Caprion's Wings (11 page)

This is all my
fault
, he thought with sickening
guilt.
I need to speak to Florentine. I
need to warn her!

The soldiers finished opening the
prison, then signaled to Caprion’s guard, who grabbed his chain and
hauled him forward. Moss followed in his wake, her collar linked to
his wrist cuffs.

They were led into a long, rectangular
chamber with a vaulted granite ceiling, supported by large
buttresses, columns and archways. As the soldiers entered, large
sunstones on the walls began to glow faintly, stimulated by the
presence of their wings. Slabs of white marble paved the floor,
cracked and tarnished over the years. Decorative statues punctuated
the architecture—replicas of Harpies bowing in place, their hands
folded in prayer, or standing tall and proud with wings
outstretched. A giant emblem of the One Star was stamped into the
ceiling, a symbol of justice and guidance. Every few dozen yards,
an empty fountain stood in the center of the walkway, filled with
leaves, dirt and debris. Crumbled stone scattered the ground, like
most of the city. Thick, gauzy cobwebs hung from the high
ceiling.

A long row of empty cells made of
sturdy iron bars lined each wall, their doors sealed with sunstone
locks. Caprion knew he wouldn’t be able to open these doors as he
had the one in the crypts. These sunstones were activated by a
soldier’s voice and only opened by the same soldier’s command,
requiring specific intonation and pitch.

He half-expected the soldiers to lock
Moss away separately, but they did no such thing. He and Moss were
thrown bodily into a single cell near the front of the prison,
their chains tangled together, causing them to stumble clumsily
across the ground. Caprion swung his arm out for balance and
unintentionally yanked Moss’s chain. The young girl was sent
crashing to her knees, his weight dragging her further
off-balance.

Caprion caught himself on
the rear wall of the cell, pain erupting from his injured sternum.
A strangled gasp escaped his throat. He paused for several seconds,
struggling to regain his breath. Finally, he turned to face the
soldiers. By their flickering, restless wings, he could tell they
were eager to flock back to the barracks and spread the latest
news. He almost groaned at the thought. Now the city would think
he’d lost his mind—or that he had some strange, unspeakable
perversion. His reputation, or what little remained of it, was as
good as finished.
And there’s a demon
loose,
he wanted to yell at them.
Don’t you understand? A real demon! The Matriarch
is in danger!
But of course they wouldn’t
listen to him. Not now.

The squad leader shut the iron door
firmly and then locked it using a quickly spoken password. It
didn’t matter that Caprion overheard the password—he couldn’t
duplicate the man’s voice. Then the soldier turned to his men.
“Stand watch outside the door. No one leaves or enters!” he
commanded.

Caprion watched the guards’ faces fall
in disappointment. Now they couldn’t rush to the nearest pub and
share the scandal. Caprion’s lips twisted. “Poor little birds,” he
called sarcastically. “Don’t stay on my account! Go on, head back
to the city. You'll have much more fun!”

The squad leader turned back to him.
“Harass my men and I will report you to Sumas!” He flashed his
wings threateningly.

Caprion glared. “Good!” he said, and
he approached the bars, his chains dragging. “I have a message for
my dear brother,” he said. “Perhaps you could pass it
along?”

“Shut your arrogant mouth,” the
soldier barked. His voice resonated with a tone of command, but
Caprion shrugged it off, unaffected.

“Florentine, a friend of the
Madrigal’s, told me about the crypts,” he said. “She suggested I go
there, and a demon escaped.”

“I can see that,” the soldier sneered,
his eyes flickering to Moss.

“No,” Caprion said, trying to spell it
out. “A demon. A full-blooded demon from the crypts.”

The soldier gave him a strange look
and then barked out a laugh. “You must take me for a fool,” he
sneered. “There’s no demon in the crypts. That’s a child’s story!”
Then he turned away abruptly, heading to the exit. “To your posts!”
he ordered the other soldiers.

Caprion watched them fall
into rank and glide away, coasting across the floor on the grace of
their wings. For once he didn’t envy them. No, his thoughts
remained on the slumbering Matriarch and the demon’s wrath. It made
him sick to his stomach.
This is all my
fault.

The soldiers exited the building and
slammed the heavy doors shut; he heard the metal bar slide back
into place, locking them inside. Once the Harpies were gone, the
sunstones on the walls visibly dimmed to a dull twilight glow,
hardly enough to see by. Deep shadows filled the large chamber,
hiding the fountains and statues from sight.

Caprion sighed and turned away from
the bars, placing a hand over his sore sternum. The cold, moist
chill of the night seeped up through the rocks. When he walked, the
chain at his wrist dragged across the ground, strung to Moss’s
collar. She still lay on the floor in the center of the cell,
curled on her side, staring absently into the darkness. Trickles of
blood leaked from beneath her sunstone collar, staining the floor.
She blended perfectly with the shadows, turned almost invisible by
her dark clothing.

He circled her, unable to
move far from her body—bound together by chains and by words. He
felt like a wild hawk tethered to a post. He wondered, suddenly, if
this would be his life until he fulfilled his half of his promise
and rescued Moss from the island. What would happen to her if he
failed? Would she be outright killed or would Sumas make it slow
and painful?
I’m a bastard for dragging
her into this,
he thought.
What was I thinking?

In the darkness of Moss's
underground cell, it had seemed so simple, so straightforward—one
favor in return for another. He had been heady with determination,
filled with a sense of duty and purpose.
Now…now I've dragged her into worse danger.
He would never be able to leave this cell without
his brother’s permission. Sumas and the Matriarch could easily
sentence him to death for releasing one of the slaves. And then
what would happen to Moss?

