She arrived with Warden Dahlia by her side and four elite soldiers, captains older than himself, who had served in the army far longer than Sumas. The captains flanked her, two on each side, their faces grim and unflinching under their helmets. Their wings, on average, spread to fifteen feet. The rest of their troops fanned out around the clearing.
“There!” he heard Warden Dahlia say. The cruel woman had a slight smirk around her lips. “Just as I told you. He went after the slave as we expected.” The warden looked around the clearing. “Where is Sumas?”
Caprion glared. “Why don’t you find out?” he called.
Dahlia looked at him for a moment, then to Moss. Her face grew tight and pale. Without a word, she leapt into the skies and flew toward the dungeons, racing to find Sumas. Caprion watched her go. Sumas had laid a cunning little trap. He was caught red-handed without a word in his defense. His options seemed bleaker by the minute.
“Caprion,” the Matriarch said, drawing his attention. “Come with me.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “And if I refuse?”
She nodded to the soldiers behind him. “Then you will die, and many others, I expect. This is not a fight you wish to have. Come with me.”
“What for?” Caprion asked.
“To speak,” she said. Her lips twitched. “I wish to understand you. Perhaps we can find some sort of middle ground. An agreement.” Her eyes did not stray once to Moss.
Caprion hesitated. The urge to fight burned strong within him, but part of him felt keenly out of depth. A day ago, he had been an outcast, weaker than most in the city. Now he faced down the Matriarch, his wings spread behind him, barely able to control his own power. It almost made his head spin. I’m not a bully, he thought. I’m not a warrior. No, he was a fledgling confronted by more changes than he knew how to handle. He didn’t want to fight against his own people, but he needed to save Moss. Perhaps the Matriarch could offer a solution.
Perhaps he could trust her. Perhaps she would hear him out.
“No harm comes to the girl,” he said, indicating Moss in his arms.
The Matriarch nodded briefly.
“Then I will come,” Caprion said.
The Matriarch looked satisfied. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the soldiers at his back. “Return to your posts,” she ordered. “Tell Captain Sumas to come to my chambers when he is able.” Then she turned, her guards moving with her in perfect unison.
Chapter 11
The Matriarch kept a public audience chamber in the city of Asterion, but her personal dwelling was a much smaller temple tucked away in the thick forest, surrounded by a high stone wall, only accessible by flight. It stood slightly to the north of the Singing Chamber, which towered in the distance, a large hill thrusting over a dark ocean of trees. Full night had fallen and a vast net of stars stretched across the sky.
Caprion followed the Matriarch and her soldiers. They landed just inside the temple walls in a stone courtyard. Vines clung to the thick limestone walls and emerald moss caked the ground. The Matriarch waited for Caprion to land, then led him through a tall archway into a second courtyard. Caprion followed warily, noting the worn stone and overgrown plants. They entered a lush, tangled garden dotted with small white and purple flowers, all wildly intertwined. Exotic herbs encircled the pathway. Clumps of jasmine clung to the walls and small fruit trees hid in the corners, all buried in mounds of soft clover.
They passed through the garden to a large set of gold plated double-doors. The soldiers opened them and waited as he and the Matriarch entered the temple. Marble columns stood on either side, studded with sunstones. A long hallway made of gleaming, white rock rolled out before him. Caprion carried Moss behind the Matriarch, holding her protectively. He didn’t like the soldiers at his back, nor the heavy weight of the doors as they closed behind him. He could feel their eyes on him, their hands resting close to their weapons.
His queen led him through the long hallway to a small wooden door on the left side. She unlocked the door and opened it, revealing a wide room. The floor was white marble covered in light blue rugs. He saw several couches, chaises and chairs. A large, empty fireplace stood to one side and bookshelves lines the walls. A golden harp stood in one corner. The Matriarch’s study.
She pointed to a chaise next to a large window overlooking the wild garden. “Cover it with a sheet,” she ordered. One of her soldiers picked up a large blanket from a nearby chair, then spread it over the chaise. The Matriarch nodded to it. “Set the girl down,” she said. “Try not to get her blood on the cushions.”
