Caprion's Wings

by T. L. Shreffler

  Caprion nodded solemnly. Instead of finding the secret door to the Matriarch’s chamber, it looked like the demon had dug straight to it. “Get Sumas,” he murmured, and drew his sword.

  Talarin stared at him. “You don’t truly intend to go down there? Caprion, you don’t even have wings!”

  He grabbed her arm, his muscles tense, adrenaline pounding through his veins. “Get Sumas and his soldiers here as quickly as possible,” he commanded. “The Madrigal and Florentine will arrive soon. Hopefully I can buy you a little time.” Then he thrust her away. “Go!”

  Talarin stumbled a few steps. He could tell she wanted to argue, but her eyes traveled back to the hole. They needed time to gather more soldiers and bring them to the Matriarch’s chamber. Time they didn’t have. And Caprion couldn’t fly away to rally the troops. No, she had to go, and he had to stay.

  He could almost hear her thoughts—but you’ll die down there. He stood, unflinching, his sword gripped tightly in his fist.

  “I’ll see you again,” she said abruptly. Then she ran back toward the forest and shot off the ground like an arrow. Her wings flashed brightly like a pulsating star, a signal of alarm meant to draw any Harpies to the area. The powerful vibrations crashed over his skin, making his teeth ache.

  Then she vanished over the tall pine trees and the air went still.

  Caprion turned back to the deep, dark hole in the earth. He sheathed his sword as he approached the edge of it, gathering his courage. When he gazed downward, he could see a glint of light somewhere far, far below. Sunstone.

  The demon was already in the Matriarch’s chamber.

  He had no other choice. He would have to jump down.

  With a small prayer to the One Star, he lowered himself into the pit and allowed himself to fall.

  Chapter 8

  Caprion slid feet first down the dark hole. He used his arms and legs to slow his descent. Earth crumbled beneath his fingertips and boots, falling down into that distant white light, which grew brighter and brighter with each passing moment.

  Then, finally, he fell through.

  He landed on his feet much harder than anticipated. He stumbled to one side, letting out a hoarse gasp, and caught himself against the sunstone wall. The impact jarred his bones. Pain coursed through his cracked sternum. He struggled for a moment to regain his breath.

  When he finally looked around, he saw the earthen walls of a narrow tunnel. Chunks of sunstone lay embedded in the rock, placed at uneven intervals. To his right, the sunstone became more and more dense, leading him into the Matriarch’s sleeping chamber. He felt the stone’s vibration like a soft pressure against his skin, raising the small hairs on his arms and neck. So far, no demon in sight.

  To his left, brown clay walls led to an earthen staircase that climbed back toward the surface. He guessed the main entrance lay at the top of the stairs, most likely sealed at the other end.

  He straightened, his heart pounding and the air sharp in his lungs. He brushed off his clothes, smearing dirt from his sweaty palms. Then he drew his blade. Be strong, he told himself. No turning back now.

  He started toward the Matriarch’s chamber. His footsteps echoed painfully off the sunstone walls. He wished he had wings; he wished he could sail silently over the ground, leaving no sign of passage. But now the demon would be alerted to his presence long before he could sneak up on it.

  Finally, he reached a wide, circular chamber. The hallway fell back and he entered an underground cavern of gleaming, white sunstone. He had to blink his eyes several times against the concentrated light. Mineral formations splashed the walls: round, beaded piles of sea-green malachite; sparkling blue sheets of azurite; spiked protrusions of rose-tinted tourmaline.

  He began tentatively exploring the chamber, his eyes combing the walls. He tried to see around the various mineral formations and blocks of sunstone. So far, it looked empty of life. Rocky pathways had been cut through the rock, carved by previous generations. He followed one of the paths cautiously, wondering where the Matriarch resided.

  He cleared a large formation of rocks and paused. There. At the center of the chamber, over mounds of jutting stalagmites, he saw a raised dais of sunstone. On top of this dais sat a large stone slab where the Matriarch lay in slumber. He could feel her presence resonating against his skin, tendrils of a melody that teased his ears, not-quite-heard.

  He glanced around the chamber again. Where is the demon?

