Read Sarah J Maas the Tower of Dawn Online for Free
For my grandmother, Camilla,
who crossed mountains and seas,
and whose own remarkable story is my favorite epic of all
BOOKS BY SARAH J. MAAS
The Throne of Drinking glass serial
Assassin'due south Blade
Throne of Glass
Crown of Midnight
Heir of Fire
Queen of Shadows
Empire of Storms
Belfry of Dawn
•
The Throne of Glass Coloring Book
A Courtroom of Thorns and Roses series
A Courtroom of Thorns and Roses
A Courtroom of Mist and Fury
A Court of Wings and Ruin
•
A Court of Thorns and Roses Coloring Book
CONTENTS
Map
Part Ane: The God-City
Chapter One
Chapter 2
Affiliate Three
Chapter Four
Chapter 5
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Affiliate 8
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Xx
Chapter Twenty-One
Affiliate Twenty-Two
Chapter Xx-Three
Affiliate Twenty-Four
Chapter 20-Five
Affiliate Twenty-Six
Affiliate Twenty-7
Chapter Xx-Eight
Part Two: Mountains and Seas
Affiliate Twenty-Nine
Affiliate Thirty
Affiliate 30-One
Chapter Thirty-Ii
Chapter 30-3
Chapter Thirty-Four
Affiliate Xxx-V
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter 30-Seven
Chapter 30-Viii
Chapter Xxx-Ix
Affiliate Twoscore
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-3
Chapter Forty-4
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Affiliate Forty-Vii
Chapter Twoscore-Eight
Chapter Forty-Ix
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-1
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Affiliate 50-4
Chapter Fifty-V
Chapter 50-Half-dozen
Affiliate L-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Viii
Affiliate Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-2
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Lx-8
Fireheart
Acknowledgments
PART Ane
The God-Urban center
Chapter
1
Chaol Westfall, former Captain of the Purple Guard and at present Hand to the newly crowned Male monarch of Adarlan, had discovered that he hated one sound above all others.
Wheels.
Specifically, their clattering forth the planks of the ship on which he'd spent the past three weeks sailing through storm-tossed waters. And now their rattle and thunk over the shining green marble floors and intricate mosaics throughout the Khagan of the Southern Continent'south shining palace in Antica.
With nothing to practice beyond sit in the wheeled chair that he'd deemed had become both his prison house and his only path to seeing the world, Chaol took in the details of the sprawling palace perched atop one of the capital urban center'due south countless hills. Every flake of material had been taken from and congenital in honor of some portion of the khagan'southward mighty empire:
Those polished green floors his chair now clattered over were hewn from quarries in the southwest of the continent. The reddish pillars fashioned like mighty trees, their uppermost branches stretching across the domed ceilings high to a higher place—all role of one endless receiving hall—had been hauled in from the northeastern, sand-blasted deserts.
The mosaics that interrupted the light-green marble had been assembled by craftsmen from Tigana, some other of the khagan's prized cities at the mountainous southern end of the continent. Each portrayed a scene from the khaganate's rich, vicious, glorious past: the centuries spent as a nomadic horse-people in the grassy steppes of the continent's eastern lands; the emergence of the first khagan, a warlord who unified the scattered tribes into a conquering force that took the continent slice past piece, wielding cunning and strategic luminescence to forge a sweeping empire; and then depictions of the three centuries since—the various khagans who had expanded the empire, distributing the wealth from a hundred territories beyond the lands, building endless bridges and roads to connect them all, ruling over the vast continent with precision and clarity.
Peradventure the mosaics provided a vision of what Adarlan might take been, Chaol mused as the murmurings of the gathered court flitted between the carved pillars and gilded domes ahead. That is, if Adarlan hadn't been ruled by a man controlled by a demon rex hell-bent on turning this world into a feast for his hordes.
Chaol twisted his head to peer up at Nesryn, stone-faced behind him every bit she pushed his chair. Only her dark eyes, darting over every passing confront and window and cavalcade, revealed any sort of involvement in the khagan's sprawling home.
They'd saved their finest gear up of dress for today, and the newly appointed Captain of the Guard was indeed resplendent in her scarlet-and-gold uniform. Where Dorian had dug up one of the uniforms Chaol had once worn with such pride, he had no idea.
He'd initially wanted to clothing black, merely because color … He'd never felt comfy with colors, save the red and gold of his kingdom. Simply black had become the colour of Erawan's Valg-infested guards. They had worn those black-on-blackness uniforms equally they'd terrorized Rifthold. Every bit they'd rounded up, tortured, and then butchered his men.
Then strung them along the palace gates to swing in the wind.
He'd barely been able to await at the Antican guards they'd passed on their mode here, both in the streets and in this very palace—standing proud and alert, swords at their backs and knives at their sides. Fifty-fifty now, he resisted the urge to glance to where he knew they'd be stationed in the hall, exactly where he would have positioned his own men. Where he himself would undoubtedly have been standing, monitoring all, while emissaries from a foreign kingdom arrived.
