Caprion's Wings Read online

  “Alive is not enough,” he said. “She must be protected. If she must be imprisoned, put her in the gilded jail, far out of the public eye. Please. I cannot leave her in the dungeons with Sumas.”

  The Matriarch raised a brow. Her lips drew into a thin line. Then, finally, she nodded. “That is possible,” she said.

  Caprion’s eyes fell to Moss. What would she think of his decision? What if she hated him for it? He couldn’t expect her to trust him after this. “I need a night to think about it,” he said quietly. “You will have my answer in the morning.”

  The Matriarch looked mildly surprised. She obviously wasn’t used to demands. She stared at him for a long moment, then conceded with another nod of her head. “Fine,” she said tightly. “Take the girl home if you like. Discuss it with her, even. I will expect you both here at dawn. Don’t keep me waiting. I will address the city at midday.” Then she turned away abruptly, walking back across the room. “Now leave me to prepare my speech. I’m sure you remember the way out.”

  Her dismissal sat heavy on the air. Caprion turned silently to the chaise and lifted the small girl into his arms. Then he turned and hurried from the room, gliding lightly on his wings, her words still ringing in his ears.

  * * *

  Caprion landed softly on the ground before his hut. Flying still felt strange; he couldn’t believe how fast he could travel from the Matriarch’s home back to the novice district, a journey that would have taken an hour or more on foot. He paused, gazing at his domed hut. Wave-like patterns adorned the exterior walls and a single, circular window faced the road. It felt like he hadn’t been home in a week, though only a day ago he had slept in his own bed and traveled with Talarin to the underground dungeons. He half expected Sumas to appear beyond his neighbor’s wall, as he had after the failed Singing, but the neighborhood remained silent and still. All of the city would be celebrating tonight. He was thankful for the lack of prying eyes.

  Moss stirred slightly in his arms. Her one good eye flicked open.

  “Where are we?” she rasped. Her throat sounded painful.

  “My home,” he replied.

  She moved her lips as though to speak, but her eye closed again, the words fading.

  He carried her inside and cast out a net of vibrations, dimly illuminating two sunstones on the wall. He didn’t make them too bright; he didn’t want to irritate her good eye. Then he settled Moss on his bed. He stood over her, wondering what to do first. It had been a while since he had cared for an injured person. Three years ago, his sister came down with a lung infection; he had tended her day and night, but that was a far cry from Moss’s wounds.

  He set water to boil and dampened a cloth, then began washing the blood from her face and neck, her cut lip, her scuffed cheek, her caked nails. He cleaned every surface of skin he could see. Surprisingly, her wounds seemed to be healing already. Another trait of the Sixth Race? It must be, he thought. He wrapped the worst of the scrapes in sterile strips of linen, hoping to keep them clean. With the same linen, he wrapped a heavy bandage around her left eye to protect it. He knew it would never heal. She would be partially blind for life.

  When the water had boiled, he brewed a cup of herbal tea, rich in willow bark and valerian root to ease her discomfort. He held the cup to her lips and tempted her to drink. She managed to get half of it down before she choked, coughing, then slumped back on the bed.

  He hesitated over her, wondering what to do next. Her clothes were dirty and stained and she needed a full bath, but she was too old to be cared for like a little girl. He wished he could ask someone for help—Talarin, Esta, perhaps Florentine—but he knew they would refuse. Still, he couldn’t leave her in her prison garb. He gently turned Moss onto her stomach and cut off her soiled shirt. Then he wrapped her in one of his novice robes, averting his eyes, touching her skin as little as possible. When she was fully decent, he rolled her onto her back again, adjusting the pillows around her until satisfied. It was all he could do.

  Then he sat down in his chair, his eyes turning to the dark window, pondering his conversation with the Matriarch. For the first time, he truly considered the days to come. News of his six wings would spread across the island. He would garner much attention. Young fledglings would follow him in the streets, pestering him with questions. He might be asked to speak in front of the Academy, if not the whole city. The Matriarch would have duties for him, no doubt. She had a certain fondness for pomp and circumstance. He didn’t like the idea of any of it. All he wanted to do was hide in his little hut, far away from curious eyes and wagging tongues.

