Caprion's Wings by T. L. Shreffler Page A

tied to the ground.”
    “You’ll change if you gain your
wings,” Moss said quietly, almost sadly. “You’ll become like
them.”
    “I won’t,” he murmured.
    She remained silent. And
in that silence, an entire conversation seemed to pass between
them, conflicting tides of hope and distrust, doubt and
despair. Forget about me, she seemed to say. I
didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t expect it.
    I won’t break my
word, he wanted to reply. I’ll prove it to you. My wings won’t change me.
They’ll only make me stronger. And he felt
that Song stir within him, the one he had yet to voice aloud,
moving through his chest and throat in a swelling wave. At that
moment, he felt like he could release it. Like the tones and vowels
lay on the tip of his tongue.
    He shifted, resettling his weight, his
gaze returning to the empty, solemn chamber before them. Moss moved
again to pull away, but he reached down and took her hand, their
chains resting between them, connecting them in the darkness. He
wanted to give her strength…but really, her presence reassured him
of his purpose, reminding him that in the face of losing
everything, he still had one reason to live.
     
    * * *
     
    He stood at Fury Rock, gazing at the
darkened sky. No stars. No light.
    He knew this dream. He peered over the
cliff, met by a black, featureless curtain. Yet he could feel the
crush of grass beneath his feet, the soft indentation of
dirt.
    He turned away from the cliff and
looked down the hill on its opposite side. A gray, narrow trail led
downward through the scrub-grass, cutting down the side of the hill
like a long scar. Far below at the bottom, he could see the
lumbering bulks of the shadestones, darker than darkness, thrusting
up against the sky like massive spear-heads.
    Where are you? he thought. Where do you
hide?
    He walked down the hill. In the faded,
transient way of dreams, he did not feel afraid or even fully
present. As he walked, his eyes searched every dip in the ground,
every deep patch of shadow, straining and seeking. Iron
determination filled each breath.
    Finally he reached the wide, flat area
at the base of the hill. The shadestones towered before him, solemn
and foreboding. He entered the circle of stones. As soon as he set
foot inside the circle, he felt the air change to become thicker
and hotter. The back of his neck prickled. He paused, listening,
his breath quickening. Fear rose beneath the surface of his skin.
He tried to quell it, to summon his courage, but the air became
difficult to breathe in. The demon seemed to loom on every side,
its presence as tangible and silent as the sacred
stones.
    A twig snapped somewhere
behind him. He whirled, his hand reaching instinctively for his
sword, but he grasped empty air. Sumas
took it, he realized, his gut sinking like
a rock. He was defenseless. Fully open to attack. Now his heart
hammered against his ribs, his lungs constricted. He took an
uncertain step backward, his courage slipping away with each
desperate, gasping breath. I
can’t , he thought. I can’t fight him without wings.
    And then that voice
seeping up from the ground, emitting from the stones, bleeding
through the air. Or what?
    “Get back, demon!” he yelled. His
voice hitched in fear.
    Or what? The demon murmured, slipping up from the ground,
through the air, through the stones. A wicked, terrible laugh
penetrated the night, seeming to emanate from every
direction. Or what, fledgling? You will
kill me? The voice cackled with
mirth. Your people are dying and I am here
to end them!
    “No!” he yelled, furious and hopeless.
He whirled around, trying to find the source of the voice, but it
was impossible. Darkness on every side. “Where are you?” he
demanded. “Face me!”
    At your back,
child.
    He turned, raising his hands. A harsh,
smoldering wind blasted through him, burning his skin, bowling him
over. He stumbled backward. The ground seemed to crumble and cave
beneath his feet. He cried out, losing