Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (51 page)

The aria burst from him in a warm alto, lowering and rising, loosening his vocal chords. The wave of sound curled through the bowl of the Chamber, spreading outward like a ring of water. And as the Song spread, Caprion felt himself travel with it; his mind joined the music, carried outward and upward to the sky. The melody was bolder than his last attempt; stronger, more confident, insistent. He paused at the end of the first refrain, pulled in another massive breath, and continued. He felt as though the Song wasn't just coming from his throat, but bleeding through his own body, seeping from his skin. He became part of it, completely consumed.

* * *

He stood at Fury Rock, but the stars were gone. The wind remained deathly still. He shifted, and the stiff grass crunched beneath his feet. Frost.

His eyes searched the sky for any kind of light. Where were his wings? His star? An impenetrable darkness greeted him. It stood like a solid thing, a curtain concealing some lethal presence filled with unknown intention. And he, alone on the ridge, open and vulnerable. The sight struck him deeply. Here, on the rock, his star had vanished—and there was nothing left to find.

Your kind is dying,
the voice spoke.

He looked down. It seemed to pour from the rocks, resonating from beneath his boots. He shifted uncomfortably, crushing more grass, uncertain.

Little lights, slowly fading. Even stars must die....

Caprion stepped back, alarmed. “Who are you?” he called, searching the heavy, suffocating blackness.

I am the one who will finish your kind.

Caprion paused. The voice held a threatening edge, almost mocking. The hair stood on the back of his neck. “Where are you?” he called, his eyes searching blindly, gazing over the cliff at his feet. No ocean, no bottom—nothing.

Down,
the voice murmured, echoing.
Down, down in the earth....

“How are you speaking to me?”

The real question, fledgling, is why you can hear me. I have been speaking a long time, but Harpies are not good listeners.

“You...” Caprion turned, gazing in all directions frantically, eyes narrowed. He felt frightened and his anger rose to hide it. “You're of the Dark God's children, aren't you?”

No response. He felt like he was being watched. Caprion knelt, putting his hand to the ground where the voice seemed to emit the strongest. “What do you want from me?”

Find me and I will show you.

He frowned. “Where?”

Find me...down, down in the earth....

* * *

Caprion's eyes snapped open. The sky above him was orange with sunset, his throat parched, his skin burned by the sun. How long had it been?

Across the bowl, he heard the slide of the stone door. He turned to face it, squinting against the brightness of the sunstone. He recognized the Madrigal's blue robes. The old man stood next to the door, a thin figure in the distance, his hands clasped before him, waiting.

Caprion climbed slowly to his feet.
My feet.
He looked down at the ground, then glanced over his shoulder, his heart sinking.
No wings. No flight.
It filled him with dismay. His mind hadn't entered the realm of starlight and sound—no, it had filled with blackness, as empty as the pit of a grave.

Leaving the Singing Chamber felt like the longest walk of his life. He approached the Madrigal, his feet heavy as stone, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. He couldn't bear to look up. As he passed, the Madrigal's eyes followed him, but no words were spoken, no hand offered in comfort.

They entered the granite halls. Caprion paused to gather his robes and dress himself. The Madrigal joined him as soon as he tied his belt. The old man stood before him, blocking his path to the exit.

Caprion dropped his eyes, staring resolutely at the floor. “I've let you down,” he murmured, gritting his teeth. “I...I tried my best.”

“You fell,” the Madrigal said abruptly.

Caprion blinked and raised his eyes. “What?”

The Madrigal had a grim look on his face, which slowly softened in thought. “You collapsed. Your mind did not travel upon waves of sound, but sank to somewhere else. What happened?”

Caprion stared in surprise. After a speechless moment, he muttered, “I was at Fury Rock. There was...blackness.” He hesitated before mentioning the voice. What would the Madrigal think? If the Dark God had spoken to him, then it was a sure sign that the God of Light had abandoned him, and he would never receive his wings.

“Speak to Florentine,” the Madrigal finally said. “A heaviness taints your Song, making it ineffective. It could be lack of clarity, a curse, or a spell from one of the Unnamed. Such things exist. See Florentine tomorrow and perhaps she can get to the bottom of it.”

Caprion nodded numbly. Florentine was a soothsayer and fortune teller who also happened to be excellent at Resonating, a method by which one could detect imperfections in the aura by sound. She would inspect the energy around his body and detect any abnormalities that could be inflicted by magic. All Harpies had a pronounced aura of light around their physical bodies that often caused vibrations in the air; it was most visible to those who could Resonate.

The Madrigal stepped to one side and Caprion rushed past him down the corridor, eager to return to sunlight, to regroup in a quiet place and get hold of his tumultuous thoughts. The worst possible scenario had come to pass. No stars had greeted him; an unimaginable failure. There was no other explanation: the God of Light had turned away His face.

Caprion felt stricken, abandoned, completely uncertain. Somewhere in the Singing Chamber over the last four hours, he had lost a piece of himself. He could never return to yesterday, to a time of hope and infinite outcomes. Few failed this many times. The Madrigal wouldn't say it, but he knew the truth—he would never gain his wings. He would have to deal with this new reality, accept his fate, become someone with different plans and different understandings. It was too much to bear.

As he approached the Road of Remnants, he saw a familiar silhouette waiting by the nearest statue; the small, slight form of Esta. He sighed, wishing he could turn invisible, or that a bolt of lightning would smite him from the earth.

As he neared, he saw the smile falter on her face. It was enough. His throat tightened, mimicking her disappointment, and he clenched his jaw.

“Oh, Caprion,” she murmured. Her gaze flickered over his shoulder and then back to his face as though witnessing a ghastly deformity. “The Madrigal must have made a mistake, a miscalculation. I mean, six years now? It must be the wrong day. He needs to redo your charts.”