  And where would Moss be? Locked in a jail cell? Guilt arose at the thought. He imagined her future: what would happen three years from now? Four years? A child could be hidden, but she would be a young woman before long, and then how would he protect her? Such questions left him grim-faced and worried. Her trust in him would wane over time. She would doubt his intentions. He didn’t know when he would be able to return her to the mainland.

  After a few minutes, his skin prickled and he glanced at the bed. Moss gazed at him through her one good eye. He frowned at her bruised face and felt a surge of bitter anger toward Sumas and his men. He couldn’t stand seeing her like this. Her black hair was now cropped jaggedly around her head, falling in short, uneven chunks. They must have done that just to torment her—a bully’s idea of fun.

  “Why did you bring me here?” Moss croaked.

  Caprion sighed. “There have been complications,” he began, then stopped. He didn’t know how to explain.

  He expected her to accuse him of not fulfilling his promise, but she remained silent. He saw a strange sadness on her face. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?” she murmured. Her breath wheezed in her lungs.

  His throat constricted. “No,” he said, and pulled his chair next to the bed, taking her fragile hand in his. Two of her fingers were bruised and sprained. “I won’t let that happen. You’re safe here.”

  She gave him a wry half-smile. “I heard some of what the Matriarch said,” she said. “Old crone.”

  He grinned unexpectedly. “She is an old crone,” he agreed. “Set in her ways. And cunning. Dangerous.”

  Moss released a long, slow breath. “She doesn’t want me to return to the mainland…and I don’t want to, either.”

  Caprion blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m dead either way,” she rasped. “If I go to the mainland, what life awaits me? I was already unwanted by my people, and now, without my sight….” She frowned and took a moment to breathe, her face tight. “Don’t throw your life away just to leave me on a beach somewhere. That’s stupid.”

  Caprion paused speechlessly. Then a small smile curved his lips. “Stupid?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Most people would agree.”

  Caprion grinned in quiet amusement. He was thinking more along the lines of honorable, perhaps heroic, but stupid worked just as well, especially when put in that context.

  “You realize…” he began, his thoughts returning to his conversation with the Matriarch. “If you stay here on the island, you will have to be imprisoned. The Matriarch won’t allow you to roam free.”

  Moss grimaced at him. “Do you think I’m that naive?” she asked.

  His lips twitched. “No.”

  She drew her hand away, then placed it over his, a way of asserting herself. “I never really thought you’d get me out,” she said. Her one good eye fastened on him, sharp and focused. “I didn’t expect you to try this hard. After you helped me escape the gilded prisons, I thought we’d seen the last of each other. You don’t owe me any of this, Caprion. You’ve helped me far more than I could ever help you. You should forget about me.”

  Caprion winced at her words. She seemed so strong and certain at that moment, confident beyond her years. He almost believed her resolve, but her grip felt hollow, her fingers weak. She needed him, but she didn’t want to admit it. She was pushing him away before he could abando
n her, offering him an easy way out. He wouldn’t take it.

  “I could never do that,” he murmured. “I will get you away from this place, Moss, but we might have to wait a while. Everything became so much more complicated than I thought….I didn’t expect to become a seraphim. It’s not common for me to have six wings. I have a duty to my people; I can’t just leave them….”

  Moss’s face twisted at that.

  “It doesn’t change where we stand,” he tried to assure her. “I won’t abandon you to Sumas and his men. What they did to you….” Caprion hardened at the thought. “The Matriarch said we can keep you in the gilded prisons. You will be comfortable there, at least for a while, until I can find a way to get you off the island.”

  “And you believe she will leave me alone?” Moss raised a skeptical brow.

