Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(13)

Were I meeting with a mortal lord, I would be bathed and oiled, my hair carefully coifed, my eyes lined with kohl, and my cheeks peppered red. I’d wear layer after layer of the finest clothes I owned, plus some lace or whatever other niceties we had to spruce them up. We’d massage butter into my hands and file my nails. I’d chew on parsley for my breath and rehearse every word I might possibly utter.

Here, I wore shoes and a long cape pinned to my shoulders. Elta braided my hair and saw to it that I was comfortable. And that was all.

Odd, that I would put in so much less effort for a god than for a man. But as I’d learned in a thousand different ways, the laws of the heavens were quite different than those of men.

“When the Sun doesn’t shine on Helchanar,” I said, trying to stave off nerves as I awaited my appointment, “He shines on the other side of the world.”

Elta nodded.

“Then how is He ever here?”

She smiled at me like I was a child. Compared to her, I suppose I was. “Satto is a god,” she explained, using a name common among the palace godlings. “His ways cannot always be comprehended by mortals.” She put up both hands. “Not to insult your intelligence. But He can split Himself, in a sense.” She paused, likely trying to simplify the explanation. “He can leave His brightness in the sky if matters must be addressed elsewhere. He is fully cognizant in both forms, but He is not His whole self. It does make Him more susceptible to harm.”

I sat straighter. “Harm?”

Elta clicked her tongue. “Do you think mortals are the only ones who suffer war?”

I mulled this over, imagining what a battle among gods must be like. Elta tidied the room and let me be.

It didn’t take long for my nerves to catch up with me. I was about to sit down to dinner with the most powerful being I knew. A being I had slept with, and yet felt no intimacy with. But He was the father of my child.

I brushed thoughts of Caen away and walked to the not-door. The palace knew my purpose, and so it did not open to the usual long, contorted hallway, but to a large room seemingly without enclosure. A crystalline table about six feet long lay ahead of me, covered in serving platters. A godling set down the last tray of food, and I noticed it was all mortal—roasted pheasant, an animal I didn’t recognize stuffed with apples and spices, pies and cakes, creamy soup, two different kinds of bread already sliced, a myriad of jams and spreads. It all had the same crystalline sheen as my skin.

My stomach rumbled, and the godling glided away as though made of cloud.

There were two chairs, one on each end of the table, and I sat down, gazing at the food. It smelled wonderful. My own wedding feast would not have been as grand.

The Sun did not keep me waiting, so thankfully my thoughts didn’t linger on the life I had left behind. He appeared, utterly radiant and beautiful, His power as constrained as a god’s power could be. He again had taken the form of a man, but something about Him, so regal and fierce, still reminded me of a lion. A lion on fire that didn’t burn, and I wondered how utterly lucent He would be if He had not diminished Himself to meet with me. For surely He was divided as Elta had explained, else somewhere in the world, millions of people were missing their day.

I thought of His touch against my skin and shivered.

He didn’t mean to hurt you, I reminded myself, but my body remembered the agony regardless.

The Sun took a seat at the other end of the table. “Ceris.” He nodded to me.

I nodded back. Once He reached for a piece of bread, I began to help myself. Whatever I wanted suddenly became within my reach, and soon my plate was full of food. My stomach was tight with trepidation, but both my star and I were hungry, so I spooned soup into my mouth. It was warm and light and slid pleasantly down my throat.

We ate in silence for a little while, long enough for me to finish most of my soup and start on the pheasant. Hating the quiet, especially since I so rarely had company, I asked, “Do gods need to eat?”

The Sun looked up at me, His diamond eyes brilliant and mesmerizing. “Need, no. But We enjoy the same pleasures as mortals. I do, at least.”

I nodded.

He considered me a moment. “I hear you’ve depicted Me in bundles of yarn.”

Again, my new form kept me from flushing, but I felt the heat of the statement. “N-Not yarn, Your Majesty. Threads . . . an embroidery. A story for the eyes. For my star. Our star. So that she—or he—might one day look at it and know me, in a way.”

The Sun nodded, His eyes cast down to the meal before Him. “I see.”

Silence floated between us. I took a few bites of a honey cake before speaking again. “What were they like, the star mothers before me?”

He did not look up from His plate. “There were many before you, Ceris. The same number as the stars.”

I looked up at the night sky, taking in the expanse of stars. The moon was never there—I hadn’t seen the moon in five months.

“The last few, then,” I pressed. “What were they like?”

The Sun set down His utensils and folded His fiery hands beneath His chin. “Must you ask?”

“Must I not?” I countered.

He pressed His lips together for a few heartbeats before speaking. “I would do a poor job of answering. I could tell you their names, but I know very little about them.”

A new pang echoed in my chest. “Why?”