Page 83 of Cage of Starlight
“You’re correct. It’s not a person. But you can renew it. When you heal, are you not able to sense the body’s desire to return to wholeness?”
Tory stands straighter, stiller. “Yes.”
“All living things have this intent—the instinct for restoration. When you handle the energy of the human body, you know where to send it without sight, because you speak the language of restoration. This is not human, but thelanguagewill be the same. If you let it, the energy will tell you where it wants to go. Reach out for it. Allow me to instruct you when you’re holding it.”
Tory’s hands twitch at his sides, like they did on the training field that day.
“Do not restrain yourself if you wish to reach with your hands.”
His right hand lifts. “I have it.”
“You’re certain?”
Tory nods.
“Excellent. Hold it. Give me one moment. I’m going to do something that should make it easier to sense and manipulate.”
Iri paces over the rug with its dark metallic strands woven in, and lifts the embroidered towel.
Beneath it is a branch no longer than Sena’s forearm, raised into the air at an angle by what looks to be a hurriedly hand-twisted piece of wire wedged into the barrel. The wire forms a y-hook that cups the branch at the top. It’s dead, or nearly dead, brittle-looking andgray with age. A small cup, translucent blue with an iridescent glaze, lies next to it. Iri lifts the branch and tucks the bottom into the cup.
“Oh,” Tory says. “That’s . . . that helped.”
Iri smiles. “Yes, I imagined it would. I would not ask you to do this work without assistance—it would be unnecessarily harmful to your body and in opposition to our goals. Do you understand what I meant when I spoke of restoration?”
“Yeah,” Tory says, “And . . . no. Like, I get what it . . . wants? But I don’t get it.”
Iri laughs, a dry breath of air. “It’s not asking you to understand. It’s asking you to restore. Can you do it?”
“I think so.”
“Then—”
Before Iri can say anything, Tory sets to work. Sena can’t sense the energies like Tory can, but it’s visible. The grayish branch gains color and richness and breadth. The trailing bark where it was torn from its tree goes springy rather than brittle.
And on the tips of the branches, life. Leaves, vibrant green, then flowers in full bloom, silky white with gold and pink tones at the center. It’sbeautiful.
“Stop,” Iri says.
Tory drops his hand like the branch is letting go of him, not the other way around.
He falls, hard, to one knee.
Sena hurries toward him and takes him by the shoulder. “Tory? Are you okay?”
Tory’s head hangs, face slick with cold sweat that darkens his blindfold and drips from the tip of his nose. “That was . . . really weird. I feel . . .”
“Take some time. Catch your breath. What you have done is not so simple as merely grasping or releasing common energies. This work can easily exhaust you. Restoration, after all, is against the natural flow of things.”
Tory hunches over, breathing hard.
“Do you wish to stop? I would rather not be responsible for your death. If it helps, we are nearly done. I have only one more question.”
Dragging in a breath, Tory says, “I’m okay. I’ll finish up.”
“Good.”
Tory finds his feet. “Can I take off the blindfold?”