  “I will make her, one way or another.” He knew that with certainty. Still, he would have to be careful. As a seraphim, a lot of eyes would be watching him. If Asterion’s citizens discovered he harbored a slave, they would try to kill her and Sumas would torment her if given the chance. His brother was a vindictive man, and if the Matriarch forgave Caprion’s transgressions, Sumas would try to inflict his own kind of punishment. His brother would take his revenge the only way he could.

  Then again, perhaps not, Caprion thought. He remembered his last resonating command: “If she dies, you take your own life.” His brother had crumbled to his knees and coughed up blood. Sumas might be worse off than Caprion thought; his brother never came to the Matriarch’s chamber and still hadn’t visited Caprion’s hut. Could Sumas possibly be lying in a hospice somewhere, recovering?

  The thought left him coldly satisfied. Perhaps his brother could be stopped from hurting Moss.

  “What is it?” Moss asked, watching him through her one hooded eye. “You have a look.”

  A thin smile played on Caprion’s face. “These wings come with some benefits, you know,” he said wryly. He could command the soldiers not to speak of her or touch her. If Sumas left them alone, then Moss might be able to hide for quite a long time without being noticed. She was of the Sixth Race, after all, and skilled at secrecy. “If you stay in the gilded prisons, I can keep you safe from the Harpies in the city. Eventually, when all of this settles down with the Matriarch, I will return you to the mainland as promised. You will have time to heal from your wounds and to become strong.”

  Moss hesitated. She became contemplative, her face drawing into the composed mask of an assassin. They train them so young, he thought.

  “I don’t need your promises,” she said bluntly. “I’ll do what I must to survive. I can keep hidden. But if I have to defend myself, I will.”

  He stared at her, taken aback. “I know,” he said.

  She didn’t seem to expect that. She searched his face. “Even if it meant hurting one of your people?”

  Caprion gave her a measured look. “I don’t plan to put you in that position,” he said, “but if you have to defend yourself, I expect it will be for a good reason.”

  She regarded him quietly.

  Caprion sighed. “Doubt me if you like. I don’t need your trust. I am helping you because it’s the right thing to do. And I wish I could help the rest of the children in those prisons, but I must be careful around the Matriarch. I need to gain her trust as well. It will make all of this much easier.” He shook his head. “I need to fix what my race has done and I’ll begin with you.”

  Moss studied him carefully. He wondered what she saw there. He almost forgot her youth; her gaze seemed far too solid, too penetrating. Then, after a long, hard moment, he saw her weakness slip in. She glanced down, sucking in a short, painful breath. “Would you visit me?” she asked quietly.

  His eyes softened. He pressed her hand gently. “Yes,” he replied. He didn’t have to think twice.

  She smiled at that, her ragged hair falling across her face. “I can tell when you’re being sincere,” she said with quiet humor. “You get a wrinkle right between your eyebrows, like you really want me to believe you.”

  He grinned at her. “Well, I really do.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “I heard much of what the Matriarch said. I expected it to come to this....” Bitterness crept into her voice. “Lock me up, then. Keep me hidden. I will cooperate with you if that’s what you’re waiting to hear.”

  Caprion bit his lip. He wished he knew how to reassure her. But he couldn’t expect her to trust him blindly, not after her experience in the blood-chambers. She would see his true intentions in time. “It’s all I can do for now,” he murmured.

  “I know,” she repeated.

  Silence fell between them. It seemed empty somehow. Hopeless. Caprion didn’t know what else he could say; her situation was still bleak, and she was too cautious to fully trust him.

  He started to stand up, but she caught his wrist. Her hand moved fast despite her wounds. He looked down at her in surprise.

  “Please,” she murmured, and that vulnerability slipped in again. “Stay with me. Just sit here.”

  “I will,” he said. He settled back in his chair, adjusting so he could prop his feet up on the mattress, then he folded his hand over hers again. “You should rest. Try not to worry. You’ll be back on the mainland soon.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” she muttered, her one eye closing.

  A slow smile tugged at Caprion’s lips, but he didn’t reply.

