Caprion's Wings

by T. L. Shreffler

  Chapter 3

  Caprion headed into the city at the break of dawn, before the mist had a chance to lift. Florentine opened her shop early and closed around mid-afternoon—eccentric hours for an eccentric woman. He covered himself in a gray cloak and pulled the hood low over his head, wary of being noticed. Only his neighbor saw him, a younger fledgling who studied at the academy. The boy nodded quickly and walked past, hardly meeting Caprion’s eyes.

  Caprion frowned, put off by the boy’s reaction. How many people could possibly know about his Singing? The whole city by the end of the day, he thought grimly. Their family, Le’Nasir, was a long and prominent bloodline. Sumas was well-known around the city and their mother could trace her roots far back to the very founding of Asterion. His great-grandmother had served as Matriarch for a time, centuries ago. There was bound to be speculation. Another reason to reach Florentine’s shop before mid-morning when local markets opened and the streets became packed by curious faces.

  Once Caprion entered Asterion proper, he immediately turned toward the merchant district, passing two-tiered buildings with stone balconies and domed roofs. The silent buildings sprawled on and on, many of them empty and abandoned, fallen to disuse as the population of Asterion dwindled. He entered a smaller market square, the storefronts decorated in bright awnings. A handful of people walked the streets—early merchants setting out wares or weary soldiers finishing their long night-shifts. Caprion passed them all without a word. No one greeted him, but he could feel their eyes on his back.

  Florentine's shop resided on the lowest level of a three-tiered building, wedged between a series of small boutiques and a high-end pub. Hanging ivy obscured the front of the store, shielding it from curious window shoppers. A purple, glass-beaded curtain served as a door. He could already smell the incense wafting from inside. It made him grimace. If the Madrigal hadn't recommended her, he never would have approached her shop.

  Caprion entered the building, passing through the beaded doorway. The store had a low, domed ceiling of dark granite. Wire-wrapped sunstones hung from the ceiling on delicate chains, like a sky full of stars, illuminating the room. Before him stood a couch where two people could sit, a low table, a nearby chair, and several shelves full of books and star charts. On top of the low table rested a few thin stems of burning incense. Sage, he thought, sniffing the air.

  "An early visitor?" a female voice reached him, clear as a bell. It resonated strangely across his skin, like a cool salve. Florentine stepped out of the depths of the store, a biscuit in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. She was tall, even for a Harpy, with long, sloping curves visible through a sleek purple robe. Large, striking eyes dominated her face above wide, rounded cheeks. Her hair spilled in a series of braids down her back. Her features were not immediately beautiful; Caprion thought she looked something like an owl.

  A shiny gold tassel hung from her waist, tied to one side and used as a belt. She wore a small silver tuning fork around her neck. Her wings were folded, perhaps eight feet wide, Caprion guessed.

  A disarming smile touched her face, at odds with her stark features. “I'm not surprised to see you,” she said quietly.

  Caprion’s frown deepened. “Word gets around fast,” he muttered.

  Florentine nodded. “Esta spoke to your brother yesterday, and he went down to the pub to announce it. He might have done you a favor. He tackled the gossip head-on before it could spread out of control.”

  Caprion glanced at the ground, his throat tightening in anger. Sumas doesn’t give favors, he thought. No, his brother had confronted the gossip to protect his own name. Caprion could imagine how that little announcement went. “My younger brother has failed again. We taught him all we could, and now his time has passed. You know what they say—no star can open a bad seed!”

  And then a chorus of men and women would have answered him: “And bad seeds bear no fruit!”

  Caprion shook his head slowly. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

  Florentine gazed at him, her head tilting to one side. Her eyes were a clear, pale yellow. Finally, she shrugged. “Sumas is a difficult brother to have, I imagine. His aura is red, heavy, lots of vitality and aggression. You're more of a light blue, though I see a lot of gold around your shoulders―a noble heart, it signifies. And around your head is a purple, grayish cloud. Something troubling you?”

