Page 26 of Cage of Starlight

He doesn’t know the names of the plants in the pots on Vantaras’ sill and hasn’t learned any new ones he could share with her.

Stubborn, he finishes his sentence. “You should still see them.”

Jaw set, Vantaras tugs at the cuffs of his shirt.

It’s weird. The gloves are still on, and even though the double-breasted uniform jacket is gone, the undershirt’s starched collar is just as high despite the few buttons he’s undone.

And the boots are off, but Vantaras’ dark socks still snake up beneath his uniform trousers, so he’s no less covered than he’s ever been in front of Tory.

There’s no excuse for the way Tory’s stomach flips, the way he feels like he’s intruding when he sees the shape of Sena Vantaras’ slim ankles and exposed collarbones.

He looks human.

That’s it. That’s the whole of it. He looks like a person, and for once in his stars-damned life is acting like one, too. It’s distracting, like Sena having a sister and a sense of humor.

Tory came here for a reason, though. He reminds himself of it as Sena paces past him on socked feet toward a small cage hanging from the ceiling to the left of the window, covered with a sheet.

“Don’t think you’ll distract me,” Tory says. “I’ll keep bothering you until you tell me what your power is.”

“Was it not obvious?” With a tug, Sena removes the sheet from the cage and Tory gapes at the sight of something inside, delicate and yellow and—

“Is that a bird ?”

A knock on the door grinds Tory’s sputtering thoughts to a halt.

Just the one knock, like a gunshot.

Vantaras goes still, spine taut and expression carefully blank. “The colonel,” he whispers. He bursts into motion, pulling his jacket back on and buttoning it with unsteady fingers.

Another knock, loud enough that it bounces in Tory’s skull.

“I can get that . . .?”

“Don’t!” Vantaras skids across the stone floor toward his boots while buttoning the last button on his jacket and stops, clearly distraught, staring at the complex laces on the nearly knee-high boots. There’s no way he’s getting those on again in any reasonable amount of time.

He wrenches open the door in the corner (a full closet, as Tory thought) and pulls a pair of offensively fancy shined dress shoes off a rack, shoving his feet into them with desperation a hair short of violence.

In the breath before the third knock lands—two knocks, this time, and if knocking can be a threat then this third knock is the most bone-chilling threat Tory has ever heard—Sena looks toward Tory, hair in slight disarray, eyes wide like Tory’s must have been when that carriage was bearing down on him.

He pats his hair, strides toward the door, and stands at perfect attention in front of it.

“Sorry—” He pulls the door open. “—Sir.”

Kirlov, unbreathing-still, waits on the other side. “What have I said about apologies, Lieutenant?” He doesn’t wait for Sena’s answer. “You didn’t respond.”

“Sir?”

“The alarms. I expected an immediate report, but I had to hear about the incident from Dr. Helner .”

Sena was in no position to give a report, the way Tory found him, but Sena says nothing to defend himself. “It won’t happen again, Sir.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

Tory has no reason not to be loving this. Vantaras is off-kilter, and Tory still quite likes the idea of that, but he really shouldn’t have followed him here, to his room.

Now he knows that Sena off-kilter can look like he did in the lab—on the ground, rocking toward his knees with ashy roots falling to dust all around.

It can look like he looked in here, like he was a bare inch from shaking apart.

Sena is a jerk with a stick up his ass, but he handles pressed flowers so gently he didn’t break a single one picking them up from the ground.

Enjoying this would feel too much like kicking a wet, wounded dog.

He hates Sena for that.

Kirlov’s expression twitches as he peers into Sena’s room—from the boot knocked on its side halfway across the floor to the still-swinging light show from the stellite and the sheet discarded on stone and the twittering, awakened bird, and then to Tory in the midst of it all—and says, “Non-officers are forbidden from entering this area.”

Vantaras adjusts his stance and doesn’t tell Kirlov how adamant he was about Tory leaving. He just looks at the floor like the world’s wettest noodle of a person. “Yes, Sir.”

“We will discuss that later. For now, come. Both of you. The Grand General has arrived, and he wishes to see you.”

Kirlov strides away, forcing them to lurch into motion to follow him. Vantaras’ always blistering pace makes more sense, if he has to keep up with Kirlov’s.

They pass Helner in the hallway and she hurries to catch up with them, pointing a finger like a knife at Kirlov. “You’re a bastard,” she says, half-running in heels to keep pace.

