Page 13 of Cage of Starlight

A stickler indeed. Tory suppresses a grin. The more fraught they are, the less effective information exchange will be between them. Little drips carve rifts in mountains—wide enough to escape through, if Tory’s lucky.

He chirps, “I’d love that. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” Vantaras grits out.

Kirlov turns to Tory. “The lieutenant’s negligence aside, I believe the Grand General has decided to train you for Concussive Force Redirection.”

Seedbait. Gavin was right.

Helner stabs her fork into a pile of eggs. “Against my explicit recommendation. There’s so much more we could learn about the Sources if we took the time to test them.”

“That time is better spent defending our borders. Arlunian incursions have increased as their holy holidays approach, and the Channeler’s abilities could turn the tide of the war.”

“You’re wasting him in CFR! Next week he could be a smear on some minor battlefield, and all the things we could have learned from him will be gone.”

“The Grand General feels the risk is worth the potential reward.”

“Your general knows nothing about how to make proper use of the Seeds here.”

Kirlov arches an eyebrow. “Your many failed experiments say the same of you.”

“ Thirty percent . You want to play with those odds?”

Kirlov spears a baby carrot. “It’s not my game, Doctor. Or yours.”

“It should be!” A blotchy flush crawls up Helner’s neck. “This is ridiculous. Sena, isn’t this the biggest farce you’ve ever seen? You know it, too. I saw you.”

Vantaras turns away and says nothing.

Kirlov taps his watch again. “Yes, Lieutenant. I’d be interested to hear your answer.”

This is so much better than Tory could have hoped for. He tosses a bite of thick-cut bacon in his mouth and chews with relish.

“I—I don’t—” Vantaras’ left hand snags his right sleeve, and he rubs his thumb in circles over the textured fabric, fast enough to burn the skin off. “I believe the Grand General has his reasons.”

“ Coward ,” Helner spits. “And they call me a traitor.”

Kirlov ignores her. To Tory, he says, “You’ll sit in on CFR type-training this afternoon.

” Then he turns to Vantaras, cold eyes reflecting no light.

“Lieutenant, I know you will not make mistakes like these again. Report to me when you’ve settled Mr. Arknett in, and we will review your duties toward your supervisee. I will not tolerate delay.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Tory digs into everything that remains on his plate with gusto.

Vantaras goes at his with calculated slowness, lining up the steamed carrots before eating them like they’re his personal firing squad. Despite his smaller portion, he finishes shortly after Tory and stands up. “I’ll take you to get bedding.”

Tory almost has to run to keep up with Vantaras’ inhumanly long strides. The way he glances back, lip curling, Tory’s certain he’s doing it on purpose.

When they arrive in residence quarters, Vantaras tugs from his breast pocket a milky-pale slice of stone enclosed in a metal setting and attached to a chain.

Stellite? It looks like it, but it’s faint and flawed.

Whatever it is, it responds to the corresponding sliver above the door’s knob with a brief pulse of light, and the lock on the supply closet clicks open.

In short order, Vantaras shoves a pile of linen into Tory’s arms. “One bedsheet, one fitted sheet, one blanket, and a pillow. You’ll receive new bedding on a weekly basis and must make your bed each morning.

Uncleanliness may result in penalties or withdrawal of privileges.

” He pulls something from his pocket, another slice of stone like the one on his ring.

“This is your tab. Keep it with you. It has been keyed to your blood, which is now keyed to your room and all doors that have been marked as public access. Do not lose it. Do you have any questions?”

Vantaras drops the stone slice on top of the bedding in Tory’s arms.

It is stellite, but even from this close—close enough to press the tip of his nose to it with little effort—there’s barely any of the crushing strangeness he’s learned to associate with the stone. Like the lights, it feels ruined. Dead.

“I said, do you have any questions ?” Impatient.

Ah. The Kirlov guy said he wouldn’t tolerate delay. Ever so slowly, Tory tries out the strange tab on his door. It does, indeed, unlock it. “Let me think,” he says.

Vantaras taps a finger against his opposite wrist in an agitated rhythm while Tory flips his crusty mattress—he’d have done it last night if he’d had his head on straight—and puts the bedding on.

“What’s next for me, then?” Tory finally drawls.

“You’ll attend basic training after breakfast each morning, though you’ll be missing it today.

Type-training—which we’ll observe today—follows lunch.

You’ll have maneuvers after that. Trainees receive meal tokens for compliance or find them withheld for lack thereof, but given the higher-ups’ interest in your abilities, they will be motivated to keep you healthy.

You’ll face other penalties for noncompliance. ”

“Looking forward to it.”

“You shouldn’t. Will that be all?”

But he’s already walking away.

“Hey!” Tory calls, and Vantaras clicks to a stop, shoulders taut. “That blond guy seems like a real piece of work. Why do you listen to him?”

“ That blond guy is Colonel Kirlov. You’d do well to call him by his rank.”

Social niceties serve only the strong. He’d do well to have given up on them years ago.

He hates this place, hates this man, hates being trapped here. Tory’s body has never been less free, but there’s still something thrilling about not having to gulp down ugly words.