  Caprion resisted the urge to grimace. "It's true that I failed the Singing," he said, moving to the couch, his feet weary from standing. Florentine glided forward gracefully and took the opposite chair. "But I don't understand why. The Madrigal said I 'fell.'"

  "Ah," Florentine said knowingly.

  Caprion waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. He continued. “I had a dream while I was Singing. It's never happened before. I mean, I've had similar dreams, but always while sleeping, not while in the chamber....” He went on to describe his position on Fury Rock, the black abyss before him, the stars, and then his wings. And then he described the terrible consuming darkness and the voice that felt like oil. Finally, he finished, “The Madrigal told me to seek your help.”

  Florentine nodded again. She set her tea down and lifted the tuning fork from her neck. “Strange indeed,” she commented. “This will only take a few minutes, but you need to sit completely still. Your nose might tickle. Don't scratch it.”

  Caprion nodded.

  She stood and moved next to him, then took a small metal pick from her belt and struck the tuning fork, holding it over Caprion's head. A strange sensation moved through him, a buzzing vibration, like a swarm of bees. His nasal cavity hummed and itched. He could feel a strange pressure between his eyes.

  She struck the tuning fork twice more over each shoulder, causing prickles of discomfort over his skin. Then she waited. She watched him closely, studying him, though Caprion knew she wasn't really seeing his body. She focused on something just above his head, just left of his arm, just below his hands.

  Finally, she sat back. “Your energy is fluctuating rapidly,” she said slowly.

  "What does that mean?" Caprion asked.

  She frowned. “Well...any physical object emits a steady vibration, a certain tone that defines it. For living things, particularly Harpies, sometimes great hardship can send a ripple through the aura, changing the vibration, changing the person. One can move to a higher pitch, or a lower one.” She paused. “It usually happens right after one finds their wings, before fully adjusting to their new magic. But that's obviously not the case.” Her eyes narrowed further. “Are you sure you didn't find your star...?”

  Caprion felt cold at the thought of his Singing, of the darkness that had swelled through his mind. He leaned back and folded his arms. “No,” he said bluntly. “I didn't. No star answered. I feel exactly the same as I always have.”

  Florentine frowned. “Well... something is blocking you, or interfering, I can’t say which because your aura is fluctuating so quickly. I think, perhaps, that the enemy is in your head, Caprion.” She paused. “The Singing Chamber is a place of very concentrated magic. It could be the chamber opened up some unknown fear you have yet to address. What do you think?”

  He raised an eyebrow. He had thought about the vision countless times, wondering what it meant, how he could free himself from it. It seemed more than some nameless fear from his past. Like most Harpies on the island, he lived a fairly peaceful life, despite intermittent bullying from Sumas. And none of this explained the voice. "No, it’s something else,” he said, certain of his instincts. “Something is wrong.”

  Florentine shrugged. She looked uncomfortable. "Where did you say this voice spoke from?"

  "Under the ground," Caprion murmured. "It said 'find me.'"

  Florentine’s face grew thoughtful. She waited a long time before answering, her eyes traveling around the room. Finally, she said, “The Matriarch is sleeping now, I'm sure you know. Her sleeping chambers are underground.”

  Caprion nodded. Their queen did not hold regu
lar sleeping patterns like most Harpies since she lived a much longer lifespan. She would remain awake for a portion of the year, and then sleep for a period before waking again. During these stages of dormancy, the Madrigal stood in charge. As she grew older, her period of rest became shorter and shorter, until she only needed a few hours a year―and then she would turn to light.

  He considered this. Their Matriarch had slept for the last three weeks and should awaken within the next few days.

  "She can send visions in her sleep, usually to the Madrigal," Florentine continued, echoing his thoughts. "It could be her voice you heard."

  "It was not a Harpy's voice,” Caprion replied earnestly. “It was dark. And vile."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying one of the Sixth Race? That seems unlikely…."

  "I know,” he sighed. “But it’s the only explanation I can think of. Could they be on the island? Why else would I hear them? Where would they hide?"

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Florentine waved her hand as though to shoo the idea aside. “Perhaps there is some other explanation.”

