Kingdom of Ash
: Part 1 – Chapter 4

“This camp has been abandoned for months.”

Manon turned from the snow-crusted cliff where she’d been monitoring the western edge of the White Fang Mountains. Toward the Wastes.

Asterin remained crouched over the half-buried remnants of a fire pit, the shaggy goat pelt slung over her shoulders ruffling in the frigid wind. Her Second went on, “No one’s been here since early autumn.”

Manon had suspected as much. The Shadows had spotted the site an hour earlier on their patrol of the terrain ahead, somehow noticing the irregularities cleverly hidden in the leeward side of the rocky peak. The Mother knew Manon herself might have flown right over it.

Asterin stood, brushing snow from the knees of her leathers. Even the thick material wasn’t enough to ward against the brutal cold. Hence the mountain-goat pelts they’d resorted to wearing.

Good for blending into the snow, Edda had claimed, the Shadow even letting the dark hair dye she favored wash away these weeks to reveal the moon white of her natural shade. Manon’s shade. Briar had kept the dye. One of them was needed to scout at night, the other Shadow had claimed.

Manon surveyed the two Shadows carefully stalking through the camp. Perhaps no longer Shadows, but rather the two faces of the moon. One dark, one light.

One of many changes to the Thirteen.

Manon blew out a breath, the wind tearing away the hot puff.

“They’re out there,” Asterin murmured so the others might not hear from where they gathered by the overhanging boulder that shielded them from the wind.

“Three camps,” Manon said with equal quiet. “All long abandoned. We’re hunting ghosts.”

Asterin’s gold hair ripped free of its braid, blowing westward. Toward the homeland they might very well never see. “The camps are proof they’re flesh and blood. Ghislaine thinks they might be from the late-summer hunts.”

“They could also be from the wild men of these mountains.” Though Manon knew they weren’t. She’d hunted enough Crochans during the past hundred years to spot their style of making fires, their neat little camps. All the Thirteen had. And they’d all tracked and killed so many of the wild men of the White Fangs earlier this year on Erawan’s behalf that they knew their habits, too.

Asterin’s gold-flecked black eyes fell on that blurred horizon. “We’ll replace them.”

Soon. They had to replace at least some of the Crochans soon. Manon knew they had methods of communicating, scattered as they were. Ways to get out a call for help. A call for aid.

Time was not on their side. It had been nearly two months since that day on the beach in Eyllwe. Since she’d learned the terrible cost the Queen of Terrasen must pay to put an end to this madness. The cost that another with Mala’s bloodline might also pay, if need be.

Manon resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder to where the King of Adarlan stood amongst the rest of her Thirteen, entertaining Vesta by summoning flame, water, and ice to his cupped palm. A small display of a terrible, wondrous magic. He set three whorls of the elements lazily dancing around each other, and Vesta arched an impressed brow. Manon had seen the way the red-haired sentinel looked at him, had noted that Vesta wisely refrained from acting on that desire.

Manon had given her no such orders, though. Hadn’t said anything to the Thirteen about what, exactly, the human king was to her.

Nothing, she wanted to say. Someone as unmoored as she. As quietly angry. And as pressed for time. Finding the third and final Wyrdkey had proved futile. The two the king carried in his pocket offered no guidance, only their unearthly reek. Where Erawan kept it, they had not the faintest inkling. To search Morath or any of his other outposts would be suicide.

So they’d set aside their hunt, after weeks of fruitless searching, in favor of replaceing the Crochans. The king had protested initially, but yielded. His allies and friends in the North needed as many warriors as they could muster. Finding the Crochans … Manon wouldn’t break her promise.

She might be the disowned Heir of the Blackbeak Clan, might now command only a dozen witches, but she could still hold true to her word.

So she’d replace the Crochans. Convince them to fly into battle with the Thirteen. With her. Their last living Crochan Queen.

Even if it led them all straight into the Darkness’s embrace.

The sun arched higher, its light off the snows near-blinding.

Lingering was unwise. They’d survived these months with strength and wits. For while they’d hunted for the Crochans, they’d been hunted themselves. Yellowlegs and Bluebloods, mostly. All scouting patrols.

