Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(14)

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?”

He met my eyes fully. “I do not revel in their deaths. Mortal life is so fleeting, but it is still life. It is still gone, when a star is born.”

I studied His face, which seemed to become more human the longer I looked. My shoulders slumped. “Why must the stars be born? Why must their numbers always be the same?”

He investigated me like I was a book in a foreign language.

Even from across the table, He seemed very close, like He could simply reach out and turn one of my pages. “Stars were one of the first things the universe created. They are the source of its power, and Mine. Starlight is the reason the worlds spin and move through the heavens. The reason the tides rise and fall, the reason rain falls and fire burns. Without stars, the rest of it ceases to exist.”

I had never considered this, and my food went untouched for a full minute while my mind tried to grasp His meaning. “Does not the Earth Mother turn Herself? Or Tereth move the tides?”

“You asked Me if gods eat. No. Not in the way mortals do.” He lowered His hands to the table. “But We, too, survive on starlight.

The Earth Mother would not turn without the stars. The Sun would not burn. Even those who devour darkness would be unable to do so without the stars.”

A heavy breath escaped me. “I see.”

“When even one star dies, there is suffering. Thus it has been given to Me, and mortals, to keep the stars burning.”

“If the universe made them”—I chose each word carefully —“then why not make them immortal as well?”

His lip ticked, like what I’d said was amusing. “If it had the ability to create an endless source of power, it would have done so. Stars are the most noble of godlings. They burn brilliantly and nourish everything around them. But everything we are given comes at a cost. In order for stars to give of themselves, they must be able to die. That is why they must be born of a mortal.”

My mind traced back to our earlier topic. “How many star mothers before me?”

Any mirth the Sun felt dissipated.

I cleared my throat and took my questions another direction.

“How often does a star die?”

The god looked away from me, taking another piece of bread that He didn’t eat onto His plate. “It depends. Fifty years might go by, or two hundred. The universe is not cruel.”

I took another sip of soup and washed it down with too-sweet wine. Once my palate was clear, I said, “The star mothers are mortals, but their passing hurts You. That’s why You don’t get close to them.”

The Sun did not answer.

I picked at my food but didn’t raise any of it to my mouth. “May I . . . May I speak freely, Your Majesty?”

His lip quirked. “You have not asked for permission before now.”

“Then I have it.”

He nodded.

“I think that is selfish.”

His reaction was subtle: the slight lifting of His head, the tightening of the corners of His eyes. “Is it.” It was more a statement than a question.

“We give our lives for the stars. For You.” I measured each word carefully. “Our lives are fleeting, yes, but they are worthy. Is it so much to ask, to be remembered?” My throat closed, and I swallowed to force it open. “A gift of remembrance, from the greatest being in the universe.”

“I am not the greatest,” He whispered.

“To us, You are,” I pressed. “When You dine with a future star mother, and she asks, ‘Tell me about the others,’ I want You to say my name and where I came from. I want You to tell her about me.”

He studied me for a breath before asking, “And what would I tell her?”

I placed my fork beside my plate and folded my hands in my lap, reflecting on that. “You should tell her that I spoke out of turn often, and I made poor replicas of Your face in string, but that I was kind to Your servants and spoke my mind. You should . . . You should tell them what You think of me, Your Highness. You should speak of me fondly. As the bringer of a star. As the mother of Your child.”

He considered this a long moment. Dropped His gaze. “You are right, of course.”

“I am not stupid,” I added. “I know You are the Sun. I know You have great responsibility and great power and do not have the time to learn every intricacy of who I am. But neither should You shy away from me because my death makes You sad.”