Tory’s eyebrows rise.

“Just heard the news. You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”

Kirlov’s shoulders draw up. He stares ahead, like ignoring her might make her disappear. “It wasn’t relevant to you.”

“Wasn’t relevant! Did you hear nothing I said about the incident in the lab?”

“Did I hear .” Hollow, mocking, darkly amused.

Kirlov’s footsteps keep time on the floor, lending extra weight to his words when he speaks again.

“I heard you damaged both property and valuable tools with your ill-thought-out experiment. I heard you drew Lieutenant Vantaras—whom I oversee—into your un- authorized test. I heard that due to your recklessness, yet another of the Arlunian weapons our men have died by the hundreds to procure for STAR-7 has been destroyed. I’ve heard more than enough today, Doctor.

If we were capable of preventing you from removing it on your own, I’d have recommended you for a NOVA long ago. ”

Helner extends her fingers, graceful, and pushes them against her opposite hand until her Seed allows them to slip through it. Of course: NOVA or Core, she’d just remove anything they tried to saddle her with. She turns her cutting smile on Sena. “Lucky me, to get the carrot instead of the stick.”

The corners of Kirlov’s mouth tick downward, a monumental shift in expression, in Tory’s experience. “I have no patience for your antics. Leave.”

“And go where?” Helner spits. “The Grand General summoned me, too.”

*

The Grand General, ruler over all Westrice, turns slowly when they enter an over-bright, too-empty room. The only thing inside is a short table with a chair and a closed silver briefcase.

Michal Vantaras, a pale, compact man with a thick head of graying hair, examines the group as they settle.

If the unchanging tightness of his lips is any indication, he’s not impressed.

Everything about him is square, from his big-boned hands to the muscled torso that strains the buttons on his uniform and the thick, black vest over the top of them. He bears little resemblance to his son.

Kirlov and Sena—his son; his son is saluting him—snap to attention to greet him, and Michal Vantaras accepts it as his due.

This is the man who made Tory’s mother’s sentence lifelong. He’s the one who made conscription of Seeds mandatory. This man built every wall that has ever caged Tory.

Reflexively, he reaches for energies he can grab and throw at the man, but he can’t sense even one. The world is muffled and silent. Tory’s fists clench. The room is empty aside from the briefcase, which might work as a bludgeon if he can get to it. If not, he has teeth, at least.

“At ease,” Michal Vantaras says, blessedly unaware of what Tory is considering. He skims over Helner and his son like they’re not there. To Kirlov, he says, “I assume you’ve been brought up to date?”

“Yes, General.”

“And the others?”

“I prioritized speed in bringing them to you.”

“I see. I’ll make it brief, then. We’ve been losing supplies along the routes,” he says. “Medical supplies. Rations. They were intercepted farther inland than we’ve ever encountered Arlunian infiltrators, which is . . . concerning.”

Tory’s ears perk up.

Could it be the rebels? When Tory was with Ariana Belmin, Riese mentioned some of his allies intercepting supplies. Tory keeps his face blank while joy sparks a fire in his belly.

“We shifted some of our forces toward guarding the supply routes, but that proved unwise. Our most recently deployed unit was massacred en route to the Arou Cliffs outpost before the Fielders could lay down shields. A Porter managed to bring sixteen wounded back here to our Healers. Only two survived. We’ve lost several smaller scouting units, as well.

We think the increase in aggression is due to the nearness of Arlune’s Dedication Day and the Arou Cliffs’ historical significance in past celebrations of the event.

They are likely attempting to reclaim the cliffs. We can’t allow that.”

Tory doesn’t like where this is leading.

“We must send out the new recruits.”

“General!” Helner says. Michal Vantaras twitches like a big cat might, to dislodge a fly, but Helner keeps going. “Our Channeler is a new recruit. He’s not completed his training.”

“He’s close enough.”

“There’s so much more he could be doing! Today’s experiment—”

“Was a failure.”

“But he elicited a meaningful response from one of the Legion units. He made it move! No one else has been able to do anything like that.”

“Then let him do it again on the battlefield, where it will be useful.”

“You’re not listening !”

“Doctor. Your wife sends her regards from STAR-1.”

Helner pales, teeth clenching. “ Sir ,” she grits out.

