Donovan gave Aiden a pained smile. “I couldn’t leave Gwenny. That’s reason enough to fight to live—and keep on fighting. You’ll send her a message in the morning, won’t you, Aiden?”

“I will.”

Donovan closed his eyes and slumped in the saddle. Men caught him and carried him into the house while Aiden, leading Minstrel, followed the man with the oil lamp back to the stables.

“We’ll take good care of him, Bard,” one of the men said. “That we will. You’d best go back to the house before your legs give out on you.”

Pausing long enough to promise Minstrel an extra song in the morning, Aiden left the stables. But he didn’t go back to the house. Instead he walked toward the pasture fence—or where it should have been if he could see it. He wasn’t ready to enter a house full of wounded. There would be pain there and loss there, and some of those men wouldn’t see the sun rise. He hoped with all his heart Donovan wasn’t one of them.

The fog parted suddenly, giving him a clear view of the pasture fence—and the hawk perched on the top rail.

Aiden moved quickly, before the fog obscured his vision again. His hand touched the fence. He stopped, worried now because the bird hadn’t even turned its head to look at him when he approached. “Falco?”

The fog veiled the world. Keeping one hand on the rail to guide him, Aiden moved closer. “Falco? It’s Aiden.”

The hawk didn’t move when he touched it gingerly, fearing a mortal wound was the explanation for its lack of response. It didn’t move when he lifted it off the pasture rail and set it on the ground.

“Falco. Please.”

The hawk shuddered. Aiden took one step back. A few moments later, Falco stood before him in human form, still shuddering.

“Falco?” Aiden stepped forward and cautiously put one hand on Falco’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“Lost a couple of tail feathers,” Falco murmured.

“They’ll grow back.” Aiden kept his voice soothing as worry lanced through him. Something was wrong with Falco, but he didn’t know what to say or do to help him.

“I’ve—” Falco swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen men fight like that. I’ve never seen men die like that.”

“None of us have.”

“It was bad, Aiden. It was bad.”

And Falco, who had been a brash young Lord last summer, put his head on Aiden’s shoulder and wept.

Chapter 49

waning moon

Morag rode through swirls of fog, her heart pounding, her body clenched. Had she come too late? Had the Black Coats won? Were all the witches gone? Would the human world be swallowed by mist just as the pieces of Tir Alainn had been swallowed when the magic that had anchored them died?