He gazed at her sadly. She looked so
alone. So small. Despite his troubles, she was in a much worse
situation than him. He wished fervently that he could whisk her
away from the Lost Isles and leave this mess far behind. He would
much rather try his luck on the mainland. He would have done so
immediately—if he had wings.

Pity tugged his heart and he stepped
to her side, gently sliding his arms under her. She flinched at his
touch as though expecting a blow, but he didn’t let her pull away.
He picked her up, as he might his own sister, and then carried her
to the rear of the cell where the shadows were darkest. He pressed
his back against the hard wall, sliding down into a sitting
position and settling her against him.

He winced against his
aching sternum and drew in a slow, experimental breath. Not bad. He
could take shallow breaths comfortably, but large gasps split his
lungs like a dagger. He wouldn’t be able to run well with this kind
of injury.
Flight,
he thought, wry humor twisting his face.
Now I’m perfectly useless.
His
sternum would heal eventually, but not soon enough.

After a moment, the chain tugged at
his wrist and Moss sat upright against the wall. Her small, thin
body pressed against his arm tightly with no hesitation, no thought
of personal space. She felt warm—warmer than expected in such a
cold room. It made him think of her race’s heritage, formed of Fire
and Darkness. Did all of the Sixth Race emit so much heat? He
remembered the demon in the crypts: molten red flesh glowing
through cracked and blackened skin, like a creature made of lava
and scorched earth.

He wondered, suddenly, what her own
demon looked like, if she could summon it at will or if she was
still too young to control it. The thought almost made him nervous.
Could she turn into her demon-self right here, in the darkness of
this cell, while his chains rendered him defenseless?

No,
he thought, glancing at her sunstone collar. As much as the
stone seared her skin, it also kept her demon in check. And he felt
a little guilty, doubting her intentions. Even without the collar,
he didn’t think she would attack him. She had helped him against
the demon in the crypt, dragging him to safety when it broke loose.
She had followed his orders in front of Sumas, remaining calm,
resting her hand on his shoulder despite her vulnerable position.
She trusted him—perhaps because she had no other choice. And he
would have to do the same. In this moment, she might be his last
ally on the island.

“Why do you want to be like them?” she
asked softly.

Caprion glanced down at her, catching
the reflection of her cat-green eyes. “I don’t,” he said, surprised
by his own realization. For the last six years, he had planned to
become just like the other Harpies. He had dreamed of becoming a
soldier, of conquering Sumas and proving himself the better man.
For so long he had craved it, built his plans and his ambitions
around it.

But after yesterday’s failed Singing,
his hope had drained out of him. Years of plans had fallen to
nothing more than intangible dreams, drifting farther and farther
out of reach. He felt that loss keenly within himself; he no longer
knew who he was, where he fit. And now, seeing how his own kind
treated the Sixth Race—especially young Moss, a child destined to
suffer and perish—he wondered why he had yearned for such things.
Why had the life of a soldier seemed so noble?

He understood why they
needed to practice against the Sixth Race, and yet why use
children? Why target those who couldn’t defend themselves? Why not
fight true demons, like the creature he had released from the
crypts? Caprion’s face drew into a bitter frown. His race abused
their power. The Harpies made nothing but demands from him:
find your wings, become stronger, sing better,
live up to your family’s reputation, be like Sumas.
Moss took him as he was. She didn’t ask anything
from him at all. In fact, she wanted quite the opposite—for him to
remain the same.

“Give up your wings,” she said softly,
a pleading edge to her voice, as though reading his thoughts. “You
don’t need them. They’ll ruin you. I like the way you are now.
You’re brave and honest and….” Her voice faded at her last words,
as though revealing too much of herself. She dropped her gaze and
pulled away, shifting her position.

Without thinking, Caprion
gently tugged the chain at his wrist, keeping her close. She
glanced up at him, her eyes flickering suspiciously, but he didn’t
let her go. In that moment, he felt incredibly protective. He
wanted to shelter her, to stand as a shield between her and the
corruption of his race.
I can’t do that
without wings.

“I must be able to fly,” he said, more
to himself than to her. “I don’t agree with Sumas and his soldiers.
I never thought my kind was capable of such evil….” He paused. “I
can’t change anything if I'm wingless. I can’t protect you or
fulfill my promise if I'm tied to the ground.”

“You’ll change if you gain your
wings,” Moss said quietly, almost sadly. “You’ll become like
them.”

“I won’t,” he murmured.

She remained silent. And
in that silence, an entire conversation seemed to pass between
them, conflicting tides of hope and distrust, doubt and
despair.
Forget about me,
she seemed to say.
I
didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t expect it.

I won’t break my
word,
he wanted to reply.
I’ll prove it to you. My wings won’t change me.
They’ll only make me stronger.
And he felt
that Song stir within him, the one he had yet to voice aloud,
moving through his chest and throat in a swelling wave. At that
moment, he felt like he could release it. Like the tones and vowels
lay on the tip of his tongue.

He shifted, resettling his weight, his
gaze returning to the empty, solemn chamber before them. Moss moved
again to pull away, but he reached down and took her hand, their
chains resting between them, connecting them in the darkness. He
wanted to give her strength…but really, her presence reassured him
of his purpose, reminding him that in the face of losing
everything, he still had one reason to live.

* * *

He stood at Fury Rock, gazing at the
darkened sky. No stars. No light.

He knew this dream. He peered over the
cliff, met by a black, featureless curtain. Yet he could feel the
crush of grass beneath his feet, the soft indentation of
dirt.

He turned away from the cliff and
looked down the hill on its opposite side. A gray, narrow trail led
downward through the scrub-grass, cutting down the side of the hill
like a long scar. Far below at the bottom, he could see the
lumbering bulks of the shadestones, darker than darkness, thrusting
up against the sky like massive spear-heads.