Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(15)

For a moment, I thought the fire around His shoulders flared, and yet His color seemed darker, like the heart of a Sunset.

Several seconds passed, neither of us touching our food.

I traced the edge of the table with my thumb. “What is it like . . .

to die?”

His diamond eyes found mine. “You are asking the wrong person, for I cannot.”

“But You have seen death,” I said, and He nodded. “Since the beginning of time—”

“I am hardly that old.” He sounded almost affronted. “Time has no beginning, regardless.”

I smiled. “For a very long time, then.”

He straightened in His chair. “Why should you ask after it, Ceris?”

“Should I not be curious about my future?”

He frowned. “I suppose.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There will be accolades for you, on Earth Mother and in the heavens. Your spirit will pass on to an elite hereafter where gods and godlings live only to serve you and your loved ones.”

“My loved ones will come as well?” I interrupted.

“Yes. Those connected to you will be shown the road to paradise upon their passing.”

Warmth not unlike my star’s bloomed in my chest. So it was all true, the fate of a blissful heaven. I would see my family again. I would see Caen, too, if he chose that path. And why would he not?

“Your body will be sent back to your home, crowned with treasures of gratitude. You will be honored among your people. That is the way.”

I clasped my hands together. I knew my fate, but it did not yet seem real to me. But His words were . . . comforting. “Thank you.

May I postpone the end of our meal with one more inquiry?”

He waited for the question, ever patient.



“What will she be like, when she is born?”

Turning His plate a few degrees, the Sun said, “You believe her to be a girl?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if it was merely a desire for the child to be like myself or mother’s intuition. I was new to all of this.

He considered for a moment, long enough that I took a few more bites of my meal. “I do not know if you will be coherent enough to know.”

“All the more reason for You to tell me.”

He almost smiled at that, but His diamond eyes shimmered in a sad way—not that a god made of fire would be able to weep.

“It will be bright and brilliant,” He finally answered. “But it will be painful.”

I set down my fork, my throat tightening once more. After a few heartbeats of silence, I asked, “Will she see my face?”

His countenance softened. “They always do.”

I nodded and sliced into a piece of meat, but my appetite had waned. I expected death would come quickly—mortals were not made to survive such things. But I wished with all my heart that I would be able to claw on to life long enough to see my baby’s face.

To hold her. To know her.

“I will tell them,” the Sun started carefully, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts, “that Ceris Wenden was wise beyond her years, brash, and yet oddly delightful. And that she loved her star with all she was.”

A grin parted my lips, and I blinked back a tear. “I would be happy with that.”

It is a woman’s intuition to recognize labor, even when it’s new to her body, so when the first, subtle contraction rippled across my abdomen, I stopped to listen. My tapestry was finished—I’d made quick work of it, with little else to do—and I was nearly done with an elegant border of honeysuckle wrapping around the edges when the first pain came.

The second was stronger, and the third even more so. By the fourth, I knew something was wrong. Not wrong, but not normal, for a woman’s labor should come neither so fast nor so angrily. I had seen babies born in the village, and the midwife had chatted with me as she helped me make the linen for my dress, so of this, I was sure.

I stood, the contractions sudden and quick, each like a punch to the gut. With every tightening of my stomach, I felt a heat beyond my own, like coals dancing within my belly.

My star. My star was coming.

It panicked me so greatly I did not stop to think that I stood on death’s door, or that the creature inside of me would rip me apart as its brothers and sisters had to their mothers before it. But I knew this being, this child, who had kept me company these last nine months, was ready to be known. And would, hopefully, see my face and hear my voice before my body released my spirit into paradise.

I made my way to my not-door, hunched, and opened it into the not-hallway that reached nowhere and everywhere, and cried, “The star is coming!”

Had I known those four simple words would give me such attention, I would have shouted them my first week in the palace.

Godlings descended upon me. Elta and Fosii were among them —they had been hovering for the last three weeks, knowing my time was near. Others were complete strangers. The great and bizarre palace moved and shifted around me, as though a womb in and of itself, and I found myself in a room not unlike my own. But this place felt more solid, the not-walls fully opaque, leaning in as though to better see me. And yet the space opened wide above me, no ceiling but endless stars and galaxies, colors and shapes I could not then, at that time, name. Not unlike the Sun’s room, which I had only entered once.