“We won’t speak of this further.” Michal Vantaras turns to Kirlov.

“The reports regarding the Channeler’s ability to target Seed-enhanced projectiles have been extraordinarily promising.

It’s just a matter of time before we push those slippery sons of bitches back over the border for good.

Naturally, we’ll take every precaution to keep this investment of ours safe.

Erwin, I bestowed a great honor on you, tasking you with overseeing my son despite your less-than-ideal family circumstances. ”

The press of Kirlov’s lips says he doesn’t see the honor in it. “Yes, sir.”

“As the Channeler’s supervisor, Sena must follow him to the battlefield. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying.”

Kirlov’s inhuman stillness belies his displeasure. “As his Overseer, I will of course accompany the lieutenant.”

“Sena.” Vantaras turns to his son. “The Channeler’s use redirecting Seed energies is unfortunately indispensable if we want to defend our border. If it comes down to it, his life takes precedence over your own.”

Tory catches a flash of something in Sena’s eyes—a bitter twist of his lips—but then it’s gone. “If I may ask, Sir, when will we depart?”

“You’ll get your papers soon enough. Don’t get comfortable.”

“Understood.” Sena subsides, teeth clenched, and Tory wants nothing more than to push him, poke him, do whatever it takes to make him act.

The smile Vantaras directs over Sena’s shoulder is a cold, calculating thing.

“Go knowing you will always be the strongest weapon in my arsenal, Sena. We couldn’t have gotten this far without you.

” The general flicks his bulky black vest. “Like this vest. It mimics the Neutralizer’s ambient energy to an extent and nullifies any Seed attacks that come near. ”

That’s probably why Tory couldn’t find any energies to attack him with, earlier.

The General smiles. “We’ve made so many advancements. All because of you.”

It’s sick. This man looks at his son like he’s a gun, not a boy. And Sena just takes it.

When Michal Vantaras says, “We’d like STAR-7 to perform tests with some of our prototypes, and we’ll mass-produce them if they’re effective. I expect your cooperation,” Sena only stands straight and says, “Yes, Sir.”

“Dr. Helner,” the Grand General says, joyless smile still fixed on his lips. “I look forward to your reports.”

“Of course.” Her returning smile is tight. “If you reconsider my request—”

The smile vanishes from the General’s lips. “Ah, Doctor. The reason I brought you here.”

He snaps open the briefcase, which contains a section of tubing that ends in an excessively thick needle on one end and a tall glass bottle on the other.

“Sena, take a seat.”

Sena obeys.

Tory blinks at the wicked needle.

Surely , they don’t intend to—

“Dr. Helner, as you always do,” Michal Vantaras says. “The samples we have are surprisingly stable, but our researchers are curious whether freshness conveys any special benefits, so I promised I’d bring something back.”

“Of course,” Sena says, quiet.

Idiot. Coward.

Nausea surges in Tory. Is this what he looked like back in Hulven, head bowed, accepting every pain? Sena Vantaras is a fool. He has to know he’s only making it easy for them, laying down a carpet so they don’t dirty their feet when they step on him.

Sena unbuttons his uniform jacket for the second time in an hour.

This time, his fingers are steady. He slips his right arm from the jacket, loosens the sleeve of the button-up beneath, and carefully rolls it up.

Tory startles at what it reveals, but neither his father nor Dr. Helner show surprise at the array of needle scars that dot his pale skin.

Without speaking, Dr. Helner dons a pair of gloves, arranges the tubing, and pierces Sena Vantaras’ skin when she finds a vein.

No one speaks while he bleeds for his father. The Grand General looks not at his son but at the container that grows full and red beside him.

Sena is sagging to one side by the time his father finally says, “Stop.”

Once it’s been capped, the Grand General lifts the bottle filled with Sena’s blood, and his fingers twitch around it, like he expected his own child’s blood not to be warm.

“This will do.” He tucks it back into the briefcase. “I’ll need to get this back to my scientists as soon as possible. Doctor, the promised shipment of prototypes will arrive soon. I’ll await your report.”

Grand General Vantaras strides away, leaving ruin in his wake: Kirlov stormy-faced, Helner pale and furious, and Sena half-slumped over the table, folding the sleeve of his shirt down to cover the still-dribbling needle wound.

Tory will kill that man. One day, he’ll look into Michal Vantaras’ eyes as he dies.