  He neared the Matriarch’s sleeping place, his footsteps echoing. He paused at its side. The rock slab stood even with his chest. A shield of white light curved around the Matriarch’s body like the lid of a coffin, obscuring her from view. He could see her long-fingered hand resting near the edge of the shield, settled peacefully on the stone. The rest of her body lay invisible behind the barrier of white light.

  Slowly, he raised his finger and touched the barrier, testing it.

  At his touch, a ripple of vibrations moved across the shield of light. Caprion stepped back, surprised. Yellow runes began to appear along the stone slab as though written by an unseen hand. His eyes followed the glowing script. The language was old, dating back to the founding of Asterion, but he could still read it: a wakening spell. To be used in case the Matriarch needed to be roused from her sleep...

  …which would be a foolish thing to do. Rousing the Matriarch early could steal years from her life. She needed this rest to rejuvenate. But this is an emergency…. Should he call her out of slumber? Perhaps they could face the demon together. Certainly she would have the power to kill it.

  He hesitated at that thought. She might be disoriented when she awoke, and the shield of light seemed to be her only protection. He couldn’t put her life at further risk. Perhaps better to leave the shield alone, at least until more help arrived.

  A hot wind gusted at his back.

  Caprion whirled around, fear tightening his throat.

  As he stared, a thick shadow began to melt down the far wall. He hadn’t noticed it before since shadows seemed like such natural things, but in a sunstone cavern there would be no room for shade. The darkness dripped down the wall from a series of thick stalactites and pooled on the floor. Then it drifted into the air like a thick cloud of smoke and he felt the temperature of the room rise. Sweat accumulated on his brow. His grip grew clammy on his sword.

  The demon materialized before him—seven feet of charcoal skin and burning veins of fire. Thick mist encircled its body, swirling like smoke. Then the mist broke and he saw its face: gaping, drooling jaws crammed with rows of teeth, some thin as needles, others thick as tusks, all long and deadly sharp. A sprawling black tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air, dripping with yellow, venomous phlegm. Saliva sizzled and smoked like acid when it struck the ground, burning holes in the sunstone floor. The rest of its face resembled a human skull with narrow eyes full of malice.

  Hatred rolled off its body, heating the air like waves of fire.

  Caprion took a step back and hit the dais. A scream welled in his throat. He barely contained it.

  The demon’s face twisted and distorted. Teeth. So many teeth. “And here you’ve come,” the demon spoke, its voice oily slick, like smoke and tar. “My little fledgling pawn.”

  Caprion gripped his sword, trying to still his shaking hand. “What do you mean?” he demanded. Here, in the face of this dark beast, he suddenly didn’t know what to do. I’m going to fight this creature? Laughable—he was raw meat.

  The demon cackled, a terrible sound that echoed and crashed against his ears. Caprion instinctively recoiled, almost losing the grip on his sword. The demon stretched out a disproportionately long arm and beckoned him forward. “Come, little bird. Fly to me. I’ll show you how to get your wings.”

  With sick realization, Caprion knew the demon had lured him here on purpose. A trap. How else could the demon reach the Matriarch, unless someone lowered the shield? I need to distract it until Sumas and the Madrigal get here, he thought. He dug his feet
into the ground and raised his sword, pointing it at the demon. “Why me?” he demanded. His voice cracked from adrenaline. “Why did you call to me?”

  The demon laughed again, shaking its head in a strangely human way. “You?” it declared. “None of this is about you, little bird. I’ve called for four-hundred years, and you just happened to hear me. You’ve been a good little tool so far. Now open the Matriarch’s dais so I can kill you.”

  “Never!” Caprion gasped.

  The beast leapt forward. It crossed the chamber in three bounding steps. Caprion scrambled around the Matriarch’s dais, keeping the slab of stone between them. The demon flinched back from the shield of light, then lunged around the table. It swung one long, clawed hand at his head.

  Caprion dodged to one side—crunch! The demon’s claws left long gouges in the stone behind him. He scrambled away, trying to stay out of reach. He noticed the demon blinking erratically, closing its eyes to slits. The light bothers it, he thought. Perhaps it can’t see me. He tested this theory, ducking behind a large stalagmite that jutted from the ground.

