Page 85 of Cage of Starlight
Sena shakes his head and backs up. “I’ve never—”
Duration has never been a consideration. His focus has been on never using his abilities, and his uses of them, otherwise, have been instinctual. Fine control was never part of the process. No one, not even Sena, thought he was capable of it.
“You have the inkhstone,” Iri says, and now his voice is softer. He’s looking at Sena like he understands the fear pinging around inside him. Maybe he does. “It’s all right. You won’t harm anyone here. Tory is off the training blanket, see?” Iri gestures to where he’s still leaning against the tree. “Watch this.”
Iri hits his flint thumb-rings together and makes a massive fireball from the sparks. “Even if you tried to hurt him . . .” He flings the fire at Tory before Sena can stop him, and the ball blinks out midair at the rim of the training rug. That’s when he sees it. At regular intervals along the rug are thick chunks of inkhstone in hammered metal settings. Dark chain is woven along the blanket’s edge, connecting one inkhstone to the next. “Like I said. Inkhstone is a dampener. In direct contact, it dampens a Seed’s power. When arranged in a ring, it creates a barrier. The ring on this training blanket meansnooutside energy can get in and no energy inside it can get out.” His expression twists. “Not even fire. I will leave the ring. Please.” He gestures at the flower. “The inkhstone in your hand will be doing its work as well. You have no reason to fear.”
Sena extends a bare fingertip to touch the flower. It’s a bright thing, purplish-blue and dense—many-petaled, like a crumpled silk napkin. It’s cool to the touch, its smell lightly sweet.
“As slowly as you can,” Iri says again.
Sena touches it and pushes his energy into it tentatively.
Instantly, the flower grows small, brittle, grayish-brown, and flakes away like ash. Sena jerks back, broken ribs sending a bolt of pain through him. Iri, even though he’s outside the circle, jerks away, too.
“Oh, dear,” he says. Setting down his teapot, his wristlet, and the potted plant along the way, he tucks the remaining flowers into his pocket and returns to the small black bowl, grabbing one morestone and bringing it over. “All right. Another,” Iri says. “One in each hand.”
The next flower takes maybe two seconds to become like the first.
Gaping, Iri pushes the whole bowl at Sena. It contains maybe six or so more inkhstones. Even in the morning light, they glitter like a profusion of starry nights. “More. Try again.”
Four stones. Six.
With six, the decay is slower, and Sena winces, watching the bloom close and grow brown and spill its seeds. The leaves wither and crinkle and crumble. In less than a minute, it’s dust.
Iri lets out a blistering string of curses before dropping the last two stones into Sena’s over-filled hands and retreating. “I don’thaveany more, and I refuse to destroy the training rug, so this had better work.”
On his way back, he lifts the branch Tory returned to health. Sena’s stomach sinks. The blossoms are still breathtaking and fragrant with life, the end still wet with the muddy water that fed it. Again, he places it in the hook.
“Try again,” he says.
“But . . .”
“This branch will not grow roots if replanted. Whether you or the natural flow of time ends it, the thing will not survive. It was . . . a good luck charm I took from my favorite tree back home before coming to your country. It has faded since I cut it. Allow it to serve one last time.” An open-handed gesture at the branch. “As slowly as you can. Watch.”
Before he begins, Sena shifts all the stones to his right hand. With his left, he traces the blooms, inhales the subtle sugary-sweetness of them. They’re water-soft. He sighs. Cups the stones tight in his righthand. Sena whispers, “Sorry,” and he touches the textured wood of the branch.
At first, nothing happens. The blooms shift, maybe. Sena turns, withdrawing his hand.
“Keep going.”
He does, and indeed, his power is doing its work with brutal slowness. The beautiful petals flutter down or curl up on the branch and brown. But—
The center of the flowers grows rounder, redder, larger. Then larger still. The leaves shift from delicate spring green and unfurl, expand, flourish. In half a minute, greenish fruits the size of a bird’s egg wait on the branch. By a minute, they’re white and lightly furred, with a pinkish-orange that turns deep red where they meet the branch, and as large as Sena’s fist.
“Stop,” Iri says at last. With the quirk of a roguish smile, he brings the bowl over again. “Pick them. Put them in here.”
Reflexively, struck speechless, Sena does. Iri retreats outside the circle again, bowl tucked against his chest, and bites into a blood-peach, smearing his lips with its shocking red juice. “Continue,” he says around the fruit.
Sena continues. The leaves grow wide and dusty green, then vibrant red, then brown. By two minutes, the branch has crumpled into brittle chunks on the pedestal to join the dust of the dead flowers.
Tory stares, mouth open, eyes bright.
Iri cocks a grin at Sena and raises an eyebrow.
Sena looks at his hands, full of stars, and his eyes burn with inexplicable tears. He finds the fruit, fresh and fleshy and beautiful, waiting outside the ring.
“Hungry?” Iri asks. Without waiting for a reply, he throws one at Sena. Sena barely catches it, fumbling the pink-white peach against his chest and bruising it. It’s a little too ripe.
