With a wipe of his hand, a god destroying a world, Dorian knocked down a crystal, releasing the power. The ice melted, the water rippling and sloshing against the bowl. Just like that. Chaol blinked.
If they could knock out one tower . . . It was such a risk. They needed to be sure before acting. Chaol pulled out the map Murtaugh had marked, the map he didn’t dare to leave anywhere. “Here, here, and here,” he said, pointing to Rifthold, Amaroth, and Noll. “That’s where we know towers were built. Watchtowers, but all three had the same traits: black stone, gargoyles . . .”
“You mean to tell me that the clock tower in the garden is one of them?”
Chaol nodded, ignoring the laugh of disbelief. “That’s what we think.”
The prince leaned over the map, bracing a hand against the floor. He traced a line from Rifthold to Amaroth, then from Rifthold to Noll. “The northward line cuts through the Ferian Gap; the southern cuts directly through Morath. You told Aedion that you thought my father had sent Roland and Kaltain to Morath, along with any other nobles with magic in their blood. What are the odds that it’s a mere coincidence?”
“And the Ferian Gap . . .” Chaol had to swallow. “Celaena said she’d heard of wings in the Gap. Nehemia said her scouts did not come back, that something was brewing there.”
“Two spots for him to breed whatever army he’s making, perhaps drawing on this power as it makes a current through them.”
“Three.” Chaol pointed to the Dead Islands. “We had a report that something strange was being bred there . . . and that it’s been sent to Wendlyn.”
“But my father sent Celaena.” The prince swore. “There’s no way to warn them?”
“We’ve already tried.”
Dorian wiped the sweat from his brow. “So you’re working with them—you’re on their side.”
“No. I don’t know. We just share information. But this is all information that helps us. You.”
Dorian’s eyes hardened, and Chaol winced as a cool breeze swept in.
“So what are you going to do?” Dorian asked. “Just . . . knock down the clock tower?”
Destroying the clock tower was an act of war—an act that could endanger the lives of too many people. There would be no going back. He didn’t even want to tell Aedion or Ren, for fear of what they’d do. They wouldn’t think twice before incinerating it, perhaps killing everyone in this castle in the process. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. You were right about that.”
He wished he had something more to say to Dorian, but even small talk was an effort now. He was closing in on candidates to replace him as Captain of the Guard, sending more trunks to Anielle every week, and he could barely bring himself to look at his own men. As for Dorian . . . there was so much left between them.
“Now’s not the time,” Dorian said quietly, as if he could read Chaol’s mind.
Chaol swallowed. “I want to thank you. I know what you’re risking is—”
“We’re all risking something.” There was so little of the friend he’d grown up with. The prince glanced at his pocket watch. “I need to go.” Dorian stalked to the stairs, and there was no fear in his face, no doubt, as he said, “You gave me the truth today, so I’ll share mine: even if it meant us being friends again, I don’t think I would want to go back to how it was before—who I was before. And this . . .” He jerked his chin toward the scattered crystals and the bowl of water. “I think this is a good change, too. Don’t fear it.”