Nesryn met his stare, those ebony optics cool and unblinking, her shoulder-length black hair swaying with each step. Non a trace of nerves flickered beyond her lovely, solemn face. No inkling that they were about to encounter one of the nearly powerful men in the globe—a man who could change the fate of their own continent in the war surely now breaking out across Adarlan and Terrasen.
Chaol faced forrad without proverb a word. The walls and pillars and arched doorways had ears and optics and mouths, she'd warned him.
It was that idea alone that kept Chaol from niggling with the clothes he'd finally decided upon: low-cal brown pants, knee joint-loftier chestnut-colored boots, a white shirt of finest silk, mostly concealed by a dark teal jacket. The jacket was simple enough, the toll of it only revealed past the fine brass buckles down the forepart and the glimmer of delicate golden thread skimming the loftier collar and edges. No sword hung from his leather chugalug—the absence of that comforting weight like some phantom limb.
Or legs.
2 tasks. He h
ad 2 tasks while hither, and he still was non certain which one would show the more than impossible:
Convincing the khagan and his six would-be heirs to lend their considerable armies to the war confronting Erawan …
Or finding a healer in the Torre Cesme who could discover some way to get him walking again.
To—he thought with no small-scale ripple of cloy—fix him.
He hated that word. Almost as much every bit the clattering of the wheels. Gear up. Even if that's what he was beseeching the legendary healers to practice for him, the word notwithstanding grated, made his gut churn.
He shoved the word and the thought from his listen as Nesryn followed the near-silent flock of servants who had led them from the docks, through the winding and dusty cobblestoned streets of Antica, all the way up the sloped avenue to the domes and thirty-6 minarets of the palace itself.
Strips of white cloth—from silk to felt to linen—had been hanging from countless windows and lanterns and doorways. Probable because of some official or distant royal relation dying recently, Nesryn had murmured. Decease rituals were varied and frequently a blend from the countless kingdoms and territories now governed past the khaganate, just the white cloth was an aboriginal holdover from the centuries when the khagan's people had roamed the steppes and laid their dead to rest under the watchful, open up sky.
The city had been hardly gloomy, though, as they traveled through it. People still hurried almost in apparel of various makes, vendors however called out their wares, acolytes in temples of forest or rock—every god had a dwelling house in Antica, Nesryn supplied—yet beckoned to those on the street. All of it, fifty-fifty the palace, watched over by the shining, stake-stoned belfry atop one of its southern hills.
The Torre. The tower that housed the finest mortal healers in the earth. Chaol had tried not to look as well long at it through the carriage windows, even if the massive tower could exist seen from nearly every street and bending of Antica. None of the servants had mentioned it, or pointed out the ascendant presence that seemed to rival even the khagan'south palace.
No, the servants hadn't said much at all on the trek hither, even regarding the mourning-banners flapping in the dry wind. Each of them remained silent, men and women akin, their dark hair shining and straight, and each wore loose pants and flowing jackets of cobalt and bloodred edged with stake gold. Paid servants—but descendants of the slaves who had once been owned by the khagan'due south bloodline. Until the previous khagan, a visionary and firebrand, had outlawed slavery a generation ago equally i of her countless improvements to the empire. The khagan had freed her slaves only kept them on equally paid servants—along with their children. And now their children's children.
Not a single one of them appeared underfed or undercompensated, and none had shown even a flicker of fear as they'd escorted Chaol and Nesryn from the ship to the palace. The current khagan, it seemed, treated his servants well. Hopefully his yet-undecided Heir would every bit well.
Dissimilar Adarlan or Terrasen, inheritance of the empire was decided past the khagan—not by birth order or gender. Having as many children as possible to provide him or her with a wide puddle to choose from made that selection only somewhat easier. And rivalry amongst the royal children … It was practically a blood sport. All designed to prove to their parent who was the strongest, the wisest, the most suited to rule.
The khagan was required by law to take a sealed document locked away in an unmarked, hidden trove—a document that listed his or her Heir, should decease sweep upon them before information technology could be formally appear. It could be altered at any time, but information technology was designed to avert the one thing the khaganate had lived in fear of since that showtime khagan had patched together the kingdoms and territories of this continent: collapse. Non from exterior forces, but from war within.
That long-agone first khagan had been wise. Not once during the iii hundred years of the khaganate had a civil war occurred.
And as Nesryn pushed him past the svelte bowing of the servants at present paused betwixt ii enormous pillars, as the lush, ornate throne room spread before them with its dozens of people gathered around the golden dais glittering in the midday sun, Chaol wondered which of the five figures continuing before the enthroned man would i day exist chosen to rule this empire.
The just sounds came from the rustling clothing of the four dozen people—he counted in the bridge of a few casual blinks—gathered along either side of that glinting dais, forming a wall of silk and flesh and jewels, a veritable avenue through which Nesryn wheeled him.
Rustling clothing—and the clatter and squeak of the wheels. She'd oiled them this forenoon, just weeks at sea had worn on the metal. Every scrape and shriek was like nails on stone.
