Page 59 of Cage of Starlight
They must think so, too, because he doesn’t see the last blow coming.
*
Tory blinks awake to pressure on the side of his face and a pair of appraising amber-brown eyes. A blurred figure crouches beside him. His world rocks as a hand tips his chin this way and that.
“Unequal dilation,” a familiar, dry voice observes, “and sustained loss of consciousness. You really did it this time, didn’t you, Arknett?”
Tory groans, head throbbing.
Sena Vantaras is the last thing he needs. Clever stories about Seeds and trees or no, it’s hard enough to deal with the guy when Tory’s operating at peak condition.
“Go ’way,” he says.
He thinks he says it, at least. His tongue pulses with pain, sausage-sized in his mouth. But it doesn’t matter if he spoke clearly. He at least made an unhappy noise.
He gets no response except thatstare.
“. . . to Jeffra, just in case,” Vantaras is saying. “Can you stand?”
Tory grunts, hoping Vantaras will take the hint. When he gets closer instead of farther away, Tory licks dried blood from his lips and puts effort into enunciation. “Back . . .off.”
Raising a curious eyebrow, Vantaras does, standing and retreating until his back presses against the other shed’s wall.
Tory takes stock of his injuries. His head is a spongy mass of agony, and he thinks he might have done something to his ankle. All other pains are secondary, but his ribs, stomach, and back have a few things to say when he tries to sit.
He sucks a breath through clenched teeth as he pulls his knees up, testing his ability to put weight on his right ankle.
The ankle is having none of it.
Vantaras crosses his arms as Tory slides up the shed, pushing with his left leg and right arm until at last he’s upright. Burnt orange and purple clouds beyond the Compound’s wall indicate that it’s probably past dinner time, damn it. He’ll be lucky to catch a shower tonight.
Without warning, the sun sinks. The earth goes muddy and liquid, and he’s freefalling.
A startled curse bursts out beside him, and something catches him under his arms.
“I suppose that answers my question.”
As the haziness fades, he finds the sun is, in fact, still setting, the ground is solid, and his cheek is squished against the buttons of Sena Vantaras’ uniform.
“Now.Can you stand by yourself?”
That’s Hasra’s question. Hasra—glitter smeared over her cheekbones, pipe-smoke spice, and lullabies murmured when she thinks he’s asleep. His chest aches, deeper than the pain from bruised ribs, and he remembers her eyes when he left her behind for the second time.
The hands under his arms hike him up higher. “I’ll be taking you to Mrs. Jeffra. If you feel confident in your ability to make it there without assistance, I’d be happy to leave you here.”
“Ankle,” Tory mumbles. The grass under his feet sags, gray-brown and trampled. “Can’t put weight on it.”
Vantaras looks down to where Tory’s right foot hovers over the ground. “All right, then.” He moves to Tory’s right side, then positions one arm around his shoulder, tugging one of Tory’s arms across his back. “This will have to do. Tell me when you’re ready to move.”
“Just move.”
“You’ll get yourself killed like this.”
Tory is uniquely skilled atnotdying, thanks very much, it’s just that Vantaras ruined his lifetime record of avoiding unfortunate run-ins with authority figures, so really it’s his fault that Tory ended up like this, isn’t it?
Vantaras gives Tory a second to get used to standing before he takes a step. Tory follows, nearly landing them on their faces. A few more tries, and their steps are more coordinated.
“Do you know who did this?”
