out her abilities—sometimes flying with Rowan overhead, sometimes running as a pretty black dog alongside Fleetfoot, sometimes spending days in her ghost leopard form and pouncing on Aedion whenever he least expected it.
Three weeks of grueling travel—but also three of the happiest weeks Aelin had ever experienced. She would have preferred a little more privacy, especially with Rowan, who kept looking at her in that way that made her want to combust. Sometimes when no one was watching, he’d sneak up behind her and nuzzle her neck or tug at her earlobe with his teeth, or just slide his arms around her and hold her against him, breathing her in.
One night—just one gods-damned night with him was all she wanted.
They didn’t dare stop at an inn, so she was left to burn, and to endure Lysandra’s quiet teasing.
The terrain grew steeper, hillier, and the world turned lush and green and bright, the rocks becoming jagged granite outcroppings.
The sun had barely risen as Aelin walked beside her horse, sparing it from having to carry her up a particularly steep hill. She was already on her second meal of the day—already sweaty and dirty and cranky. Fire magic, it turned out, came in rather handy while traveling, keeping them warm on the chill nights, lighting their fires, and boiling their water. She would have killed for a tub big enough to fill with water and bathe in, but luxuries could wait.
“It’s just up this hill,” Aedion said from her left.
“What is?” she asked, finishing her apple and chucking the remains behind her. Lysandra, wearing the form of a crow, squawked in outrage as the core hit her. “Sorry,” Aelin called.
Lysandra cawed and soared skyward, Fleetfoot barking merrily at her as Evangeline giggled from atop her shaggy pony.
Aedion pointed to the hillcrest ahead. “You’ll see.”
Aelin looked at Rowan, who had been scouting ahead for part of the morning as a white-tailed hawk. Now he walked beside her, guiding his black stallion along. He lifted his brows at her silent demand for information. I’m not going to tell you.
She glowered at him. Buzzard.
Rowan grinned. But with every step, Aelin did the calculations about what day it was, and—
They crested the hill and halted.
Aelin released the reins and took a staggering step, the emerald grass soft underfoot.
Aedion touched her shoulder. “Welcome home, Aelin.”
A land of towering mountains—the Staghorns—spread before them, with valleys and rivers and hills; a land of untamed, wild beauty.
Terrasen.
And the smell—of pine and snow … How had she never realized that Rowan’s scent was of Terrasen, of home? Rowan came close enough to graze her shoulder and murmured, “I feel as if I’ve been looking for this place my entire life.”
Indeed—with the wicked wind flowing fast and strong between the gray, jagged Staghorns in the distance, with the dense spread of Oakwald to their left, and the rivers and valleys sprawling toward those great northern mountains—it was paradise for a hawk. Paradise for her.
“Right there,” Aedion said, pointing to a small, weather-worn granite boulder carved with whorls and swirls. “Once we pass that rock, we’re on Terrasen soil.”
Not quite daring to believe she wasn’t still asleep, Aelin walked toward that rock, whispering the Song of Thanks to Mala Fire-Bringer for leading her to this place, this moment.
Aelin ran a hand over the rough rock, and the sun-warmed stone tingled as if in greeting.
Then she stepped beyond the stone.
And at long last, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I think it’s common knowledge by now that I’d cease to function without my soul-twin, Jaeger copilot, and Threadsister, Susan Dennard.
Sooz, you are my light in dark places. You inspire and challenge me to not only be a better writer, but to also be a better person. Your friendship gives me strength and courage and hope. No matter what happens, no matter what might be waiting around the next bend in the road, I know I can face it, I can endure and triumph, because I have you at my side. There is no greater magic than that. I can’t wait to be majestic tiger-vampires with you for the rest of eternity.
To my fellow lady-in-arms and appreciator of all things feral/shape-shifting, Alex Bracken: How can I ever thank you enough for reading this book (and all my others) so many times? And how can I ever thank you enough for the years of e-mails, the countless lunches/drinks/dinners, and for always having my back? I don’t think I would have enjoyed this wild journey half as much without you—and I don’t think I would have survived this long without your wisdom, kindness, and generosity. Here’s to writing many more scenes with flimsy excuses for having shirtless dudes.
These books would not exist (I would not exist!) without my hardworking, supremely badass teams at the Laura Dail Literary Agency, CAA, and Bloomsbury worldwide. So my eternal love and gratitude go to Tamar Rydzinski, Cat Onder, Margaret Miller, Jon Cassir, Cindy Loh, Cristina Gilbert, Cassie Homer, Rebecca McNally, Natalie Hamilton, Laura Dail, Kathleen Farrar, Emma Hopkin, Ian Lamb, Emma Bradshaw, Lizzy Mason, Sonia Palmisano, Erica Barmash, Emily Ritter, Grace Whooley, Charli Haynes, Courtney Griffin, Nick Thomas, Alice Grigg, Elise Burns, Jenny Collins, Linette Kim, Beth Eller, Kerry Johnson, and the tireless, wonderful foreign rights team.
To my husband, Josh: Every day with you is a gift and a joy. I’m so lucky to have such a loving, fun, and spectacular friend to go on adventures with around the world. Here’s to many, many more.
To Annie, aka the greatest dog of all time: Sorry for accidentally eating all your turkey jerky that one time. Let’s never mention it again. (Also, I love you forever and ever. Let’s go cuddle.)
To my marvelous parents: Thank you for reading me all those fairy-tales—and for never telling me I was too old to believe in magic. These books exist because of that.
To my family: thank you, as always, for the endless and unconditional love and support.
To the Maas Thirteen: You guys are beyond amazing. Thank you so much for all your support and enthusiasm and for shouting about this series from rooftops all over the world. To Louisse Ang, Elena Yip, Jamie Miller, Alexa Santiago, Kim Podlesnik, Damaris Cardinali, and Nicola Wilkinson: you are all so generous and lovely—thank you for all that you do!
To Erin Bowman, Dan Krokos, Jennifer L. Armentrout, Christina Hobbs, and Lauren Billings: You guys are the best. I mean it. The ultimate best. I thank the Universe every day that I’m blessed to have such talented, funny, loyal, and wonderful friends in my life.
And to all my Throne of Glass readers: There aren’t enough words in the English language to properly convey the depth of my gratitude. It has been such an honor to meet you at events across the globe, and interact with so many of you online. Your words, artwork, and music keep me going. Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything.
Lastly, thanks so much to the incredible readers who submitted content to be part of the Heir of Fire trailer:
Abigail Isaac, Aisha Morsy, Amanda Clarity, Amanda Riddagh, Amy Kersey, Analise Jensen, Andrea Isabel Munguía Sánchez, Anna Vogl, Becca Fowler, Béres Judit, Brannon Tison, Bronwen Fraser, Claire Walsh, Crissie Wood, Elena Mieszczanski, Elena NyBlom, Emma Richardson, Gerakou Yiota, Isabel Coyne, Isabella Guzy-Kirkden, Jasmine Chau, Kristen Williams, Laura Pohl, Linnea Gear, Natalia Jagielska, Paige Firth, Rebecca Andrade, Rebecca Heath, Suzanah Thompson, Taryn Cameron, and Vera Roelofs. Bloomsbury Publishing, Oxford, London, New York, New Delhi and Sydney
Watch the trailer now:
Bloomsbury Publishing, Oxford, London, New York, New Delhi and Sydney
First published in Great Britain in September 2015 by
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Published in the USA in September 2015 by
Bloomsbury Children’s Books
1385 Broadway, New York, New York 10018
Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © Sarah J. Maas 2015
Map copyright © Kelly de Groot 2012
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4088 5861 5