Manon had given the order not to engage, not to kill. A missing Ironteeth patrol would only pinpoint their location. Though Dorian could have snapped their necks without lifting a finger.

It was a pity he hadn’t been born a witch. But she’d gladly accept such a lethal ally. So would the Thirteen.

“What will you say,” Asterin mused, “when we replace the Crochans?”

Manon had considered it over and over. If the Crochans would know who Lothian Blackbeak was, that she had loved Manon’s father—a rare-born Crochan Prince. That her parents had dreamed, had believed they’d created a child to break the curse on the Ironteeth and unite their peoples.

A child not of war, but of peace.

But those were foreign words on her tongue. Love. Peace.

Manon ran a gloved finger over the scrap of red fabric binding the end of her braid. A shred from her half sister’s cloak. Rhiannon. Named for the last Witch-Queen. Whose face Manon somehow bore. Manon said, “I’ll ask the Crochans not to shoot, I suppose.”

Asterin’s mouth twitched toward a smile. “I meant about who you are.”

She’d rarely balked from anything. Rarely feared anything. But saying the words, those words … “I don’t know,” Manon admitted. “We’ll see if we get that far.”

The White Demon. That’s what the Crochans called her. She was at the top of their to-kill list. A witch every Crochan was to slay on sight. That fact alone said they didn’t know what she was to them.

Yet her half sister had figured it out. And then Manon had slit her throat.

Manon Kin Slayer, her grandmother had taunted. The Matron had likely relished every Crochan heart that Manon had brought to her at Blackbeak Keep over the past hundred years.

Manon closed her eyes, listening to the hollow song of the wind.

Behind them, Abraxos let out an impatient, hungry whine. Yes, they were all hungry these days.

“We will follow you, Manon,” Asterin said softly.

Manon turned to her cousin. “Do I deserve that honor?”

Asterin’s mouth pressed into a tight line. The slight bump on her nose—Manon had given her that. She’d broken it in the Omega’s mess hall for brawling with mouthy Yellowlegs. Asterin had never once complained about it. Had seemed to wear the reminder of the beating Manon bestowed like a badge of pride.

“Only you can decide if you deserve it, Manon.”

Manon let the words settle as she shifted her gaze to the western horizon. Perhaps she’d deserve that honor if she succeeded in bringing them back to a home they’d never set eyes on.

If they survived this war and all the terrible things they must do before it was over.

It was no easy thing, to slip away from thirteen sleeping witches and their wyverns.

But Dorian Havilliard had been studying them—their watches, who slept deepest, who might report seeing him walk away from their small fire and who would keep their mouths shut. Weeks and weeks, since he’d settled on this idea. This plan.

They’d camped on the small outcropping where they’d found long-cold traces of the Crochans, taking shelter under the overhanging rock, the wyverns a wall of leathery warmth around them.

He had minutes to do this. He’d been practicing for weeks now—making no bones of rising in the middle of the night, no more than a drowsy man displeased to have to brave the frigid elements to see to his needs. Letting the witches grow accustomed to his nightly movements.

Letting Manon become accustomed to it, too.

Though nothing had been declared between them, their bedrolls still wound up beside each other every night. Not that a camp full of witches offered any sort of opportunity to tangle with her. No, for that, they’d resorted to winter-bare forests and snow-blasted passes, their hands roving for any bit of bare skin they dared expose to the chill air.

Their couplings were brief, savage. Teeth and nails and snarling. And not just from Manon.

But after a day of fruitless searching, little more than a glorified guard against the enemies hunting them while his friends bled to save their lands, he needed the release as much as she did. They never discussed it—what hounded them. Which was fine by him.

Dorian had no idea what sort of man that made him.

Most days, if he was being honest, he felt little. Had felt little for months, save for those stolen, wild moments with Manon. And save for the moments when he trained with the Thirteen, and a blunt sort of rage drove him to keep swinging his sword, keep getting back up when they knocked him down.

Swordplay, archery, knife-work, tracking—they taught him everything he asked. Along with the solid weight of Damaris, a witch-knife now hung from his sword belt. It had been gifted to him by Sorrel when he’d first managed to pin the stone-faced Third. Two weeks ago.

