handle it.”

“Going the long way around will only increase the exhaustion,” Lorcan said.

“The last we heard,” Rowan said, “Morath held Perranth.” A pained wince from Elide at that. “We won’t risk crossing too close to it. Not when it would mean potentially getting entangled in a conflict that would only delay our arrival in Orynth and thin our numbers.”

“I’ve looked at the maps a dozen times.” Gavriel frowned to where they were laid out on the worktable. “There’s no alternative way to Orynth—not without drawing too close to Perranth.”

“Perhaps we’ll be lucky,” Fenrys said, “and this storm will have hit the entire North. Maybe freeze some of Morath’s forces for us.”

Rowan doubted they’d be that lucky. He had a feeling that any luck they possessed had been spent with the woman sitting beside him.

Aelin looked at him, grave and tired. He could not imagine what it felt like. She had yielded all of herself. Had given up her humanity, her magic. He knew it was the former that left that haunted, bruised look in her eyes. That made her a stranger in her own body.

Rowan had taken the time last night to reacquaint her with certain parts of that body. And his own. Had spent a long while doing so, too. Until that haunted look had vanished, until she was writhing beneath him, burning while he moved in her. He hadn’t stopped his tears from falling, even when they’d turned to steam before they hit her body, and there had been tears on her own face, bright as silver in the flame, while she’d held him tight.

Yet this morning, when he’d nuzzled her awake with kisses to her jaw, her neck, that haunted look had returned. And lingered.

First her scars. Then her mortal, human body.

Enough. She had given enough. He knew she planned to give more.

A rukhin scout called for the queen from the tent flaps, and Aelin gave a quiet command to enter. But the scout only poked in her head, her eyes wide. Snow covered her hood, her eyebrows, her lashes. “Your Majesty. Majesties,” she corrected, glancing at him. Rowan didn’t bother to tell her he was simply and would forever be Your Highness. “You must come.” The scout panted hard enough for her breath to curl in the chilled air leaking through the tent flaps. “All of you.”

It took minutes to don their warmer layers and gear, to brace for the snow and wind.

But then they were all inching through the drifts, the scout guiding them past half-buried tents. Even under the trees, there was little shelter.

Yet then they were at the edge of the camp, the blinding snows roaring past. Veiling what the scout pointed to as she said, “Look.”

At his side, Aelin stumbled a step. Rowan reached for her to keep her from falling.

But she hadn’t been falling. She’d been lurching forward—as if to run ahead.

Rowan saw at last what she beheld. Who emerged between the trees.

Against the snow, he was nearly invisible with his white fur. Would have been invisible were it not for the golden flame flickering between his proud, towering antlers.

The Lord of the North.

And at his feet, all around him … The Little Folk.

Snow clinging to her lashes, a small sound came out of Aelin as the creature nearest curled its hand, beckoning. As if to say, Follow us.

The others gaped in silence at the magnificent, proud stag who had come to greet them.

To guide home the Queen of Terrasen.

But then the wind began to whisper, and it was not the song that Rowan usually heard.

No, it was a voice that they all heard as it streamed past them.

Doom is upon Orynth, Heir of Brannon. You must hurry.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold skittered down Rowan’s skin.

“The storm,” Aelin blurted, the words swallowed by the snow.

You must hurry. We will show you the way, swift and unseen.

Aelin only stilled. Said to that voice, as ancient as the trees, as old as the rocks between them, “You have already helped me so many times.”

And you have given much yourself, Heir of Brannon. We who remember him know he would have made such a choice, had he been able to do so. Oakwald shall never forget Brannon, or his Heir.

Aelin straightened, scanned the trees, the snow-whipped wind.

Dryad. That was the word he sought. Dryad. A tree spirit.

“What is your cost?” Aelin asked, her voice louder now.

“Do you really want to ask?” Fenrys muttered. Rowan snarled at him.