Caprion hesitated.
His queen gave him an arch look. “Do you plan to hold her forever? Set her down, Caprion. She will not be moved.”
He still felt uncertain. He didn’t trust the soldiers in the room, despite the Matriarch’s intentions. “Dismiss your guards,” he said.
The Matriarch studied him for a moment, then waved her hand. The guards saluted, then turned and left, gliding out the door in quick succession. Once they were gone, Caprion laid Moss gently upon the chaise. He noted the fragile rise and fall of her breath. Sleeping, but for how long? Would she worsen over time? What if she developed a fever? He felt completely inadequate. A seraphim, and he couldn’t even look after a child.
When he turned back to the Matriarch, he found her watching him curiously. She crossed her arms in thought. “Quite an uproar you’ve caused these last two days,” she said, her tone casual, almost friendly, much different than before. “The Madrigal told me of your difficulty with the Singing. If I had been awake, I might have known the signs. The One Star moves mysteriously, and we cannot always anticipate these things.”
Caprion frowned. He didn’t quite trust her amicable tone. Why had she brought him here? Time to find out, he thought grimly. He was tired of games.
“What do you want with me?” he asked directly.
The Matriarch appraised him with her eyes. “Frankly, I want you on my side,” she said. “It has been centuries since the last seraphim manifested, not since the very end of the War. I didn’t think I would ever see one again. Now here you are, yet I find your interaction with the Sixth Race deeply disturbing.” She paused delicately. “Though it is not so unusual, I suppose, for a seraphim to become obsessed with the Sixth Race. You are made to kill them. It is in your nature. You feel a certain connection to them, and you’re right. You are their destroyer.”
Caprion gritted his teeth, immediately rejecting her words. No. When he thought of Moss, every fiber of his being wanted to protect her. He was not her destroyer—he could never hurt the girl. He wanted desperately to see her safe.
But when he thought of the demon in the crypts, the battle in the Matriarch’s chamber, his body hummed with strength. Yes, he enjoyed facing down the monster. He would kill another demon if given the chance. That realization left him cold and conflicted. But Moss isn’t like that demon. She had warned him to stay away from that monster. She had even saved his life down in the crypts. She was just a girl, the same age as his little sister, trapped in an evil world with no way out. How could he condemn her for that?
He wondered how many other children waited for death in those underground dungeons. He couldn’t quite fathom what his race had done. “It’s sick,” he said bluntly, “what our kind does to these children. They are too young. Too defenseless.”
The Matriarch raised one pale brow. “Too young?” she asked wryly. “By thirteen, most of the Sixth Race can wield a dagger better than a grown man. She might appear fragile, but give her an inch and she will slit your throat.” The Matriarch glided across the room, pausing near the sleeping girl. Caprion watched her warily. “Who knows how many lives she’s already taken,” the Matriarch said softly, her eyes dim with memory. “In the War, the Sixth Race would send children like this into camps. They pretended to be orphans and beggars. Fools would take pity on them, and those children would slip into the highest ranks, killing captains and generals in their own beds. O
nce, half a squadron of Dracians—forty soldiers—were killed in one night by such a child. Bled out in their sleep.”
Caprion felt chilled. He glanced at Moss again. He knew the Sixth Race were deceptive. They were master manipulators. And yet he thought of the small brown lizard that had climbed up her arm. How gently she had held it. Her sudden, fleeting smile. She was soft. She was not meant to be a killer.
“But you are not truly concerned with all those prisoners in our dungeons,” the Matriarch murmured, a sly smile crossing her lips. “No, you only chase after this one. My question, then, is why her?” she asked. “Why is she so different?”
Caprion shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn’t told anyone about his time with Moss in the dungeons or their secret pact. He owed her his wings. More than that, she was the first to look upon him openly without judgment. She had accepted his wingless state, preferring he remain that way. Of course she would, she’s a demon, his thoughts murmured darkly. But no, her reaction to him was more innocent than that. She trusted him because of his weakness, because he couldn’t hurt her. Now that he had this power, he didn’t want to abuse it.