Just he kept his head high. Shoulders dorsum.
Nesryn paused a healthy distance from the dais—from the wall of 5 royal children, all in their prime, male and female, standing between them and their begetter.
Defense of their emperor: a prince or princess's start duty. The easiest way to prove their loyalty, to angle for being tapped Heir. And the five earlier them …
Chaol schooled his confront into neutrality as he counted again. Only five. Not the half dozen Nesryn had described.
But he didn't scan the hall for the missing royal sibling as he bowed at the waist. He'd practiced the movement over and over this last week at sea, equally the weather had turned hotter, the air becoming dry and sunbaked. Doing information technology in the chair withal felt unnatural, but Chaol bowed depression—until he was staring at his unresponsive legs, at his spotless chocolate-brown boots and the feet he could not experience, could not motion.
From the whisper of clothing to his left, he knew Nesryn had come up to his side and was bowing deeply every bit well.
They held information technology for the three breaths Nesryn claimed were required.
Chaol used those 3 breaths to settle himself, to close out the weight of what was upon them both.
He had once been skilled at maintaining an unfaltering sophistication. He'd served Dorian'due south father for years, had taken orders without and so much as blinking. And before that, he'd endured his own father, whose words had been as cutting equally his fists. The true and current Lord of Anielle.
The Lord now in front of Chaol's name was a mockery. A mockery and a lie that Dorian had refused to abandon despite Chaol's protests.
Lord Chaol Westfall, Hand of the Rex.
He hated information technology. More than the sound of wheels. More than the torso he now could not experience beneath his hips, the torso whose stillness withal surprised him, even all these weeks later.
He was Lord of Zilch. Lord of Adjuration-Breakers. Lord of Liars.
And equally Chaol lifted his torso and met the upswept eyes of the white-haired man on that throne, as the khagan'due south weathered chocolate-brown skin crinkled in a pocket-size, cunning smile … Chaol wondered if the khagan knew it as well.
CHAPTER
two
There were two parts of her, Nesryn supposed.
The part that was now Captain of Adarlan's Royal Guard, who had made a vow to her male monarch to see that the man in the wheeled chair beside her was healed—and to muster an army from the human being enthroned before her. That role of Nesryn kept her head high, her shoulders dorsum, her hands inside a nonthreatening distance of the ornate sword at her hip.
Then there was the other office.
The part that had glimpsed the spires and minarets and domes of the god-city breaking over the horizon every bit they'd sailed in, the shining colonnade of the Torre standing proud over information technology all, and had to consume back tears. The part that had scented the smoky paprika and crisp tang of ginger and beckoning sugariness of cumin as soon equally she had cleared the docks and knew, deep in her bones, that she was home. That, yes, she lived and served and would dice for Adarlan, for the family notwithstanding at that place, merely this place, where her father had in one case lived and where fifty-fifty her Adarlan-born female parent had felt more at ease … These were her people.
The skin in varying shades of chocolate-brown and tan. The affluence of that shining black hair—her pilus. The eyes that ranged from uptilted to wide and round to slender, in hues of ebony and chestnut and even the rare hazel and green. Her people. A blend of kingdoms
and territories, yes, simply … Hither there were no slurs hissed in the streets. Here there would be no rocks thrown by children. Here her sister's children would not feel unlike. Unwanted.
And that role of her … Despite her thrown-back shoulders and raised chin, her knees indeed quaked at who—at what—stood before her.
Nesryn had non dared tell her father where and what she was leaving to do. Only that she was off on an errand of the King of Adarlan and would non be dorsum for some time.
Her male parent wouldn't have believed it. Nesryn didn't quite believe information technology herself.
The khagan had been a story whispered earlier their hearth on winter nights, his offspring legends told while kneading endless loaves of bread for their bakery. Their ancestors' bedside tales to either lull her into sweet slumber or keep her up all night in bone-deep terror.
The khagan was a living myth. Every bit much of a deity as the 30-six gods who ruled over this city and empire.
There were as many temples to those gods in Antica as there were tributes to the various khagans. More.
They chosen it the god-metropolis for them—and for the living god seated on the ivory throne atop that aureate belvedere.
Information technology was indeed pure gilt, merely as her male parent'southward whispered legends claimed.
And the khagan's vi children … Nesryn could proper name them all without introduction.
Afterward the meticulous enquiry Chaol had done while on their ship, she had no doubt he could as well.
But that was not how this meeting was to become.
For as much as she had taught the former helm almost her homeland these weeks, he'd instructed her on court protocol. He had rarely been so direct involved, yes, only he had witnessed enough of it while serving the male monarch.
An observer of the game who was now to be a prime player. With the stakes unbearably high.
They waited in silence for the khagan to speak.
She'd tried not to gawk while walking through the palace. She had never set foot inside information technology during her few visits to Antica over the years. Neither had her father, or his father, or whatever of her ancestors. In a urban center of gods, this was the holiest of temples. And deadliest of labyrinths.
The khagan did not move from his ivory throne.
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