Chasing Tides | Throne of Glass

VIII

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They'd made a deal. If, Rowan had said, she was able to make it to the other side of the field they were currently gazing upon, he would take her to Doranelle whenever she wished. She knew that it was a trap – that she was nowhere near prepared without her magic. And without her weapons, it was more grave than trap. It was only her pride, her damn, stupid pride that made her lift her head and walk right onto the age-ridden grass after Rowan.

'You may wait until you have your weapons,' he said, glancing at her. The look in his eyes made her understand that he didn't say it out of consideration for her at all. 'Or you can enter as you are now.'

'I don't need weapons,' she snapped. He simply inclined his head and moved on.

The entire plateau was covered in mounds. Not hills, no, but barrows. Earth-encased coffins in which creatures dwelt with their ancient treasures – and the bones of those who'd been foolish enough to enter. Celaena refused to acknowledge the trembling in her fingers as they walked. Even the sun's reach seemed to weaken here, waning away like the moon into a sliver of pale light.

'This is where I leave you,' Rowan said at last. They'd stopped at the edge of the innermost mound. Here, the grass was blackened, the birds silent, the wind lifeless.

Regret rushed into every pore of her. But if she succeeded... she would go to Doranelle. Tomorrow. Wights be damned. She was Celaena Sardothien, goddamnit. She had faced worse than this in her sixteen miserable years of existence. So she swallowed her nerves and kept her hope on her tongue – and stepped inside the circle of withered grass.

The cold struck her first. It swirled like the mist that wreathed the dead field, growing. Her mouth went dry, heart thrumming so loud she hoped that the wight hiding in its barrow wouldn't hear it. She could sense its presence in the central hill of earth, just as it could sense hers, the iron door that once trapped it in its burial mound now gone. It was only her acute awareness of Rowan being there that stopped her from hurtling right across the field. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her scared.

She could see the wight at the threshold of its mound – and yet, as she eased closer, it seemed to pause. Hesitating. Celaena dismissed it from the fact that Rowan was there. Of course it would be cautious, when the immortal warrior that sung of wind and ice could so easily tear it apart in a few heartbeats.

It was when she'd gone halfway across the mound that the air seemed to sharpen, pricking right into her skull, her mind. She was past the mound, now, and still the wight had not moved from its barrow. Her head twitched slightly, gazing at the hill. If the wight were to attack her, a weapon would be useless. Not that she had any on her, anyway. And if she didn't have her magic... perhaps running really was a good idea.

That strange, lifeless air wound its way into her head again, her ears beginning to ring. Hurry. Her legs moved faster, faster. The edge of the field was so close now. She was so, so close. Once she was over that line, she could finally sprint. Celaena risked one look back.

And saw him.

A man – not a wight – poised behind the beast. Skin pale and white, eyes wholly black, and – and an onyx torque clasped around his neck.

Darkness swept in. It blinded her senses, making everything dull, as if blackness had blanketed the world, her eyes, because she could feel the grass, it was there, under her legs, but she could not see it. She crouched, as if it would offer her some stability, casting her eyes around the dark. He was there, too, beautiful beyond imagination, beyond perfection, in a mortal body, but he was not mortal, whatever he was. There was nothing human in his eyes.