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

She offered the young lord a hint of a smile. Ren ignored it, facing the map again.

“If we move to the border,” Darrow said, “we risk being wiped out, thus leaving Perranth, Orynth, and every town and city in this kingdom at Erawan’s mercy.”

“There are arguments to be made for both,” Prince Endymion said, stepping forward. The oldest among them, though he looked not a day past twenty-eight. “Your army remains too small to risk dividing in half. All must go—either south, or back north.”

“I would vote for the South,” said Princess Sellene, Endymion’s cousin. Rowan’s cousin. She’d been curious about Aelin, Lysandra could tell, but had stayed away. As if hesitant to forge a bond when war might destroy them all. Lysandra had wondered more than once what in the princess’s long life had made her that way—wary and solemn, yet not wholly aloof. “There are more routes for escape, if the need arises.” She pointed a tanned finger to the map, her braided silver hair shining amongst the folds of her heavy emerald cloak. “In Orynth, your backs will be against the mountains.”

“There are secret paths through the Staghorns,” Lord Sloane said, utterly unruffled. “Many of our people used them ten years ago.”

And so it went on. Debating and arguing, voices rising and falling.

Until Darrow called a vote—amongst the six Lords of Terrasen only. The only official leaders of this army, apparently.

Two of them, Sol and Ren, voted for the border.

Four of them, Darrow, Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood, voted to move to Orynth.

Darrow simply said, when silence had fallen, “Should our allies not wish to risk our plan, they may depart. We hold you to no oaths.”

Lysandra almost started at that.

Aedion growled, even as worry flashed in his eyes.

But Prince Galan, who had kept silent and watchful, a listener despite his frequent smiles and bold fighting on both sea and land, stepped forward. Looked right at Aelin, his eyes—their eyes—glowing bright. “Poor allies we would indeed make,” he said, his Wendlynian accent rich and rolling, “if we abandoned our friends when their choices veered from ours. We promised our assistance in this war. Wendlyn will not back from it.”

Darrow tensed. Not at the words, but at the fact that they were directed at her. At Aelin.

Lysandra bowed her head, putting a hand on her heart.

Prince Endymion lifted his chin. “I swore an oath to my cousin, your consort,” he said, and the other lords bristled. Since Aelin was not queen, Rowan’s own title was still not recognized by them. Only the other lords, it seemed. “Since I doubt we will be welcome in Doranelle again, I would like to think that this may perhaps be our new home, should all go well.”

Aelin would have agreed. “You are welcome here—all of you. For as long as you like.”

“You are not authorized to make such invitations,” Lord Gunnar snapped.

None of them bothered to answer. But Ilias of the Silent Assassins gave a solemn nod that voiced his agreement to stay, and Ansel of Briarcliff merely winked again at Aelin and said, “I came this far to help you beat that bastard into dust. I don’t see why I’d go home now.”

Lysandra didn’t fake the gratitude that tightened her throat as she bowed to the allies her queen had gathered.

A tall, dark-haired young man entered the tent, his gray eyes darting around the gathered company. They widened when they beheld her—Aelin. Widened, then glanced to Aedion as if to confirm. He marked the golden hair, the Ashryver eyes, and paled.

“What is it, Nox,” Darrow growled. The messenger straightened, and hurried to the lord’s side, murmuring something in his ear. “Send him in,” was Darrow’s only answer.

Nox stalked out, graceful despite his height, and a shorter, pale-skinned man entered.

Darrow extended a hand for the letter. “You had a message from Eldrys?”

Lysandra smelled the stranger the moment Aedion did.

A moment before the stranger smiled and said, “Erawan sends his regards.”

And unleashed a blast of black wind right at her.





CHAPTER 17

Lysandra ducked, but not fast enough to avoid the lash of power that sliced down her arm.

She hit the ground, rolling, as she’d learned under Arobynn’s careful tutelage. But Aedion was already in front of her, sword out. Defending his queen.

A flash of light and cold—from Enda and Sellene—and the Morath messenger was pinned to his knees, his dark power lashing against an invisible barrier of ice-kissed wind.

Around the tent, all had fallen back, weapons glinting. Flanking the downed man, Ilias and Ansel had their swords already angled toward him, their defensive poses mirror images. Trained into their very bones by the same master, under the same blistering sun. Neither looked at the other, though.

Ren, Sol, and Ravi had slipped into position at Lysandra’s—at Aelin’s—side, their own blades primed to spill blood. A fledgling court closing ranks around its queen.

Never mind that the older lords had stumbled behind the safety of the refreshment table, their weathered faces ashen. Only Galan Ashryver had taken up a place near the tent exit, no doubt to intercept their assailant should he try to flee. A bold move—and a fool’s one, considering what knelt in the center of the tent.