Page 62 of Cage of Starlight
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tory creeps backinto his room while Gavin’s away at breakfast. There, he finds a pile on his bed with a note. The note has no name, but the straight rows of precise, delicate lettering scream Sena.
Beneath the note is Thatcher’s cloak. Tory traces the shapes of vines sewn with such care along the bottom—kuhlu, with its serrated leaves and delicate blossoms—and his chest aches.
This seemed to be important to you,the note reads.Few of us have the ability to go to the battlefield with something that reminds us of home. There should be room in your pack if you wish to bring it. If not, hide it. Were someone to find this, it would be confiscated and incinerated.
He shoves it in his pack and readies himself to go. While the rest of the Compound’s occupants head to breakfast, around eighty Seeds march into personnel trucks and are shipped off before the sun rises above the trees.
The torturous monotony of basic training comes in handy when the personnel trucks drop them off. They walk in formation over the scrubby hills until they’re close to the border and Tory’s legs are li-
quid fire beneath him. They have their orders: they’ll continue in the general direction of the Arou Cliffs after addressing some problems in the area. Rumor has it that multiple small cells of Arlunian soldiershave pushed into Westrice, much farther than they’d usually travel. A support corps scouting team—two Porters, dressed for stealth—identified the location of one group. That group, they’re informed, will be their first target.
Just like in maneuvers, the shield corps takes the lead, prepared to repel surprise attacks. Prentice joins them, straggly hair pulled into a ponytail, and teleports short distances to examine the terrain so they don’t fall into anything unexpected. It doesn’t take him long to close in on the enemy camp: about fifty Arlunian soldiers in the forest, just beyond the tree line, he reports.
Resting.
The first attack from Tory’s unit comes from the Kineticists. It hits three infiltrators napping against a tree, killing them instantly. Then the battle begins in earnest.
Tory and the CFR unit work interference, dropping whatever attacks come close. Too many consist only of Seed energy, so Tory is left to handle them. The others crash against the forcefield the Fielders maintain. Maneuvers served them well: Tory’s unit works like they’ve been doing this for years.
In the chaos, it takes too long for Tory to notice that the Arlunian infiltrators aren’tfightingthem. They’re distracting them.
In the background, an Arlunian Porter evacuates people and stacked boxes of supplies. In a flash, Tory recognizes the text stamped on the sides:STAR-7. Perhaps these are the people who intercepted the supplies the Grand General said were stolen. The boxes disappear in clumps as the Porter flickers in and out.
Tory doesn’t say a word, doesn’t want anyone to notice, but the space behind them is getting emptier and emptier. Soon enough, someone will see.
When they do, Tory’s hands are too full deflecting a barrage of Seed energy coming from the Arlunian forces to do anything about it.
“Thatbastard,he’s getting away with all the stuff!” someone yells. Gavin, maybe. Kinetic energy builds with a crackle.
Tory gasps as an overwhelming wave of the same sort of energy builds on the Arlunian side, incandescent on the fringes of his awareness. The Arlunian Kineticists push several large rocks at Tory. They must have noticed he’s the one keeping the shields clear. But he’s already pushing a different attack away—heavier than any he’s ever held, hands literally full with it as he forces it away. He can’t help a noise of shocked horror as the rocks gain speed. They’ll tear right through him.
Protect the Fielders like your life depends on it,Menden said in training,because it will.
He hopes the shield holds up to such a concentrated attack, or he’s ground meat.
Something dark blurs in front of him before the rocks reach him, and all Tory can see is the rocks dropping midair. One of them crumbles when it comes into contact with his protector’s bare hands.
Sena?
But that’s not the only effect the interference has. Tory’s awareness of the energies around him blinks to nothingness. The section of shield in front of him crumbles away. And the kinetic attack Gavin was about to sling at the Arlunian Porter fizzles out and falls. The Porter evacuates with a great clump of boxes and a huddling group of people.
Sena turns, shoving his bare hand back into his glove and fleeing the front lines, but for a ridiculous moment, Tory can’t help wondering if he had ulterior motives for stopping the attack.
The Porter blinks back in, but Sena isn’t here to interfere this time. Before he can gather another group, a rock accelerated with a Kineticist’s energy slams through his chest.
Tory practiced every part of battle until he could’ve puked most days, but nothing prepared him for this—for the hole left behind, for snapping bones and blood flooding out to thaw the razor-cold frost on the fallen leaves. After that, it’s an easy victory.
They leave eighteen corpses, all told. When the battle is finished, Kirlov orders them to reclaim any remaining supplies and secure anything else they discover.
They retreat to an advantageous position and set up camp: flimsy tents—twelve Seeds to each with the thin rolls of bedding from their packs—and then people mill around. Near-hysterical laughter and uproarious celebrations abound. Adrenaline sharpens the world for Tory, too, but he can’t join in their happiness. This isn’t his fight. It never has been.
The look on the Arlunian Porter’s face just before he died was innocent surprise. Tory and the other Westrian Seeds wear heavy vests, but the Seeds they killed wore only tunics and olive-toned jackets to keep out the cold. No guns, no bombs. No armor. Tory has understood all his life that Westrice is not a victor. It’s a conqueror. He should not be so unsettled to see the truth in action.
“Tory!” a voice calls.
Randall scurries up, dragging the Healer from that day in the infirmary that necessitated their deployment, her dark hair swept back into a ponytail and the scar on her left cheek dimpled with a dry smile. Tory doesn’t know when he’ll stop expecting her to be covered in blood, but her clothes are clean today.