  Caprion shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “If you saw the vision, you’d agree with me. The voice is evil. It could not possibly be from another Harpy.”

  Florentine poised at the edge of her chair, tapping her foot on the ground. She remained quiet for a long moment, her eyes sliding past him, darting back and forth in thought. Her lips twisted in displeasure. Then she finally seemed to reach a conclusion. “Caprion,” she said slowly. “I must tell you something. It's a grave secret and I'm not allowed to share it, especially with fledglings. We keep certain truths hidden from those without wings, for your safety. If I tell you this, you cannot let anyone know where you heard it.”

  Caprion nodded, sitting up with attention.

  Florentine straightened and focused on the table, avoiding his eyes. "We do keep a small number of the Sixth Race imprisoned on this island. They are locked in a secret location. Our soldiers use them for practice. It's for tactical reasons…why have an army if they can't fight our greatest enemy?"

  Caprion’s eyes widened considerably, then narrowed in thought, a grim slant to his mouth. He motioned for her to continue, hoping he didn’t look as shocked as he felt.

  “Only the army knows the location of these prisons,” she said, glancing at the beaded doorway as though someone might overhear. “Caprion, if this voice is coming from deep in the earth, then it could be one of the prisoners. Don't go chasing after it. The Unnamed are skilled at deception, and they have varying levels of ability―some are quite dangerous. Don’t risk confronting them without your wings. You will have no defense.”

  "I have my sword," Caprion murmured. He barely heard her warning. He didn’t intend to fight any demons, but he knew he needed to confront the voice, before it’s too late to find my star.

  Florentine shook her head. “I doubt one of the Unnamed would be strong enough to interfere with your Singing. We should wait for the Matriarch to awaken and consult her.”

  “Where is this prison of the Unnamed?” he asked.

  Florentine’s eyes hardened. “I can’t tell you,” she said. “Do not seek it out. We must wait for the Matriarch to awaken. She will know what to do. It should only be a few more days, Caprion. Be patient.”

  Patient? Caprion thought incredulously. Each passing minute took him farther away from his star. He couldn’t put this off for another hour, let alone several days.

  His thoughts returned to Sumas. His brother must know of this practice ground; it explained where he disappeared to at night. He seemed to remember subtle references to it. He recalled Sumas speaking to their mother in low tones, saying he would go “below” for a while. He would cut short those conversations whenever Caprion entered the room.

  He suddenly wondered if these prisons were located underground, perhaps close to Fury Rock. He couldn't find them on his own, he would be too limited without wings, but if he could follow his brother somehow....

  "Don't consider it," Florentine cautioned again, her voice grave. "We'll consult the Matriarch after she awakens in a few days."

  If she awakens. Caprion couldn't speak the words aloud, but he felt suddenly cold with dread. The voice had threatened the entire Harpy race, after all. Even stars must die….

  He nodded again and stood up, too distracted to say farewell, his mind already busy making plans.

  * * *

  Caprion bought a bag of sweet-rolls from the market and returned to his hut around noon. At the very least, speaking to Florentine had given him a sense of purpose. He could ignore the many side-glances he received, the way people quieted when he approached, then broke into loud whispers behind his back. The guards on patrol were the worst; most had trained with Sumas or at least knew of the new captain. They stared down Caprion, stepping purposefully in his path, forcing him to walk around their large wings. He ignored them stoically, unable to do anything else. He kept a wary eye out for his brother, but didn't see him. As a Captain, his brother would be occupied with more important business than street patrol. As important as business can get on a small island, he thought ironically.

  Caprion took his usual detour home, traveling through the woods to give himself time to think. His thoughts wandered to the Unnamed and the secret underground prisons. He couldn’t wait around for the Matriarch to address his problem. No, he needed answers. The sooner the better.

  Finally, he arrived home. As he entered his single-room dwelling, he immediately caught the scent of sandalwood. He turned, surprised, to find a familiar figure sitting on his bed.

  "Talarin," he said. He almost dropped his bag on the ground. "It's good to see you," he stuttered.

