Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3) by Sarah J. Maas

And perhaps when they figured out a way to destroy that tower and free magic from his father’s yoke, she would know her friends had not forgotten her, either. That he had not forgotten her.

So Dorian let his father rage. He sat in on those meetings and shut down his revulsion and horror when his father sent a third minister to the butchering block. For Sorscha, for the promise of keeping her safe, of someday, perhaps, not having to hide what and who he was, he kept on his well-worn mask, offered banal suggestions about what to do regarding Aelin, and pretended. One last time.

When Celaena got back, when she returned as she’d sworn she would…

Then they would set about changing the world together.





Chapter 59


It took a week for Celaena and Rowan to reach Doranelle. They traveled over the rough, miserable mountains where Maeve’s wild wolves monitored them day and night, then down into the lush valley through forests and fields, the air heavy with spices and magic.

The temperature grew warmer the farther south they traveled, but breezes kept it from being too unpleasant. After a while, they began spotting pretty stone villages in the distance, but Rowan kept them away, hidden, until they crested a rocky hill and Doranelle spread before them.

It took her breath away. Even Orynth could not compare to this.

They had called it the City of Rivers for a reason. The pale-stoned city was built on a massive island smack in the center of several of them, the waters raging as the tributaries from the surrounding hills and mountains blended. On the island’s north end, the rivers toppled over the mouth of a mighty waterfall, its basin so huge that the mist floated into the clear day, setting the domed buildings, pearlescent spires, and blue rooftops shining. There were no boats moored to the city edges, though there were two elegant stone bridges spanning the river—heavily guarded. Fae moved across the bridges, and carts loaded with everything from vegetables to hay to wine. Somewhere, there had to be fields and farms and towns to supply them. Though she’d bet Maeve had a stronghold of goods stocked up.

“I assume you normally fly right in and don’t deign to use the bridges,” she said to Rowan, who was frowning at the city, not looking very much like a warrior about to return home. He nodded distantly. He’d fallen silent in the past day—not rude, but quiet and vague, as if he were rebuilding the wall between them. This morning, she’d awoken in their hilltop camp to find him staring at the sunrise, looking for all the world as if he’d been having a conversation with it. She hadn’t had the nerve to ask if he’d been praying to Mala Fire-Bringer, or what he would even ask of the Sun Goddess. But there had been a strangely familiar warmth wrapped around the camp, and she could have sworn that she felt her magic leap in joyous response. She didn’t let herself think about it.

Because for the past day, she, too, had been lost in herself, busy gathering her strength and clarity. She hadn’t been able to talk much, and even now, focusing on the present required an immense effort. “Well,” she said, taking an exaggerated breath and patting Goldryn’s hilt, “let’s go see our beloved aunt. I’d hate to keep her waiting.”



It took them until nightfall to reach the bridge, and Celaena was glad: there were fewer Fae to witness their arrival, even though the winding, elegant streets were now full of musicians and dancing and vendors selling hot food and drinks. There had been plenty of that in Adarlan, but here there was no empire weighing on them, no darkness or cold or despair. Maeve had not sent aid ten years ago—and while the Fae danced and drank mulled cider, Celaena’s people had been butchered and burned. She knew it wasn’t their fault, but as she headed across the city, toward the northern edge by the waterfall, she couldn’t bring herself to smile at the merriment.

She reminded herself that she had danced and drunk and done whatever she pleased while her own people had suffered for ten years, too. She was in no position to resent the Fae, or anyone except the queen who ruled over this city.

None of the guards stopped them, though she did note shadows trailing them from the rooftops and alleys, a few birds of prey circling above. Rowan didn’t acknowledge them, though she caught his teeth glinting in the golden lamplight. Apparently, the escort wasn’t making the prince too happy, either. How many of them did he know personally? How many had he fought beside, or ventured with to unmapped lands?

They saw no sign of his friends, and he made no comment about whether or not he expected to see them. Even though his gaze was straight ahead, she knew he was aware of every sentry watching them, every breath issued nearby.

She didn’t have the space left in her for doubt or fear. As they walked, she played with the ring tucked into her pocket, turning it over and over as she reminded herself of her plan and of what she needed to accomplish before she left this city. She was as much a queen as Maeve. She was the sovereign of a strong people and a mighty kingdom.

She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.



They were escorted through a shining palace of pale stone and sky-blue gossamer curtains, the floors a mosaic of delicate tiles depicting various scenes, from dancing maidens to pastorals to the night sky. Throughout the building, the river itself ran in tiny streams, sometimes gathering in pools freckled with night-blooming lilies. Jasmine wove around the massive columns, and lights of colored glass hung from the arched ceilings. Enough of the palace was open to the elements to suggest that the weather here was always this mild. Music played from distant rooms, but it was faint and placid compared to the riot of sound and color in the city outside the mammoth marble palace walls.