But when the lessons were done, when they sat around the small fire they dared to risk each night, he wondered if the witches could sniff out the restlessness that nipped at his heels.

If they could now sniff out that he had no intention of taking a piss in the frigid night as he wended his way between their bedrolls, then through the slight gap between Narene, Asterin’s sky-blue mare, and Abraxos. He nodded toward where Vesta stood on watch, and the red-haired witch, despite the brutal cold, threw a wicked smile his way before he rounded the corner of the rocky overhang and disappeared beyond view.

He’d picked her watch for a reason. There were some amongst the Thirteen who never smiled at all. Lin, who still seemed like she was debating carving him up to examine his insides; and Imogen, who kept to herself and didn’t smile at anyone. Thea and Kaya usually reserved their smiles for each other, and when Faline and Fallon—the green-eyed demon twins, as the others called them—smiled, it meant hell was about to break loose.

All of them might have been suspicious if he vanished for too long. But Vesta, who shamelessly flirted with him—she’d let him linger outside the camp. Likely from fear of what Manon might do to her if she was spotted trailing after him into the dark.

A bastard—he was a bastard for using them like this. For assessing and monitoring them when they currently risked everything to replace the Crochans.

But it made no difference if he cared. About them. About himself, he supposed. Caring hadn’t done him any favors. Hadn’t done Sorscha any favors.

And it wouldn’t matter, once he gave up everything to seal the Wyrdgate.

Damaris was a weight at his side—but nothing compared to the two objects tucked into the pocket of his heavy jacket. Mercifully, he’d swiftly learned to drown out their whispering, their otherworldly beckoning. Most of the time.

None of the witches had questioned why he’d been so easily persuaded to give up the hunt for the third Wyrdkey. He’d known better than to waste his time arguing. So he’d planned, and let them, let Manon, believe him to be content in his role to guard them with his magic.

Reaching the boulder-shrouded clearing that he’d scouted earlier under the guise of aimlessly wandering the site, Dorian made quick work of his preparations.

He had not forgotten a single movement of Aelin’s hands in Skull’s Bay when she’d smeared her blood on the floor of her room at the Ocean Rose.

But it was not Elena whom he planned to summon with his blood.

When the snow was red with it, when he’d made sure the wind was still blowing its scent away from the witch camp, Dorian unsheathed Damaris and plunged it into the circle of Wyrdmarks.

And then waited.

His magic was a steady thrum through him, the small flame he dared to conjure enough to heat his body. To keep him from shivering to death while the minutes passed.

Ice had been the first manifestation of his magic. He supposed that should give him some sort of preference for it. Or at least some immunity. He had neither. And he’d decided that if they survived long enough to endure the scorching heat of summer, he’d never complain about it again.

He’d been honing his magic as best he could during these weeks of relentless, useless hunting. None of the witches possessed power, not beyond the Yielding, which they’d told him could only be summoned once—to terrible and devastating effect. But the Thirteen watched with some degree of interest while Dorian kept up the lessons Rowan had started. Ice. Fire. Water. Healing. Wind. With the snows, attempting to coax life from the frozen earth had proved impossible, but he still tried.

The only magic that always leapt at his summons remained that invisible force, capable of snapping bone. That, the witches liked best. Especially since it made him their greatest line of defense against their enemies. Death—that was his gift. All he seemed able to offer those around him. He was little better than his father in that regard.

The flame flowed over him, invisible and steadying.

They hadn’t heard a whisper of Aelin. Or Rowan and their companions. Not one whisper of whether the queen was still Maeve’s captive.

She had been willing to yield everything to save Terrasen, to save all of them. He could do nothing less. Aelin certainly had more to lose. A mate and husband who loved her. A court who’d follow her into hell. A kingdom long awaiting her return.

All he had was an unmarked grave for a healer no one would remember, a broken empire, and a shattered castle.

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out the sight of the glass castle exploding, the sight of his father reaching for him, begging for forgiveness. A monster—the man had been a monster in every possible way. Had sired Dorian while possessed by a Valg demon.