“Yes,” the Matriarch murmured, reading his silence. She hovered next to the chaise, looking down at the wounded girl, her voice dripping with false empathy. “I see it now. This vulnerable thing, all alone in the dark, and you, there to save her. That must be why the One Star picked you. Your noble heart.” The Matriarch reached out as though to touch Moss, then paused and withdrew her hand. “But your heart is misplaced.”
Caprion stiffened. Finally, he said, “I made a vow to her. She helped me and I promised her freedom.”
The Matriarch turned her pale eyes upon him. Her vibration changed, washing over his skin like cold water. “A song-vow?” she asked tightly. “Such things are sacred to our race. Why would you do that?”
He tilted his head defiantly. “What’s done is done. Without her, I would likely be dead or still wingless and lost. She risked her life to help me find my wings. I must keep my word.”
The Matriarch glared at him, all pretense vanishing from her face. “The One Star created you! The One Star showed you the demon and manifested your wings, not this child! Never forget that!” she snapped. “Seraphim are only born for one reason. They are heralds of the One Star, but never the bearers of good news. Always, they appear before a great change or a great danger.”
Caprion frowned. The Matriarch turned away, pacing back across the length of the room, her white robes flowing around her. “A looming night is upon us. Your presence confirms it for me. As I slept, I saw darkness gathering over the mainland. It is a vision of the future, of what’s to come.” She let out a heavy, irritated breath. “We will have need of you soon. I fear the Harpy race cannot stand against this shadow, scattered as we are. You cannot become distracted by this one little girl. Your people need you and I do as well.”
Caprion’s jaw tightened. “Then allow me to fly her over the ocean. I will come back.”
“We can’t let her return to her people,” the Matriarch said. Then her patience slipped. “You naive boy! She would reveal all of our secrets! But of course, you’ve never seen them at war. You don’t know their tactics. None of you were alive back then. You can’t possibly understand the danger—an entire race bred from destruction, conceived in the heart of chaos!” Her words echoed off the walls. Her face twisted, a mixture of sorrow and fury. “We take no chances. If the Grandmasters learn of our weakened state, they’ll set sail for this island immediately. No obstacle or act of nature could stop them.”
Caprion shifted. He felt strangely chastised. The Matriarch’s words continued to echo. Her age and experience seemed to outweigh the room; she had lived for hundreds of years and known countless seraphim before him. She had witnessed the fall of Aerobourne….
“You cannot trust her,” the Matriarch murmured. “Your type had a name back in the War: sympathizers. Naive fools who fell under the assassins’ spell. Your heart is too open, and now you’re ensnared. Don’t you know it’s a demon’s trap?” The Matriarch smiled grimly. “They act weak, tortured, afraid—but they don’t feel these things, Caprion. They don’t experience emotions the way we do. They’re incapable of it, and so they play every side, every angle, until you drop your guard. Oh, it’s so easy to love your enemy when they lie whimpering at your feet!” She spat. “Some day she will try to kill you and she just might succeed. Violence is her nature. She’s a demon, Caprion. Just like the one you killed.”
Caprion stared at the Matriarch, then turned numbly to the window. He gazed out at the large garden in thought. Something about her words gave him pause, and he considered them carefully. Finally, he said, “Florentine told me about the demon I killed. She said it used to be a man—an assassin. You knew him once, I assume?”
The Matriarch remained silent.
Caprion finished his thought. “Did you trust him? Did he…lower your guard?”
He could feel the tension building behind him. The Matriarch’s wings glimmered, spanning almost twenty-five feet, flickering in the corner of his vision. Then they vanished again. “That is none of your concern,” she said coldly.
Silence fell once more. He realized, suddenly, that the Matriarch wouldn’t let him leave this room. His queen had lured him here to change his mind, to convince him to join her side. She didn’t trust Moss, and she didn’t trust his intentions. And perhaps she had good reason to. Perhaps she had seen this before.
