Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (50 page)

He lived in the worker's district, a part of the city reserved for laborers and novices who had yet to gain their wings. The buildings were small, circular and domed, made of chalky white limestone. The surface of the stone was easily carved. Generations upon generations had decorated each of the houses, etching artistic patterns and symbols across their facades, or scrawled blessings and poems. Some of the huts had been built before the War of the Races, when the great island of Aerobourne had flown through the sky, hovering across the mainland, the pinnacle of Harpy civilization.

Now the great floating island lay in a series of isles, scattered across the ocean, a cracked shard of its former self. The city of Asterion, once the capital of Harpy society, had grown old. Flagstone paths had fallen to disrepair, cracked and split by weeds, tree roots and wildflowers. Untamed foliage crawled down alleyways, up windowsills and across the road.

Caprion dashed down the pathway outside his hut. He followed it over a slight hill and through a small patch of forest that separated the novice district from the main city. A second figure joined him—Esta, his laughing younger sister, who matched his pace easily, her feet barely touching the ground. She was only thirteen, but she had gained her wings three months ago in the early Spring. They gleamed at her back, two small figments of light, each about three feet in length and a foot wide. Small wings, those of a seamstress, horticulturist or tutor. She currently worked with the younger Harpies at the Academy, teaching them to sing.

“Sleepy head!” she teased. “It's like you don't even want to fly!”

“Quiet, little bird,” he grunted between breaths.

She stuck her tongue out at him, still laughing. Her long hair was the color of pearl, shining in the wind, falling almost to her waist. She had decorated it with bluebells in honor of his Singing—the only one who had bothered to attend.

“If I hadn't come to find you, you would have missed the entire Singing!” she said heartily.

“I was awake,” Caprion grumbled.

Like their older brother Sumas, Esta had gained her wings at a young age. She found her star on her first attempt at the Singing—a small, yellow orb of variable light that flickered and flared in the pre-dawn sky. After finding her star, the light of its magic had transferred into her body, manifesting as wings, figments of energy that sprouted from her back. She could now practice true Light magic, not just simple singing spells.

Caprion tried not to feel a bubble of jealousy at the thought. He was nineteen; five times he had searched for his star in the Singing Chamber, and had yet to find it. He was getting older now. People were beginning to talk.
Perhaps he is not pure enough,
some whispered.
The God of Light has shunned him. He will remain wingless
. Wingless, meaning one without a star, without the ability to fly. It was a terrible thing to fail at the Singing. Those without wings were excluded from many parts of the city, which could only be reached by flight. They often worked at night while the city slept, cleaning the streets, mending buildings or serving the more prominent families. It was a life-sentence, shameful and uncompromising.

This would be his sixth attempt in the Singing Chamber—if he could make it on time. He could already hear the Madrigal's voice in his head.
The stars are ever moving, fledgling... the sky is different now than it was an hour ago. Your lateness may have cost you another year.

Depending on a Harpy's hour of birth, the Madrigal could predict where his star would be, what time of day he would find it, what season, what hemisphere of sky...but five times now, the Madrigal had predicted, and his star had not shone. It left a hollow feeling at the base of his throat. Perhaps his Song was not strong enough, his voice did not carry across the vast emptiness of the heavens, and could not reach his star...or perhaps...perhaps the rumors were right. Perhaps he did not have one.

No, he couldn't think such disturbing thoughts, not before his Singing.

He entered the main streets of the city. Asterion had once been a grand spectacle of ornate architecture, and it still showed. All of the buildings were carved of gleaming quarts and white limestone, towering domed structures interconnected by bridges and balconies, arches and entryways with hardly any doors. The framework stretched up and up; parts of the city were only accessible to those who could fly.

The windows were of gleaming crystal. Rainbows refracted from their depths, some strong enough to fall across the street, as bright as woven banners. Ancient mosaics and statues decorated the walls and archways, symbols of stars, moons, and patterns that mimicked the ocean and wind.

Yet the wilderness had crept up over the years. Trees sprouted between the flagstones, small saplings bearing fruit or berries. Vines crawled up the sides of balconies, cascading into the street. Grass and weeds abounded, filling flower pots, framing tall columns and porch steps.

A few familiar faces called out to him. Serrit, the baker, an elderly man with broad, stout wings. Tulius, a young soldier who patrolled the streets, his wings broader than most, spanning almost twelve feet. Caprion waved to them but kept running. His brother Sumas was a soldier—his wings had been large enough, a sign of his magic, of the strength of his star. He was the pride of their family, both the eldest and the strongest.

Caprion was relieved he didn't see his brother on the streets. The last thing he needed now was a lecture.

Finally, finally Caprion turned off the main street onto the Road of Remnants. Statues of ancient warriors and diplomats lined the thoroughfare, some in fierce armor with swords in hand, others in great robes that carried parchments and books. He passed the statues quickly, having seen them countless times. The city fell back behind him. The road would lead him up a great hill, to its peak where the Singing Chamber resided.

Esta fell back, calling out her good wishes. She would have to wait at the border of the city for his return. Her own wings could offset his voice, create distortion, making it impossible for him to reach his star.

The Chamber had existed long before the city of Asterion ever came to be. A great wealth of sunstone formed a giant bowl, carved deep out of the center of a hill, magnifying all sound and light. Once inside the Chamber, a Harpy's voice could be cast far above the world, through the sky, into the realms beyond. In this way, a Harpy could find his wings.

Gasping and panting, he finally reached the peak of the hill. The gates of the Chamber stood before him, tall iron structures twisted into intricate patterns. He paused at the gates, leaning over, trying to regain his breath. Harpy cities were large and sprawled, with wide alleys and massive roads. It was much easier to fly from one destination to another. Unlucky for him, he had to travel on foot.

