OWL LED THE WAY, wheeling herself with help from Candle, who climbed down off her lap and walked beside her. The others trailed along behind, whispering among themselves. The night had gone deeper and darker, and while the stars continued to fill the sky with their pinpricks of light, the moon had disappeared. In the distance, lost in the blackness, a dog howled.
Cheney, who had risen from his repose to follow Hawk, never even so much as glanced in the direction of the sound, his dark muzzle swinging from side to side in that familiar way. Hawk was watching Owl again, thinking that she recognized that something was different about him and was wondering what it was. She was too smart not to pick up on it, too connected to him. She knew it was real; she just didn’t know yet what form it had taken because it wasn’t something she could see.
Eventually, she would figure it out. They all would. Or events would force him to reveal it.
That the magic that had formed him had surfaced from its dormant state and was now a full-blown presence.
He was a boy, same as always. But he was a gypsy morph, too. It was odd to think like this. He didn’t feel any different than he had before the King of the Silver River had saved him and brought him into the gardens. But where before he had lacked knowledge of his origins, had accepted his memories of his childhood as real, now he knew the truth. Not only knew it, but had seen the extent of it demonstrated at that militia-controlled bridge where he had used his magic—almost without knowing what he was doing—to turn everything into a tangled green jungle.
But that didn’t mean he was ready to talk to the others about it. Tessa knew because she had seen what he could do. But the others were still getting used to the idea that the Hawk they knew was only a small piece of the Hawk he had become. They needed time to come to terms with this, and telling them too much at once risked an unpleasant response. They were his family, but even your family could be alienated by discoveries they were not prepared for.
Hawk did not want that to happen. On the other hand, he had no idea what to do to prevent it once the whole truth came out.
Logan Tom lay atop the hay wagon, wrapped in blankets and asleep on one of the collapsible stretchers. Beneath bruises and scratches, his face was bloodless in the pale wash of the starlight; his skin felt damp and cold to the touch. He was breathing in uneven, shallow gulps, and now and then he twitched as if plagued by troublesome dreams.
Hawk climbed up beside him and knelt close. The others stayed where they were, standing next to the wagon, peering upward like supplicants. Even Tessa did not try to join him, sensing perhaps that he needed to do this alone and without the possibility of distraction. He glanced at her and smiled. She smiled back, her beautiful face brightening in a way that left him weak with need. He loved her so much, and it made him suddenly afraid. All he wanted was to be with her, but he knew in that instant—in a way that defied argument—he might be wishing for something that could never happen.
He put the thought aside, unable to accept it, even to consider that it might be true. His eyes left her face, and he turned his attention to the man lying on the stretcher. Logan Tom, Knight of the Word and his protector. Now it was Hawk’s turn to protect him. He wondered momentarily if he could do it. Then he thought of Cheney as the dog had lain dying in their home in Pioneer Square, and he knew that he could.
He reached out to Logan, placed his hands on the other’s body, and felt the other twitch slightly in response. He was awake inside his damaged mind, but he couldn’t find his way out. Or perhaps he didn’t want to; Hawk couldn’t tell which. What mattered was that he needed to know that someone was out here who cared about him and would welcome him back from the darkness into which he was submerged.
“Logan,” the boy said softly, and moved his hands from the other’s body to his head, palms pressing gently against either side of the wan face.
Logan, he repeated in his mind.
Then he reached down and enfolded the sleeping man in his arms, closing his eyes as he did so, hugging the limp body close. He felt Logan twitch again—once, twice. Then he was still. Hawk pressed the other close, held him as he had Cheney, and willed him to come back.
Wake up, Logan.
He said it several times, each time pressing his palms into the other’s back. He felt the warmth growing inside him, just as it had with Cheney, and he knew the magic was working. He let the feeling build and did not try to rush what was happening. He knew from before—with Cheney and again with the foliage on the bridge—that it was a response he could not control, a response that surfaced from deep within and took the course of action that was called for. It was like watching the birds for which he’d named himself take flight. He could not determine where they would go; he could only soar with them in his mind and imagine their freedom.