“Every hawk?” Brion scoffed. “Not every single one. Most are just birds, nothing more magical than that.”
“Do you believe in magic?” Cleo asked, curious.
Brion pushed a long stick into the crackling fire. “Depends on the day. Today, not so much. Tomorrow . . . maybe.”
Cleo glanced up. “So what about that hawk? Is that a Watcher?”
A golden hawk had settled into one of the few trees that didn’t have a sleeping shack built into its branches. It seemed quite content to sit there and look down on them.
Onoria looked up at it, pushing long strands of dark hair out of her eyes. “I’ve noticed her before. She never hunts, just watches us. Or, really, if you ask me—she watches Jonas.”
“Really?” Cleo said, now intrigued.
“See? Definitely a Watcher if she’s taken a special interest in our leader.” Tarus stared up at the bird with admiration. “Their wings are made from pure gold, did you know that? That’s what my ma told me.”
Cleo remembered her hours of research as well as the legends she’d heard all her life. “I’ve heard they can also look like mortals if they choose to—with golden skin and beauty unlike anything seen in our world.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve seen a few unreal beauties in my life.” Brion grinned. “You’re not so bad yourself, princess. And Onoria . . . you too, of course.”
Onoria rolled her eyes. “Save your charm for someone who cares.”
Now Cleo couldn’t hold back her smile. “I assure you, I’m not a Watcher. If I was, I’d escape back to the safety of the Sanctuary as soon as I could.”
“Gotta find a wheel for that,” Tarus said.
Cleo looked at him. “What did you say?”
“A stone wheel.” He shrugged. “Don’t know if it’s true, it’s just what I heard from my grandma.”
The boy’s family seemed filled to overflowing with storytellers.
“What do you mean, a stone wheel?” asked Onoria. “Never heard of that before.”
“It’s how they get back and forth between the mortal world and the Sanctuary in hawk form. They have these magical, carved stone wheels hidden here and there. Might look like nothing but a ruin to us, but without the wheels, they’re trapped here.”
“Don’t let Jonas hear you talking like that,” Brion said. “He won’t listen to any nonsense about magic or Watchers. He thinks it makes Paelsians weak to hold on to legends rather than look at cold, hard facts.”
Magical stone wheels. It was certainly a charming story. Silly, but charming.
How much of such legends passed down from generation to generation could potentially be true, though? Jonas was naive to dismiss such talk without any consideration at all. Cleo had met an exiled Watcher without knowing it. She’d held magic in the palm of her hand. Sometimes it was far closer than anyone would ever believe.
How she wished she had her ring; it had been a horrible mistake to hide it away. It was far too precious to be out of her sight.
Cleo was about to ask Tarus if he knew anything about such an object, or if his family had told him any stories about the Kindred, when she felt an almost physical burning on the side of her face. She glanced over to see that Lysandra was glaring at her from the other side of camp.
“She still hates me, doesn’t she?” It was a discouraging thought. After their initial exchange, she’d hoped she might have won the girl over—at least a little. They’d both experienced loss, experienced pain. That bonded them, even if Lysandra didn’t want to acknowledge it.
If Cleo was perfectly honest, she envied the girl her current freedom. To be among all these rebels and seem so liberated and so utterly unafraid . . . it was kind of amazing.
“I think Lys hates everybody,” Brion said, gnawing on an already very bare bone of what remained of his meal. Onoria laughed at this comment under her breath. “Even me, if you can believe it. Although I think I’m slowly winning her over. Watch, soon she’ll be madly in love with me. But . . . don’t take it personally, princess.”
She’d try her best. She took a deep breath and asked what was really on her mind. “Any news about the road? Has the king stopped construction on it? What do we know about the slaves?”
Brion looked away, toward the fire. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”
“Will Jonas send another letter?”
“The stars, the moon. Stunning, really.”
“It is nice,” Tarus agreed. “Only lousy thing here are the insects wanting to take a chunk of your flesh.” To punctuate this, he slapped his arm to kill a bloodthirsty mosquito.