Free Caprion's Wings by T. L. Shreffler Page B

her
pale face. She stared at the far right of the room, her eyes
transfixed on something unseen.
    Caprion shifted uncomfortably. His
shirt became damp with sweat, sticking to his skin. He tried to
listen, but his ears filled with the rush of his own blood, his
heart pounding eratically. He tried to suck in a deep, calming
breath, but the shadows seemed too dense to breathe through, like
inhaling smoke.
    “What does he say?” Caprion
murmured.
    Moss’s mouth moved silently as though
trying to discern the words. Then she flinched. “Hateful things,”
she murmured. “Madness. We should go. We can’t be down
here.”
    Caprion drew his sword and held it
before him, taking comfort in its long, sturdy length. “Where is
he?”
    Moss nodded to the far right of the
room with a slight jerk of her head.
    Caprion started in that direction,
straining his ears for the voice. The shadows moved to encase him.
“I need your sunstone,” he said softly to her.
    Moss followed him reluctantly, keeping
a step behind. He wished he had a weapon to give her, anything she
could use to defend herself. He didn’t like how the gloom shifted
around the crypt, wavering on its own accord, responding to his
presence or perhaps that of the sunstone. Shadows shouldn’t move
like that—not in this deathly, slumbering place.
    He climbed over a small pile of rubble
and found himself before a large granite wall—the end of the
chamber. A solid metal door stood embedded in the stone, slightly
bent and crushed inward, as though a heavy force had pounded it
shut. Darkness seemed to gather around it, seeping from cracks in
the mortar like dense mist. He paused, watching the shadows waver.
He passed a hand over his eyes, trying to clear his
vision.
    “Over here,” he called to Moss, who
hung back as far as she could. She crept up and paused just behind
him, slightly to one side, displaying the light of the
sunstone.
    He knelt and brushed the dust from the
door. The metal felt as hot as an iron brand; he gasped and he
quickly drew his hand away. Old Harpy runes marred the door’s
surface. He read them silently with a growing frown.
    “What does it say?” Moss asked
softly.
    “It’s a song-spell,” he murmured. “A
very old one.” He touched one of the letters again briefly and
shivered. “This door has been sealed.”
    Sssssssss. A sound reached his ears like steam escaping
through a pipe: a long, drawn-out hiss. Caprion stood abruptly and
raised his sword, sensing a new presence before him, one that made
his hackles rise. He gritted his teeth against it, unwilling to
show his fear.
    “Who’s there?” he called.
    The hiss slowly faded into silence.
Fear crawled up from his chest to his throat. He swallowed hard,
then called again, resonating his voice. “Who’s there? Answer me!”
He laced his tone with a silent command.
    The echoes of his voice faded,
extinguished by the dense fabric of shadows. Then, in the new
silence, a low murmur reached his ears. A hoarse chuckle grated
along his skin, causing goosebumps to rise on his flesh. When the
voice spoke, it was no more than a croak issuing from the ancient
stone.
    “You’ve come,” it murmured.
    Caprion steadied his
shaking hand. I’m out of my
depth , he thought suddenly, knowing he had
been quite foolish to come here. But he couldn’t run. Fleeing would
solve nothing.
    He forced himself to call out again.
“Why do you speak in my dreams?” he demanded. “Why did you
interfere with my Singing?”
    The silence gathered as thick as
night. The voice seemed to issue from inside the silence, speaking
as much through his mind as through the air.
    “I spoke, and you heard
me. You sang, and you found me. Why listen to my voice, little
bird? Why are you here?”
    Caprion glared at the door. “I didn’t
come for riddles,” he replied. “I am here to find my
star.”
    The voice laughed, rising
in volume and strength. A maniacal cacophony echoed around the
stone chamber, ringing in his