Page 12 of Cage of Starlight
Tory was born in a prison crueler than this one. He escaped at eight; hewillescape again. Snapping at this bastard would be salve on a burn, but the relief would be temporary. Sharp words won’t free him. Sharp eyes might.
He needs to bite his tongue, observe and absorb. Tory swallows bile and follows.
As soon as he’s within a few strides, the dark-haired officer continues to walk.
The wordsSTAR Compound #7loom ahead, engraved on the plate above the wide mouth of a massive gate, and underneath it:Seed Training, Assessment, and Registration.
The officer says, “You will be registered and typed, though the process is merely a formality at this point. After that, you’ll be informed of the expectations in the facility and allowed to acclimate. Your training will begin tomorrow.”
“Training for what?”
No answer.
The officer stops in front of a window set into the watchtower. A guard on the other side springs to his feet when he sees them, snapping into a sharp salute. “Lieutenant Vantaras.”
The name hits Tory like a slap.Vantaras, king of this land of prisons. Tory knows Michal Vantaras has two sons, but they have a decade and change on Tory and are built like their father—musclebound, walking fortresses. The exact opposite of this guy.
It has to be coincidence.
Vantaras says, “I’ve returned with the alleged Channeler.”
Tory examines the soldier in the booth. Dull smile—distractible. The stone wall is imposing but not impassable.
Vantaras follows Tory’s gaze, eyebrows rising. He opens his mouth as if to speak but just shakes his head, mouth curling into a cool expression of disdain.
The watchtower guard pulls a clipboard from the wall and draws a thick red line across the page. “You’re authorized to enter, Lieutenant; your re-entry has been logged and your permit to leave has been withdrawn. Welcome back, sir.”
Vantaras nods, exposing his neck. A long white scar snakes from the fine, short hairs at the base of his skull, down along his spine until it disappears into the high collar of his uniform.
The gate whips up into the wall with a sound like a gunshot, tooth-like serration at its base, and Tory clenches his fists and makes himself move.
This is strategy, not surrender.
Inside, a wide path leads toward a squat, round building like a sleeping serpent, the same seamless gray stone as the wall. High, dark windows stretch across the front, but the rest of the building has only slit-like windows or none at all.
It’s nothing like homegrown Hulven. Nothing like the labor camps, either, cast in dusty browns—rickety shacks with bedrolls set edge to edge and towering fences—but it’s not altogether different. It’s another kind of cage, the precision of its construction a testament to wealth. Vantaras falls in behind Tory as he enters.
Too late, he catches the silhouette of the weapons atop the wall and sees why he couldn’t make sense of them before. They’re cannons—and they’re not pointing outside to punish intruders or escapees.
They point inward, barrels low and at rest. Glasslike circles on the sides glow with wan, eerie light as Tory passes, like empty eyes watching him.
The door falls like a guillotine as soon as they’re inside.
CHAPTER FOUR
The interior ofSTAR Compound #7 reeks of clinical cleanliness that burns Tory’s throat. Stone hallways extend in both directions. The one to his right looks marginally less miserable, so Tory goes right.
Alarm bells kick up before he’s three steps inside—a relentless clattering against his eardrums.
Vantaras claps both hands over his ears and jerks his head in the opposite direction. “Thisway.”
Tory steps back, but the alarm doesn’t stop.
A device clipped to Vantaras’ chest crackles—no doubt some newfangled invention from the big brains in the capital. A voice emits from it. “Lieutenant, report.”
Vantaras peels a hand from one ear with a glare at Tory and presses the surface of the device. “False alarm, sir. I’m taking the new Seed through Intake now.”
A long pause precedes the knife-like response: “I’ll expect an explanation.”