  The demon paused, but not for long. Its snake-like tongue flicked out and tasted the air, then the beast turned toward his hiding place, moving agilely around the rocks. Its long arm swiped out again. Caprion raised his sword just in time, deflecting the demon’s blow. His sword glanced off its flesh like a rock, jarring his wrist. He recovered and stabbed again, aiming for the bright red gaps in the creature’s skin. He struck between its ribs. Shunk!

  The demon roared as steel entered its flesh. A manic scream echoed around the cavern. Red, fiery blood gushed from the wound, igniting the air. Caprion threw his arm over his face and backed away from the heat. Luckily nothing could catch fire in the chamber except his own body. Not entirely reassuring.

  When Caprion came to a halt some meters away, he felt his gut sink in horror. The top half of his blade had melted, leaving only a meter or so behind. The rest of the steel lay embedded in the beast’s ribcage, melting into its body. The demon continued to roar, prying the gobs of metal from its flesh, but it didn’t seem fatally wounded. If anything, it only seemed more furious.

  Caprion kept his grip on the broken blade. Now out of options, his heart hammered in fear. He could run, but he couldn’t climb back up the hole to the surface and the entrance to the chamber was still sealed. He would be a fool to turn his back on this beast. With a cold, consuming dread, he realized he was firmly trapped.

  The demon whirled on him with a fierce growl. It bounded across the cavern with startling speed, hardly affected by its wound. Caprion stumbled back but could not get away in time. The creature grabbed him by his shirt, wrenching him forward. Then its massive hand clamped down on his head and the beast dragged him to the ground before starting back to the Matriarch’s dais. Caprion took hold of the creature’s wrist, gasping in pain, trying to keep his neck from snapping.

  The demon spoke in an eager rush, acidic saliva pouring from its lips. “Now!” it groaned. “Now read the spell! Unseal this witch’s tomb!”

  Caprion resisted, unwilling to speak. The creature dragged its claws down his back. Pain ripped through him, drawing a scream from his lips.

  “Now, little bird, or I will tear off your arm!” the beast snarled.

  “No!” Caprion shouted through cracked lips. “No!”

  The demon roared furiously again. Its voice shook the cavern. Its claws shredded Caprion’s back, ripping through muscle. The pain sent Caprion pitching forward. He saw flashes of white before his eyes. His vision flickered. Soon, he would pass out.

  I have failed, he thought. I will never have my wings. I will die here in the earth.

  And perhaps the Matriarch, and the entire Harpy race, would die with him.

  Then, as the demon raged and dust rained down around them, he thought he heard a sound on the edge of his hearing. Not the demon’s voice…this was something else….But no, it had to be an illusion, the twisted echoes of the cave….

  But the sound continued at the edge of his hearing and Caprion thought of his Song. He thought of his fight with Sumas, how those unknowable chords had leant him strength. On his last strand of consciousness, he turned his attention inward, digging through his terror, desperately searching. He imagined himself plummeting through the dark abyss of his dreams. He saw stars glittering in the distance, far above. He tried to reach for them. I need you, he thought. Please help me. Please don’t let me fall!

  Then a great pressure swelled in his chest. It surged up through his gut and his lungs. It burned his throat like fire.

  The Song was in him now—in him like a building storm, like a rain-driven hurricane fighting for release. His ears rang with the force of it.

  He opened his mouth. Sound poured from his throat. He did not hear the melody. He could not taste the vowels on his tongue. He did not feel like he sang—but rather, that a great hand struck his body, emitting some ultimate, inescapable chord. His muscles, his skin, his very bones vibrated; his teeth cracked in his mouth; his ribs broke. He thought, perhaps, that his body snapped open like a shell.

  He did not feel the earth roll beneath him, nor the rocks fall from the ceiling, nor light flood the chamber like an exploding star.

  * * *

  Beyond the dark hole in the ground, beyond the standing shadestones and the amassing soldiers, beyond the forest to the crippled streets of Asterion, where weeds trembled between crumbling flagstones—

  Beyond the quaking buildings, the shuddering walls of the Academy and the great bowl of the Singing Chamber, rattling in the ground—

  Every fledgling, every matron, every husband and wife, store keeper, seamstress, and tutor paused in their work.

