“And what about you?” Dorian demanded. “Do you want me to comment on how you showed up in her rooms last night—the same night another Champion died?” Dorian feinted, but Chaol didn’t fall for it. Instead, he struck strongly enough that Dorian staggered back a step, fighting to keep his footing. Dorian grimaced at the rage flickering in Chaol’s eyes. “Fine, that was a cheap shot,” he admitted, bringing his sword up to deflect another blow. “But I still want an answer.”
“Maybe I don’t have one. Like you said, it’s not what you think.” Chaol’s brown eyes gleamed, but before Dorian could debate it, his friend switched the subject with brutal aim. “How’s court?” Chaol asked, breathing hard. Dorian winced. That was why he was here. If he had to spend another moment sitting in his mother’s court, he’d go mad. “That terrible?”
“Shut up,” Dorian snarled, and slammed his sword into Chaol’s.
“It must be exceptionally awful to be you today. I bet all the ladies were begging you to protect them from the murderer inside our walls.” Chaol grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Taking the time to spar with him when there was a fresh corpse in the castle was a sacrifice Dorian was surprised Chaol had been willing to make; Dorian knew how much his position meant to him.
Dorian stopped suddenly and straightened. Chaol should be doing more important things right now. “Enough,” he said, sheathing his rapier. Not missing a step, Chaol did the same.
They walked from the sparring room in silence. “Any word from your father?” Chaol asked in a voice that indicated he knew something was amiss. “I wonder where he went off to.”
Dorian let out a long breath, calming his panting. “No. I haven’t the slightest idea. I remember him leaving like this when we were children, but it hasn’t happened for some years now. I bet he’s doing something particularly nasty.”
“Be careful what you say, Dorian.”
“Or what? You’ll throw me in the dungeons?” He didn’t mean to snap, but he’d barely gotten any sleep the night before, and this Champion winding up dead did nothing to improve his mood. When Chaol didn’t bother retorting, Dorian asked: “Do you think someone wants to kill all the Champions?”
“Perhaps. I can understand wanting to kill the competition, but to do it so viciously . . . I hope it’s not a pattern.”
Dorian’s blood went a bit cold. “You think they’ll try to kill Celaena?”
“I added some extra guards around her rooms.”
“To protect her, or to keep her in?”
They stopped at the hallway crossroads where they would part ways to their separate rooms. “What difference does it make?” Chaol said quietly. “You don’t seem to care either way. You’ll visit her no matter what I say, and the guards won’t stop you because you’re the prince.”
There was something so defeated, so bitter, underlying the captain’s words that Dorian, for a heartbeat, felt badly. He should stay away from Celaena—Chaol had enough to worry about. But then he thought of the list his mother made and realized he had enough, too.
“I need to inspect Xavier’s body again. I’ll see you in the hall for dinner tonight,” was all Chaol said before he headed to his rooms. Dorian watched him go. The walk back to his tower felt surprisingly long. He opened the wooden door to his rooms, peeling off his clothing as he headed to the bathing room. He had the entire tower to himself, though his chambers occupied only the upper level. They provided a haven from everyone, but today they just felt empty.
Chapter 27
Late that afternoon, Celaena stared at the ebony clock tower. It grew darker and darker, as if it somehow absorbed the sun’s dying rays. On top of it, the gargoyles remained stationary. They hadn’t moved. Not even a finger. The Guardians, Elena had called them. But Guardians to what? They’d scared Elena enough to keep her away. Surely, if they’d been the evil Elena mentioned, she would have just said it outright. Not that Celaena was considering looking for it right now—not when it could get her into trouble. And somehow wind up killing her before she could even become the King’s Champion.
Still, why did Elena have to be so oblique about everything?
“What’s your obsession with these ugly things?” Nehemia asked from beside her.
Celaena turned to the princess. “Do you think they move?”
“They’re made of stone, Lillian,” the princess said in the common tongue, her Eyllwe accent slightly less thick.
“Oh!” Celaena exclaimed, smiling. “That was very good! One lesson, and you’re already putting me to shame!” Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of Celaena’s Eyllwe.
Nehemia beamed. “They do look wicked,” she said in Eyllwe.
“And I’m afraid the Wyrdmarks don’t help,” Celaena said. A Wyrdmark was at her feet, and she glanced to the others. There were twelve of them all together, forming a large circle around the solitary tower. She hadn’t the faintest idea what any of it meant. None of the marks here matched the three she’d spotted at Xavier’s murder site, but there had to be some connection. “So, you truly can’t read these?” she asked her friend.