Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(48)

I blinked, and as quickly as two fingers snapped together, there was a body between Callor and me, solid from the shade of the trees, skin pale, hair black as a pupil. Gooseflesh soared up my limbs.

“What the—” Callor and his companions stepped back. On the road, the mounted horseman calmed his startled gelding.

Ristriel tilted his head toward me, though his eyes remained on the Endwever riders. “Do you want to go with them?”

Such a simple question, but relief surged through my chest. “No.”

He refocused on the men. “You are not welcome here.”

“Who are you?” Grotes asked.

Callor’s hand wrapped around the hilt of a short sword at his waist. “Stand down, man. Whatever you are. This woman is of Endwever and has been returned by the Sun Himself to bless our people for our sacrifice.” My jaw set at the word our. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“No jurisdiction,” Ristriel repeated, his voice low and quiet. He took a step forward, and the three men retreated the same distance. “You walk the face of my mother and dare tell me that?”

The shade deepened, as though a second forest had sprouted around us, canopy blocking out the morning light. My lips parted as I watched it creep over the ground like oil, even lift to swallow Grotes’s shoe. He noticed and backstepped farther. The unnamed companion followed.

White gleamed all around Callor’s irises. He started to unsheathe his sword, but Ristriel’s hand flew out to stop him. I thought I saw ice crystals forming on Callor’s glove. Tendrils of darkness unfurled into the road. Callor’s horse reared and took off while the others wrestled with their own mounts.

“Go,” Ristriel whispered.

Stumbling over himself, Callor sped for the road, taking off in the direction he had come, even though his horse had run off the other way. His companions were quick to follow, though Grotes hesitated a heartbeat to look back at me.

Once they vanished around the bend, the shadows receded as though they had never been, and a few spots of Sunlight glimmered through the branches, one falling on Ristriel’s hand and turning him translucent.

Ristriel sighed before walking the way we’d been headed before.

I gaped at him and hurried to follow. “I—Thank you.”

He nodded.

I marveled. Glanced over my shoulder, but the riders were truly gone. “Ristriel, wait.”

He paused, glancing curiously at me.

So many questions pushed through my mind. “I . . . How did you . . .” The darkness had been so intense, yet casting it had seemed effortless for him. I didn’t understand the powers of godlings—few mortals could, since our scriptures didn’t focus on them.

One question dominated the others. “Why do you need me?” I asked, my bags heavy on my shoulders. “The godlings chasing you, Yar and Shu . . . have you never defended yourself against them?”

“No.” In a flash he was a hart again; I couldn’t tell if the transformation was purposeful, or what it meant. “No, I have not.”

I shook my head. “Why?”

“I do not want to hurt them.” He took a few light steps. Stopped. Studied me. “It would do no good, fighting them. I do not want to break laws. I don’t want to give them a reason to . . .” He paused, monitoring himself, and I dared not press for more, vulnerable as he was. “I only want to be free.”

His gaze shifted away. “I was created by war. Born into it. Perhaps that is why I’ve always hated it. Killing my hunters would not make me free. It would only make me hated. More would come. More will always come.”

My throat tightened. I approached him as if he were a real hart, apt to startle if I moved too brashly. “So when the godlings asked if you fight for the day or the night—”

“I have never chosen a side.” He dragged his hoof, and in my mind’s eye I saw him running his palm over the soil beneath us. “Like the Earth Mother.”

That must have been what he meant when he said, “Walk the face of my mother.” In a way, the Earth was mother to us all. Thus her name. Still, something else nagged at me. “Ristriel, how powerful are you?”

He dipped his head. “Not powerful enough. Not where it matters.”

I swallowed, trying to find a place for this new piece of Ristriel’s puzzle. “Thank you,” I said again, surprised at the emotion limning my voice. I cleared my throat. “I . . . did not want to go back.”

“You were afraid.”

I supposed I was.

“You do not need to be afraid, Ceris. Not with me.” His ear twitched.

I nodded, and we started up the road, walking in silence for several minutes. My chest squeezed, and my fingers seemed too full of energy, so I brought up our previous conversation, needing some sort of release.

“You know,” I tried, “it is not just dedicating oneself to a godling, demigod, or god that gives mortals hope.” We veered a little more from the road, giving us a line of trees for privacy, or protection. Half-decayed leaves from last autumn cushioned my footfalls. “To have hope, to be happy, you must love what’s around you. The trees, the air, the flowers, the people, the mountains and hills. All of it. The more love you have for your surroundings, the happier you will be. I think mortals appreciate the beauty of those simple things more than gods do.” I could not imagine Sun stopping to smell a peony or listen to a bluebird.