  She smiled. Talarin had a narrow face with flat cheeks, an upturned nose and pointed chin. Intelligent lavender eyes greeted him. She wore her short hair braided around her head to fit under her soldier’s helm, which currently lay on the ground at her feet. She pressed her large wings tightly against her back to accommodate the small space. Her long sword rested nearby, next to the window. Full armor encased her sturdy figure. He assumed she had just finished her patrol.

  He and Talarin grew up next-door to each other, the same age. They attended the Academy together for several years before she earned her wings. She failed her first four Singings, and he remembered her fear, her trepidation. Now she wore a twelve-foot wingspan with a daring sort of irony. "Who knew?" she would often say over a mug of ambrosia. "I had the worst voice in the Academy. Always flat. Always flat! Remember when Mistress Settia threw her song book at me?"

  Two years ago, she gained her wings and became a soldier. Caprion hadn't seen much of her since―her life was busy, and she often spent time with other soldiers in the higher parts of the city. It truly felt like she had joined another world.

  "Thought you might need a bit of cheering up," she said, and lifted a wooden jug in her lap. Caprion guessed it wasn't water. He waited as she pulled two cups out of his tiny kitchen cupboard and poured them drinks. Orange juice laced with ambrosia, if he didn’t know any better.

  He would have liked to sit next to her, but her wings took up too much space, so he settled for a large cushion on the floor.

  "Cheers," she said with another mischievous smile. A dimple stood out on her left cheek. Then she downed the cup in a smooth swig.

  Caprion looked away. He took a sip and let the citrus flavor linger on his tongue. It was too sweet for his mood. He set down his cup, his mind returning to his conversation with Florentine.

  "I was shocked by the news," Talarin said absently, pouring herself another glass and gazing out the window. "I mean, your mother is a Le'Nasir. You, out of anyone, should have your wings by now." She looked at him. "The Madrigal must have your charts wrong. How else could your voice not reach the stars?" She shook her head in genuine bewilderment.

  Caprion shrugged. "I ask myself the same thing," he said. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I keep calling, I feel my voice
carry, but nothing answers back." Except a demon.

  Talarin nodded. “He must have your charts wrong,” she repeated. “You're calling at the wrong time of year. We need to fix this before it's too late!”

  Caprion sighed. “My mother spoke to him last year, and the year before that. He redid the charts twice and they were correct. I'm the one who is failing.”

  Talarin frowned at him, obviously at a loss for words. She paused and then changed the subject. “Your brother is a captain now,” she said. “A dawning star, that one. My mother thinks he’s going to be the next General.”

  Caprion snorted. “Trust me, no one believes that more than Sumas himself.”

  Talarin wrinkled her nose. “He’s really not so bad, you know, as a soldier. He would make a strong leader...though I certainly won’t miss him in my squad.”

  Caprion winced, remembering every time Sumas and his thug-friends had jumped him. A leader, indeed. “He was transferred to another squad?” he asked.

  “Yes, with his promotion. We’re all relieved. No more nasty morning temper. He’s in charge of the fledgling soldiers now. You know, the new wingers—the baby birds. I certainly don’t envy him that. New soldiers are the worst!”

  Caprion grinned at this. “But you just started training!”

  “Two years ago!” she laughed. “I’ll be starting my third year soon. They might transfer me to coastal patrol. I certainly hope so! Imagine the sunsets? It’s either that or the jailhouse, and the jail gets boring fast.”

  Something about her words caught his attention. He shifted. Then he said slowly, “By the way, Talarin, I heard a rumor at market this morning.…”

  She looked at him questioningly.

  “Eh, this might sound strange,” he added, and rubbed his neck self-consciously, remembering Florentine’s warning. “I heard there is a secret prison on the island. It’s supposedly full of the Unnamed. Is that true?”

  Talarin paused just long enough to seem unnatural, then she glanced out the window, as though someone might be listening outside. She dropped her voice. “I can’t really say,” she murmured. Then she frowned. “How do you know about this?”