What did it make him? His blood ran red, and the Valg prince who’d infested Dorian himself had delighted on feasting on him, on making him enjoy all he’d done while collared. But did it still make him fully human?

Blowing out a long breath, Dorian opened his eyes.

A man stood across the snowy clearing.

Dorian bowed low. “Gavin.”

The first King of Adarlan had his eyes.

Or rather Dorian had Gavin’s eyes, passed down through the thousand years between them.

The rest of the ancient king’s face was foreign: the long, dark brown hair, the harsh features, the grave cast of his mouth. “You learned the marks.”

Dorian rose from his bow. “I’m a quick study.”

Gavin didn’t smile. “The summoning is not a gift to be used lightly. You risk much, young king, in calling me here. Considering what you carry.”

Dorian patted the jacket pocket where the two Wyrdkeys lay, ignoring the strange, terrible power that pulsed against his hand in answer. “Everything is a risk these days.” He straightened. “I need your help.”

Gavin didn’t reply. His stare slid to Damaris, still plunged in the snow amid the marks. A personal effect of the king, as Aelin had used the Eye of Elena to summon the ancient queen. “At least you have taken good care of my sword.” His eyes lifted to Dorian’s, sharp as the blade itself. “Though I cannot say the same of my kingdom.”

Dorian clenched his jaw. “I inherited a bit of a mess from my father, I’m afraid.”

“You were a Prince of Adarlan long before you became its king.”

Dorian’s magic churned to ice, colder than the night around him. “Then consider me trying to atone for years of bad behavior.”

Gavin held his gaze for a moment that stretched into eternity. A true king, that’s what the man before him was. A king not only in title, but in spirit. As few had been since Gavin was laid to rest beneath the foundations of the castle he’d built along the Avery.

Dorian withstood the weight of Gavin’s stare. Let the king see what remained of him, mark the pale band around his throat.

Then Gavin blinked once, the only sign of his permission to continue.

Dorian swallowed. “Where is the third key?”

Gavin stiffened. “I am forbidden to say.”

“Forbidden, or won’t?” He supposed he should be kneeling, should keep his tone respectful. How many legends about Gavin had he read as a child? How many times had he run through the castle, pretending to be the king before him?

Dorian pulled the Amulet of Orynth from his jacket, letting it sway in the bitter wind. A silent, ghostly song leaked from the gold-and-blue medallion—speaking in languages that did not exist. “Brannon Galathynius defied the gods by putting the key in here with a warning to Aelin. The least you could do is give me a direction.”

Gavin’s edges blurred, but held. Not much time. For either of them. “Brannon Galathynius was an arrogant bastard. I have seen what interfering with the gods’ plans brings about. It will not end well.”

“Your wife, not the gods, brought this about.”

Gavin bared his teeth. And though the man was long dead, Dorian’s magic flared again, readying to strike.

“My mate,” Gavin snarled, “is the cost of this. My mate, should the keys be retrieved, will vanish forever. Do you know what that is like, young king? To have eternity—and then have it ripped away?”

Dorian didn’t bother to reply. “You don’t wish me to replace the third key because it will mean the end of Elena.”

Gavin said nothing.

Dorian let out a growl. “Countless people will die if the keys aren’t put back in the gate.” He shoved the Amulet of Orynth back into his jacket, and once again ignored the otherworldly hum pulsing against his bones. “You can’t be that selfish.”

Gavin remained silent, the wind shifting his dark hair. But his eyes flickered—just barely.

“Tell me where,” Dorian breathed. He had mere minutes until even Vesta came looking for him. “Tell me where the third key is.”

“Your life will be forfeit, too. If you retrieve the keys and forge the Lock. Your soul will be claimed as well. Not one scrap of you will live on in the Afterworld.”

“There’s no one who would really care about that anyway.” He certainly didn’t. And he’d certainly deserved that sort of end, when he’d failed so many times. With all he’d done.

Gavin studied him for a long moment. Dorian held still beneath that fierce stare. A warrior who had survived the second of Erawan’s wars.