But he couldn’t deny his connection to Moss. His eyes traveled down to the small, ragged, dark-haired girl. She hadn’t stirred once in her sleep. He thought of her cloudy left eye and undeniable tenderness swelled within him. He didn’t care what the Matriarch thought she knew about demons. He couldn’t leave Moss, but how could he save her? The Matriarch would never let them go freely. He knew, deep inside, that his queen would rather see him dead than expose their race to the Unnamed.
But if Moss returned to the dungeons, Sumas would torment her. Of that, he was certain.
“What of my song-vow?” he asked, changing the subject. “You would let it go unfulfilled?”
“It shall torture you ‘til the end of your days,” the Matriarch replied. “Your own doing, of course. What were you thinking, activating such a spell?”
He glanced at her but didn’t bother to answer. She wouldn’t understand. He and Moss shared more than just a spell. Meeting her in the dungeon had changed him. He made his vow to honor that, but he suspected the Matriarch didn’t know a thing about honor or mercy.
“You can’t kill her,” he said darkly. “Kill her and you lose me. I won’t lift a finger to help you.”
The Matriarch considered him with hard eyes. “You would abandon your own race?”
He returned her gaze coolly. “I will not murder children.”
He could see her thoughts calculating, weighing out her options. “Caprion,” she finally said, her voice adopting a gentle edge. “You are young. Give yourself a few years to understand….”
He cut her off. “A few years under Sumas’ command won’t make me accept this. I could never follow my brother. I will hunt the demons, but I will never hurt someone weaker than myself. This girl,” he gestured to Moss, “is far from a threat. Let me take her back to the mainland. Let me fulfill my vow.”
The Matriarch’s eyes turned sharp, probing him for weaknesses. He stared her down, hoping she saw his resolve. He meant his words. If anything happened to Moss, he would lose faith in his own people. The Harpies spoke of honor, the proud history of the First Race and their duty to the world. But when he looked to their actions, he didn’t see it. He didn’t see any of it.
“How about this, then,” she said smoothly. “We keep the girl alive. Eventually, when we have dealt with this rising darkness, you may return her to the mainland. In the meantime, you will stay on the island and learn the ways of a seraphim.”
Caprion hesitated. “She will be released,” he said. “She will not live in
the dungeons.”
“Don’t press me, child,” the Matriarch warned.
“I thought we were here to negotiate.”
“And I am offering you a way out. Stay with your people and I will keep the girl alive,” she said rigidly. “Believe it or not, I have your best interests in mind.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Caprion said sarcastically.
She glared at him, her temper slipping once again. “Imagine our people,” she said, sweeping her arm out. “Imagine your position, Caprion! An entire island of Harpies. If we free her now, do you think she will stay secret for long? Sumas, Warden Dahlia, Florentine, and the Madrigal all know. Someone is bound to talk. And once the city finds out you keep a demon hidden in your cellar, feeding her scraps from your table, what do you think will happen?” The Matriarch shook her head. “She is a child now, but she will become a young woman soon, and then our people will think you have a perversion, some disease of the mind. You are a seraphim, Caprion. You have a duty to your race. Our people will look to you for leadership. This is not the way to lead. You must protect our people in all ways.”
Caprion paused. Those last words resonated somewhere deep in his chest, where his Song resided. You must protect them.
“What will our people do when they discover a demon on the loose?” the Matriarch repeated softly. “They won’t allow her to live.”
And those words left him cold.
He wavered. His queen pressed him one last time. “Consider my offer,” she said. “If you decide to go to the mainland, I will not stop you, but you cannot return. You will be branded a traitor to our race. I will tell the city the truth—that you left them for a demon.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or stay, and the girl stays, and she will not be killed. We will find a comfortable balance.”
Caprion stared at the Matriarch. He felt like she had swept the conversation out of his hands. Somehow she had slipped around his reasoning, explaining consequences that he couldn’t deny. His Song stirred in his chest, and he knew he couldn’t turn his back on his own race so easily. Her offer was tempting. But what of Moss?