  Every head turned.

  Chapter 9

  Caprion didn’t remember climbing to his feet.

  But he found himself standing upright, gazing at the sunstone chamber. Chunks of rock littered the floor. A great, jagged crack ran down the center of the ceiling. It was a miracle the chamber still stood.

  Before him, the demon lay sprawled on the ground. He could see an aura of sickly, black energy around it, clashing with the light of the sunstones. A great hole of flesh gaped through its stomach, splitting its massive body almost in two. Traces of its spine and the beast’s inner workings lay tangled on the ground. Black and gray organs bubbled and steamed. Blood flowed freely from its body, sparking fire in the air. It seemed to be dissolving.

  Caprion stared, unable to look way.

  The demon coughed and snarled at him. Its face was badly damaged, a gaping hole in its cheek, several teeth snapped in half. The creature grimaced, unwilling to die. “You may kill me, but my Master stirs,” it spoke, blood oozing from its mouth. “The darkness shall come for you. This is not over, little bird.”

  A calm silence dwelled in Caprion’s body. He felt resolved. “Bring the darkness,” he murmured, “and I will meet it.” He picked up his broken sword, stepped up to the demon, and jammed the blunt blade into its skull.

  Blood spurted. Phlegm sizzled. The demon’s head fell back against the ground.

  A putrid smell rose from the dead body, clogging Caprion’s nostrils. He wrinkled his nose and tossed the ruined blade to one side. Then he stood, staring down at the beast, watching its body slowly disintegrate.

  Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind him—soft, resonant, as smooth as rain. “Tell me your name, my warrior of the One Star.”

  Caprion turned sharply in surprise.

  Behind him stood the raised dais of stone, but the shield of light had fallen. The top of the dais stood empty. Next to it, dressed in a simple white gown, stood the Matriarch.

  He stared. He had never been this close to her before. He could see an aura of light glimmering around her body, occasionally emitting a soft rainbow of color, like the shiny surface of an opal. Her hair fell loosely to her waist in a cascade of moonlight and pearl. She appeared both young and old, with pale, glowing skin stretched over a matured face, her cheekb
ones pronounced, her eyes a deep-set, luminescent blue.

  Her feet did not touch the ground. Her wings, a broad span of twenty-five feet, flickered once in the air before slowly vanishing. She had the ability to hide her wings like the Madrigal, a natural defense. To constantly emit such light would drain her energy.

  “My Lady of the One Star,” Caprion gasped. “M-my name….” He stumbled over it. “Le’Nasir Caprion, my lady.”

  “Ah, Le’Nasir, I know your mother,” the Martiarch murmured. She beckoned him forward with an outstretched hand.

  Caprion crossed the chamber swiftly to her side. He took her hand and bowed over it, lowering his head in reverence. Then he stared down at his feet in amazement. He didn’t stand on the ground. He hovered, instead, in the air.

  He straightened abruptly and dropped her hand. Then he looked back to the ground, to his feet, to his arms. His skin glowed. But why? His mind resisted for a moment, then it all rushed back to him: the Song, his body pulsating with sound, excruciating pain, exhilarating bliss, then light flooding his vision….

  The Matriarch appraised him with her ancient eyes, a soft smile curling on her lips. “It has been many centuries since a seraphim was born,” she murmured.

  “A seraphim?” Caprion repeated, confused.

  Her eyes widened, then her smile turned into a laugh. “Have you not noticed your wings?”

  Caprion glanced over his shoulder. Bright light met his eyes. He squinted at the gentle slope of feathers, the long, broad limbs protruding from his back. Yes, wings. And yet there seemed too many. He thought he was seeing double, but he counted again, looking over his other shoulder. Four wings…six wings…? Six! What Harpy had six wings?

  He knew he should feel relief at the sight—or joy—or any number of excited emotions. But he kept counting his wings, trying to understand it, trying not to worry. Too many, he thought. Too many to be normal.