Kingdom of Ash

And when the waltz slammed into its triumphant, final note, they halted—a perfect, sudden stop. Right before the queen threw her arms around Rowan and kissed him.

Nesryn was still smiling about it, sore feet and all, as she stood in the dusty chamber that had become the headquarters for the khaganate royals, and listened to them talk.

“The Healer on High says it will be another five days until the last of our soldiers are ready,” Prince Kashin was saying to his siblings. To Dorian, who had been asked into this meeting today.

“And you will depart then?” Dorian asked, smiling a bit sadly.

“Most of us,” Sartaq said, smiling with equal sadness.

For it was friendship that had grown here, even in war. True friendship, to last beyond the oceans that would separate them once more.

Sartaq said to Dorian, “We asked you here today because we have a rather unusual request.”

Dorian lifted a brow.

Sartaq winced. “When we visited the Ferian Gap, some of our rukhin found wyvern eggs. Untended and abandoned. Some of them now wish to stay here. To look after them. To train them.”

Nesryn blinked, right along with Dorian. No one had mentioned this to her. “I—I thought the rukhin never left their aeries,” Nesryn blurted.

“These are young riders,” Sartaq said with a smile. “Only two dozen.” He turned to Dorian. “But they begged me to ask you if it would be permissible for them to stay when we leave.”

Dorian considered. “I don’t see why they couldn’t.” Something sparked in his eyes, an idea formed and then set aside. “I would be honored, actually.”

“Just don’t let them bring the wyverns home,” Hasar groused. “I never want to see another wyvern for as long as I live.”

Kashin patted her on the head. Hasar snapped her teeth at him.

Nesryn chuckled, but her smile faded as she found Dorian smiling sadly at her, too.

“I think I’m about to lose another Captain of the Guard,” the King of Adarlan said.

Nesryn bowed her head. “I …” She hadn’t anticipated having this conversation. Not right now, at least.

“But I will be glad,” Dorian went on, “to gain another queen whom I can call friend.”

Nesryn blushed. It deepened as Sartaq smirked and said, “Not queen. Empress.”

Nesryn cringed, and Sartaq laughed, Dorian with him.

Then the king embraced her tightly. “Thank you, Nesryn Faliq. For all you have done.”

Nesryn’s throat was too tight to speak, so she hugged Dorian back.

And when the king left, when Kashin and Hasar went to find an early lunch, Nesryn turned to Sartaq and cringed again. “Empress? Really?”

Sartaq’s dark eyes glittered. “We won the war, Nesryn Faliq.” He tugged her close. “And now we shall go home.”

She’d never heard such beautiful words.

 

Chaol stared at the letter in his hands.

It had arrived an hour ago, and he still hadn’t opened it. No, he’d just taken it from the messenger—one of the fleet of children commanded by Evangeline—and brought it back to his bedroom.

Seated on his bed, the candlelight flickering through the worn chamber, he still couldn’t bring himself to crack the red wax seal.

The doorknob twisted, and Yrene slipped in, tired but bright-eyed. “You should be sleeping.”

“So should you,” he said with a pointed look to her abdomen.

She waved him off, as easily as she’d waved off the titles of Savior, and Hero of Erilea. As easily as she waved off the awed stares, the tears, when she strode by.

So Chaol would be proud for both of them. Would tell their child of her bravery, her brilliance.

“What’s that letter?” she asked, washing her hands, then her face, in the ewer by the window. Beyond the glass, the city was silent—sleeping, after a long day of rebuilding. The wild men of the Fangs had even remained to help, an act of kindness that Chaol would ensure did not go unrewarded. Already, he had looked into where he might expand their territory—and the peace between them and Anielle.

Chaol swallowed. “It’s from my mother.”

Yrene paused, her face still dripping. “Your … Why haven’t you opened it?”

He shrugged. “Not all of us are courageous enough to take on Dark Lords, you know.”

Yrene rolled her eyes, dried her face, and plopped down on the bed beside him. “Do you want me to read it first?”

He did. Damn him, but he did. Wordlessly, Chaol handed it to her.

Yrene said nothing as she opened the sealed parchment, her golden eyes darting over the inked words. Chaol tapped a finger on his knee. After a long day of healing, he knew better than to try to pace. Had barely made it back here with the cane before he’d sunk to the bed.

Yrene put a hand to her throat as she turned the page, read the back.

When she lifted her head again, tears slid down her cheeks. She handed him the letter. “You should read it yourself.”

“Just tell me.” He’d read it later. “Just—tell me what it says.”

Yrene wiped at her face. Her mouth trembled, but there was joy in her eyes. Pure joy. “It says that she loves you. It says that she has missed you. It says that if you and I are amenable to it, she would like to come live with us. Your brother Terrin, too.”

Chaol reached for the letter, scanning the text. Still not believing it. Not until he read,

I have loved you from the moment I knew you were growing in my womb.

He didn’t stop his own tears from falling.

Your father informed me of what he did with my letters to you. I informed him I shall not be returning to Anielle.

Yrene leaned her head against his shoulder while he read and read.

The years have been long, and the space between us distant, his mother had written. But when you are settled with your new wife, your babe, I would like to visit. To stay for longer than that, Terrin with me. If that would be all right with you.

Tentative, nervous words. As if his mother, too, did not quite believe that he’d agree.

Chaol read the rest, swallowing hard as he reached the final lines.

I am so very proud of you. I have always been, and always will be. And I hope to see you very soon.

Chaol set down the letter, wiped at his cheeks, and smiled at his wife. “We’re going to have to build a bigger house,” he said.

Yrene’s answering grin was all he’d hoped for.

 

The next day, Dorian found Chaol and Yrene in the sick bay that had been moved to the lower levels, the former in his wheeled chair, helping his wife tend to a wounded Crochan, and beckoned them to follow.

They did, not asking him questions, until he found Manon atop the aerie. Saddling Abraxos for his morning ride. Where she’d been each day, falling into a routine that Dorian knew was as much to keep the grief at bay as it was to maintain order.

Manon stilled as she beheld them, brows narrowing. She’d met Chaol and Yrene days ago, their reunion quiet but not chilly, despite how poorly Chaol’s first encounter with the witch had gone. Yrene had only embraced the witch, Manon holding her stiffly, and when they’d pulled apart, Dorian could have sworn some of the paleness, the gauntness, had vanished from Manon’s face.

Dorian asked the Witch-Queen, “Where do you go, when everyone leaves?”