  He stayed like that until Moss fell asleep. He doused the glow of the sunstones and settled back in his chair, his eyes becoming heavy. He thought of Sumas, of the Matriarch, of his new wings and his looming responsibilities. Tomorrow he would be declared the first seraphim to rise since the War of the Races. Tonight was the last night he could just be Caprion. And it seemed strangely appropriate that he would share it with Moss—the one person who had seen him at his weakest, who had given him the courage to find his wings.

  He didn’t know for sure if his plan would work. He didn’t know what the Matriarch might do or how things might change in the coming weeks. But as long as Moss remained on the island, he would keep a close watch over her. One day he would fulfill his vow. Of that, he was certain.

  And now, a special preview of Ferran's Map, available Summer 2014!

  Ferran's Map

  (The Cat's Eye Chronicles, Book 4)

  by

  T. L. Shreffler

  The Dawn Seeker sailed upriver, long and sturdy in the water, a three-masted schooner with billowing white sails and over a dozen cabins. The ship traveled up the Little Rain, a small tributary of the Crown’s Rush, headed inland from the ocean. Early morning fog cast the world in gray, brooding light. Tall trees loomed over the riverbanks, fading in and out of the mist. The Little Rain traveled through flat marshland and dense forest, lined by juniper thickets and bristling blackberry bushes. The rainy season made the water deep and wide.

  Sora dangled her legs over the crow’s nest. She always took the dawn watch. She liked the tension in the forest at daybreak, the birds twittering in excited song, the first hint of silver light.

  The crow’s nest of the Dawn Seeker sat high upon the central mast, dozens of feet above the ground. At this height, Sora could see Captain Silas’ crew stirring on deck through the mist. The night-workers filed inside while fresh crewmen took their stations, adjusting sails and manning the wheel, calling out to one another, laughing. She could smell whiffs of fresh bread drifting up from the galley. Her stomach let out a sudden, loud complaint. She wanted nothing more than to climb down the ropes and eat breakfast. She felt stiff and cold, her woolen cloak damp with moisture from her three hour watch.

  But I can’t leave yet, she thought. When Captain Silas first assigned her to the crow’s nest, he gave her a long lecture about sailing upriver: the danger of opposing currents, lightning, driftwood, debris, tree limbs and rocks in the shallows. The ship’s safety relied on a good lookout…and so breakfast would have to wait.

  Her eyes drifted to a figure on the d
eck below. At first glance, he appeared to be lying prostrate on the wooden boards, but a closer look revealed a series of short, quick press-ups. His hot breath misted the air. His hands were placed evenly with his shoulders, palms flat against the deck, back rigidly straight. She didn’t know how many presses a man could do in one sitting; she had counted two-hundred and then lost track as the fog thickened.

  He trained every morning around this time—the same as her watch—and ran through a strenuous routine of exercises: twenty laps around the deck, a series of kicks and jumps, then a long chain of attacks using daggers or swords. His broad, powerful shoulders drew her eye far too easily. A myriad of scars covered his back, visible even at this distance. She wondered if he removed his shirt on purpose; if he knew how much it distracted her. No, she thought. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.

  She had hardly spoken to Crash since leaving the Lost Isles. She didn’t know what to say to him. Not after what happened.

  “Hey!” a familiar voice drifted up to her, and she glanced further down to the base of the mast. Burn, the giant mercenary, swung himself easily onto the rigging and started upward. His movements were startlingly graceful despite his massive size. Within a half-minute, he stood on the ropes just beneath her feet. “What are you doing up here, looking so gloomy?”

  She tried to smile, but it felt false, fixed in place. “Just tired,” she mumbled. It was half the truth. Honestly, she had been out of sorts since leaving the Lost Isles, and for more reasons than just Crash. Her eyes drifted to her left hand, which lay curled in her lap.

  Burn smiled gently, a strange expression on his wide, square face. His teeth were as sharp as lion-fangs. His long incisors jutted past his lower lip, a trait of the Wolfy race. “Is the moisture bothering your wound?” he asked. “Perhaps Lori can give you a soothing balm.”