“Elena helped Aelin,” Dorian pressed, his breath curling in the space between them. “She didn’t balk from it, even knowing what it meant for her fate. And neither did Aelin, who will have neither a long life with her own mate, nor eternity with him.” As I will not have, either. His heart began thundering, his magic rising with it. “And yet you would. You would run from it.”

Gavin’s teeth flashed. “Erawan could be defeated without sealing the gate.”

“Tell me how, and I will replace a way to do it.”

Yet Gavin fell silent again, his hands clenching at his sides.

Dorian snorted softly. “If you knew, it would have been done long ago.” Gavin shook his head, but Dorian plunged ahead. “Your friends died battling Erawan’s hordes. Help me avoid the same fate for my own. It might already be too late for some of them.” His stomach churned.

Had Chaol made it to the southern continent? Perhaps it would be better if his friend never returned, if he stayed safe in Antica. Even if Chaol would never do such a thing.

Dorian glanced toward the rocky corner he’d rounded. Not much time left.

“And what of Adarlan?” Gavin demanded. “You would leave it kingless?” The question said enough of Gavin’s opinion regarding Hollin. “This is how you would atone for years spent idling as its Crown Prince?”

Dorian took the verbal blow. It was nothing but truth, dealt by a man who had served its nameless god. “Does it really matter anymore?”

“Adarlan was my pride.”

“It is no longer worthy of it,” Dorian snapped. “It hasn’t been for a long, long time. Perhaps it deserves to fall into ruin.”

Gavin angled his head. “The words of a reckless, arrogant boy. Do you think you are the only one who has endured loss?”

“And yet your own fear of loss makes you choose one woman over the fate of the world.”

“If you had the choice—your woman or Erilea—would you have chosen any differently?”

Sorscha or the world. The question rang hollow. Some of the fire within him banked. Yet Dorian dared to say, “You’d delude yourself about the path ahead, yet you served the god of truth.” Chaol had told him of their discovery in the catacombs beneath Rifthold’s sewers this spring. The forgotten bone temple where Gavin’s deathbed confession had been written. “What does he have to say about Elena’s role in this?”

“The All-Seeing One does not claim kinship with those spineless creatures,” Gavin growled.

Dorian could have sworn a dusty, bone-dry wind rattled through the pass. “Then what is he?”

“Can there not be many gods, from many places? Some born of this world, some born elsewhere?”

“That’s a question to debate at another time,” Dorian ground out. “When we’re not at war.” He took a long breath. Another one. “Please,” he breathed. “Please help me save my friends. Help me make it right.”

It was all he really had left—this task.

Gavin again watched him, weighed him. Dorian withstood it. Let him read whatever truth was written on his soul.

Pain clouded the king’s face. Pain, and regret, as Gavin finally said, “The key is at Morath.”

Dorian’s mouth went dry. “Where in Morath?”

“I don’t know.” Dorian believed him. The raw dread in Gavin’s eyes confirmed it. The ancient king nodded to Damaris. “That sword is not ornamental. Let it guide you, if you cannot trust yourself.”

“It really tells the truth?”

“It was blessed by the All-Seeing One himself, after I swore myself to him.” Gavin shrugged, a half-tamed gesture. As if the man had never really left the wilds of Adarlan where he’d risen from war leader to High King. “You’ll still have to learn for yourself what is truth and what is lie.”

“But Damaris will help me replace the key at Morath?” To break into Erawan’s stronghold, where all those collars were made …

Gavin’s mouth tightened. “I cannot say. But I will tell you this: do not venture toward Morath just yet. Until you are ready.”

“I’m ready now.” A fool’s lie. Gavin knew it, too. It was an effort not to touch his neck, the pale band forever marring his skin.

“Morath is no mere keep,” Gavin said. “It is a hell, and it is not kind to reckless young men.” Dorian stiffened, but Gavin went on, “You will know when you are truly ready. Remain at this camp, if you can convince your companions. The path will replace you here.”

Gavin’s edges warped further, his face turning murky.

Dorian dared a step forward. “Am I human?”

Gavin’s sapphire eyes softened—just barely. “I’m not the person who can answer that.”

And then the king was gone.