When he looked back up, the blue robe of the Madrigal greeted him. Caprion bowed his head again, both to catch his breath and show respect. His face flushed. He was almost two hours late—he wouldn't be surprised if the Madrigal told him to go home.

“Rise,” the man said briefly.

Caprion straightened, wishing he had a minute more to rest. The Madrigal was very tall, very thin. His hair was long and billowing, pure white, and his face showed lines around the mouth, sun damage and creases. His skin had a slight glow about it, a sheen hardly visible to the eyes. As Harpies aged, they eventually dissolved into light—the glow was a great indicator of his years. Madrigals lived longer than most. Some said that he was a thousand years or older. He had lived since before the War of the Races—before their current Matriarch even came to power.

“I'm sorry-” Caprion started.

“No time to speak, my boy,” the Madrigal said. “We shall discuss it when you are done. The hour has grown late. You must sing before the sky changes further. Have you prepared your Song?”

Caprion nodded. Last year, the Madrigal suggested he practice a new Song, since his original one was not working. It had been a huge embarrassment. His mother hadn't spoken to him for weeks, muttering always to herself,
“I taught him to sing well. He knows how to use his voice. What is wrong with my boy?”
She had prayed to the One Star over and over again. Finally Caprion had left the house, moving into the novice district where the orphans and laborers resided. He couldn't stand to hear her pray anymore. He couldn't even look at her face.

He entered the outer halls of the Singing Chamber. Unlike the rest of the city, the hall around the chamber was built of thick granite. The rock was dense and heavy to help magnify the sound. Usually the halls were full of fledgling novices and apprentice singers, practicing their Songs, learning about the sacred bond between Harpy and star. But this morning the halls were silent, eerily so.

Caprion sighed. Most likely the Madrigal had requested it. Probably to help him concentrate, but it only reminded him that he was different—close to becoming an outcast. All of his friends had gained their wings and moved on to other pursuits, becoming soldiers, medics, song-casters and architects. Some were already expecting their firstborn children. A Harpy's life was long, but only if one found their wings. Otherwise, he'd be lucky to last a few decades. His days of childhood were almost over. Then it would be too late.

The Madrigal led him without ceremony to the very end of the hall, where a tall statue of the God of Light stood. The statue was carved of white marble and very large, more than fifteen feet. The God of Light's face was beautifully masculine, tilted upward toward the sky. In one hand, he held a long scepter, the symbol of a sun perched at its top, raised slightly above his head. In the other, he held a long stone sword.

Before the God of Light was a metal tuning fork placed on a marble dish. Caprion took his place before the statue, lowering himself to one knee. The Madrigal picked up the fork and struck it firmly on the side of the dish. A loud, pure tone resonated from the metal, echoing around the empty halls. Then he turned and held it above Caprion's head.

Caprion could feel the vibrations resonating off of his skin, like a small shower of rain. “
May His light shine upon you, may His voice speak your name,
” the Madrigal prayed. “
May the shadows flee, may the mind know peace, may the heart speak clearly
,” he struck the tuning fork one last time. “
God of Light, we ask that you listen, that you accept this Song as an offering. Show your son, Le'Nasir Caprion, his star.
” He struck the fork one last time, the sound resounding off of the granite stone and vaulted ceiling. The tone was perfect, pure, and Caprion felt his bones resonate, his skin tingle in sudden awe. He bowed his head, whispering his own prayer to the One Star, hoping it would be enough, that he would be heard.

The sound faded. Caprion climbed to his feet somberly. Contrary to the Madrigal's prayer, anxiety clamped down on his stomach. It was his sixth try. He wouldn't have many chances after this. Once he reached the age of eighteen, he would no longer be a child. The magic would fade from his body and he would be too old to find his star.

The Madrigal led him behind the statue to a small archway. It opened into a long, dark hall which led downward, sloping through the rock. This hall would lead him to the Singing Chamber. The Madrigal would wait for him to return with his wings.

“Remove your robes,” the Madrigal ordered.

Caprion did so, slipping the smooth silk from his pale body. He was young and strong from daily sword practice, his muscles taught and defined, though he had yet to reach the width and height of a fully grown Harpy. His family carried a strong bloodline and he would probably reach over six feet.

The girls all gushed over his brother Sumas, following him around, gossiping about his brother's latest escapades. They said he was the most handsome in the city. It grated on Caprion's nerves—his brother carried himself with a certain vain confidence that begged to be knocked down—but without Caprion's wings, he had no way of competing. He might as well be a cripple. The girls shied away from him in the streets, averted their eyes and cut short their conversations.

After removing his robe, Caprion bowed one last time to the Madrigal, who placed his hand atop his head, a final blessing. Then he started down the long hallway.

* * *

CHAPTER 2

The Singing Chamber was a massive bowl scooped out of the earth. Carved of sunstone, the shining white rock absorbed the sunlight and returned it ten-fold. It was also a powerful conductor for sound vibrations. The Harpies used sunstones for everything, from lighting rooms to weapon-crafting and jewelry.

After entering the Chamber, he slid the crystalline door shut. It became like a piece of the wall, perfectly fit into the rock. The sun shone strongly above him, close to high noon, and the stone radiated with warmth.

He walked across the wide base of the bowl, a great stadium in length, hundreds of yards. Then he sat at its center, at the very lowest point. The floor had been indented here by hundreds of thousands of Harpies who had come before him.

He sat for a moment, gathering himself. Then he turned his head back, filling his lungs with sweet, fresh air. He felt his skin prickle. Warmth spread through his belly and lungs. He drew the Song from deep within himself, forming in his solar plexus, then flowing up through his chest and throat like a bubbling mountain stream. This was the cornerstone of Harpy magic—not only their wings, but their ability to Sing, to manipulate nature with merely the sound of their voice.