“He already has. They're accurate,” Caprion said gruffly. He paused next to her, his face turned away. “Don't tell Sumas.”

She looked up at him fearfully. “What do you think he'll do?” she murmured.

Caprion frowned grimly. Last year, Sumas had jumped him after the Singing and broke both of his collar bones and four ribs.
“If you shame our family again, I will crush your throat,”
he had threatened, choking young Caprion on the ground, pressing his skull against a hard rock.

Caprion had passed out like that, certain of his own death. For the next week, he had kept to his hut, avoiding the city. Enough gossip already circulated—he didn't need more.

Caprion's eyes turned to Asterion, following the Road of Remnants to the distant buildings. The sky darkened. Entering the city at night would be risky, and without his wings, he would have to take the longer route through the streets. Sumas would most likely jump him in the dark.

“Have you spoken to him yet?” he asked.

“No,” Esta said. “But he knows you were late this morning. He will find me soon enough and ask.”

Caprion couldn't ask her to lie. Sumas was a bully, and Esta was not their true sister—she came from his mother's second husband, her current mate, whom Caprion treated with indifference. His true father had died several years ago, when he and Sumas were still young fledglings.

Sumas made a lot of empty threats, but Caprion expected him to follow through on this one. Ever since they were young, his brother had competed with him at every turn, showing a coldness and brutality that went beyond Caprion's understanding. Sumas had their father's pride; he liked stories of war and glory, of conquest and winning. Caprion had their mother's practical nature, an introverted mind and rich inner world. He often dwelled on his studies, making connections between ideas, seeking knowledge and wisdom.

As a swordsman he might be better than Sumas—faster, at least—but he didn't have his brother's physical brute strength, and knew in his heart that he wasn't a leader. No, Sumas was fit to be a soldier and someday a General. His brother took charge of every situation and never backed down.

Caprion couldn't even get his wings.

“I'm going to take a walk,” he said brusquely, and stepped past his sister, leaving the road for the woods. Sumas would be looking for him tonight. Better to avoid the city altogether.

* * *

Caprion circled around the woods to his hut, taking an extra hour on his walk home. His thoughts lingered on the black dream, the oily voice that slithered up from the ground.
Your race is dying.
What did it mean? Could it be a figment of his troubled mind? True, the Harpy race was struggling; birthrates were on the decline and Asterion was startlingly underpopulated. But the voice seemed to suggest a larger plot; a greater enemy. Who? One of the Unnamed?

It was the most likely answer. Harpies were children of Wind and Light and the sworn enemy of the Unnamed, the Sixth Race, the Dark God's children. In each of the Sixth Race lived a shard of the Dark God. They were demons walking the earth, manifestations of His presence. It was the duty of the First Race to rid them from the world of Wind and Light.

Caprion shook his head, pressing through a thick tangle of jasmine and poppy. No, it was just a dream. It had to be. He had never heard of someone having a vision in the Singing Chamber. He didn't think it was even possible.

He would need to speak to Florentine.

Caprion paused in the fringe of trees behind his hut. His home stood at the very edge of the builders' district, far from the glowing sunstone lanterns and flagstone streets of Asterion proper. Usually he liked the isolation, but now it made him nervous.

He searched the darkness, listening intently; his eyes weren't good in the shadows and he had walked home based on memory alone, following a familiar deer trail. Still, a Harpy's wings usually glowed softly against the night, and he didn't see any figures standing around his hut, nor any light from inside. No one in sight.

Caprion stepped from the treeline toward his small round house, his thoughts on his bed, the soft feather mattress and worn-in pillow, the quilt his mother had knitted three years ago to accommodate his growing legs. He felt exhausted from the whole ordeal, his mind the worst off. A headache was developing behind his eyes.

Suddenly, someone stepped from behind his neighbor's wall. Caprion recognized the wings immediately, over twelve feet in span, not quite thirteen, though his brother often rounded up in front of pretty girls or superior officers.

Caprion paused mid-step, coming to a hesitant stop, fear settling in his gut, awakening his senses. No sense in running—Sumas could fly much faster. He searched his brother's face, illuminated by the soft white glow of his wings. Sumas was still a young Harpy and his skin didn't carry the same rich sheen as the Madrigal.

They stared at each other, tension settling in the air.

“Brother,” Caprion finally murmured and nodded in respect.

“I'm getting promoted,” Sumas said abruptly, his voice a rich baritone. It matched his wide shoulders and barrel-chest. His hair was short and shock-white, his jaw heavy and square, his eyes the same hue as Caprion's own.

“Congratulations,” Caprion said softly. “You'll be a Captain?”

Sumas nodded, unable to keep the proud tilt from his chin.

Another long pause. Caprion cleared his dry throat. “Did you only come to tell me that?”

“No,” Sumas said solidly. “I came to see if my little brother failed again.”

Caprion braced himself, wishing he had his sword, but it rested against his bedpost inside the hut. Sumas noted his distress and grinned, white teeth glinting in the night, and crossed his arms in front of him. “Don't worry, little brother. I expected this.”

Caprion waited.

“Mother was very distraught to hear the news from the Madrigal. She spoke with him just after your failure. She sends a message to you.”

Caprion watched Sumas warily. “What?”

“That she feels that it is her fault. It will be a while until she can face you again.”

Caprion's hands clenched into fists. He wanted to cringe. Since last year, she had pulled back from him. He knew she was hurt; helpless to fix the situation. Their conversations always wandered back to his wings, to his Song, to the next Singing and his future. She worried about him incessantly and it had pushed him from her house, and now driven a wedge of bitterness between them that grew with each passing season. Losing his wings wouldn’t just steal his future—it would take away his family. Perhaps Esta would remain by his side, but the others would certainly keep their distance, forever estranged.