His mom was wrong. Silence never saved him. Or if it did, it carved other, deeper wounds.

He sneers at Vantaras. “You don’t want me making waves, you should have thought of that before dragging me here.”

The look Vantaras gives him—silent and impossibly still—sends a shudder through Tory.

He strides away without another word.

*

When Vantaras returns after lunch, something’s wrong. That oddness—and Tory’s inability to make sense of it—raises the hair on the back of his neck.

“The colonel apologizes,” Vantaras bites out, leading Tory down the hall. His usually blistering-fast pace is slower, smooth strides truncated. “He would have liked to accompany you to type-training but was called away by other duties. He sent me in his stead.”

“In his stead,” Tory echoes.

Vantaras slows, turns, blinks. He’s sweaty under the savage light, and Tory can’t tell whether he’s glaring or squinting. “He asked me to send his regrets.”

“Come on, where’d you learn to talk like this? In his stead . Where’s the dial that turns you off?”

Vantaras’ lips twist in a mockery of amusement. “Ask the colonel.”

He stalks forward without explanation.

“ What ?” Tory scrambles after him. “You regret dragging me here yet, Sena ?”

“Lieutenant Vantaras.”

“Lieu-what?”

“The way you will address me.”

“ Will I?” Tory picks up his pace, racing until he’s side by side with Vantaras then alternating fast walking and almost jogging to stay there. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“The yard.” Lips quirking up, Vantaras adds, “Don’t fall behind.”

They step out of a set of double doors to a wide stretch of yellowed, pitted grass and a collection of people in clothes like Tory’s.

The cannons mounted on the walls around the Compound spit black spheres at them.

Some stop midair and drop before reaching their targets.

Others drive into the yard and kick up mud.

A man with a shock of white hair stands in the midst of the chaos, waving his hands like a conductor.

Before they get close, he grins, scurrying over to meet them. “Isn’t it positively symphonic ?”

Vantaras stands straighter. “Lieutenant-Colonel Menden.”

Menden—precisely as decrepit as Gavin said he was—waves both hands. “Retired, I’m retired! It’s just Menden. And you must be our Channeler.”

Menden must’ve left octogenarianism behind decades ago, his pale skin thin and liver-spotted but his eyes bright and aware.

The trousers he wears look to be military issue, but his long-sleeved shirt is wide open at the neck and dyed every color Tory has ever seen and then some.

He encompasses the training field with a sweeping gesture and arches bushy eyebrows.

“So, what do you think of Concussive Force Redirection, Tory?”

A black sphere slams into the earth and explodes in a splash of cold water all over Tory’s pant leg. He jerks away. “ Water balloons ?”

Menden laughs like this is the best joke he’s heard all week.

“What did you expect, explosive rounds? No use killing all our CFRs before they’re deployed!

But don’t look down on them. We have to match the velocity of the projectiles our unit might face in a real-life situation, which necessitates a more durable casing for the balloons.

Packs a bone-breaking punch.” His eyes light up.

“Jeffra told me her infirmary would be all but empty if it weren’t for my people!

Keeps her and the rest of the support corps on their toes: Healers need training, too!

” Menden dodges another projectile, gently pushing Tory out of the way as two more crash into the ground, kicking up mud and bits of grass.

Menden spins to the small group trying to stop the projectiles.

“Step it up ,” he yells, voice high and rattling.

“You’re the shield corps, damn it! Act like it!

The sword and support corps will rely on you for protection on the battlefield.

Next time I see one of these hit the ground without being redirected, I move you ten yards closer and put you at the front of the pack for maneuvers! ”

Tory shivers. “And everyone in this unit ends up on the front lines?”

Menden has scurried away to yell at the trainees, so it’s Vantaras who responds.

“Without exception. The first through sixth STAR Compounds train Seeds to serve in Maran and other major cities, but STAR-7 was built here specifically to train battle-capable Seed types to hold back Arlunian incursions. Every Seed here is a type useful in war.”

Menden paces back and waves a hand at them. “Vantaras, my boy, over here. Can’t have you getting in the way.”

Vantaras is well apart from any of the Seeds in the yard, but he sidesteps until he’s shaded in the sparse grove of trees from which Menden supervises training.

“You know I don’t mean anything by it, but there are always more injuries when you’re here.”

“I understand.”

Menden claps a hand on Tory’s shoulder before he can parse that exchange. “Glad to have you, Tory! Don’t think I’ll let you get away with just watching today! After the break, we’ll see what you’re made of, hmm?”

An awful groan drags Tory’s attention back to the yard as a balloon nails one of the trainees in the stomach, driving him back a couple of feet before he doubles over, retching.

Menden sucks in a breath. “ Ohhhh , the gut’s the worst.”

“I . . . I don’t think I can . . .” Tory’s not even sure how he did it the first time.

Menden flaps a hand. “Boy, we can train you in simulated situations for years, but it won’t do any good. If I want you to survive a day out there, I need to throw real obstacles at you. Real harm. You and I, we’ll start slow today, but we will start.”