Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(3)

So I trotted across town to his home, climbed up his woodpile, and rapped on his window, quietly, for he shared his room with two others. His bed was closest to the pane, so I felt confident in my sneakiness.

But Caen’s head didn’t appear behind the glass, and no candles lit within. I knocked again, louder. Then a third time.

Color appeared behind the dark glass, and the pane opened, but it was Todrick, Caen’s baby brother, only twelve years old. He blinked sleepily at me. “Oh, Ceris”—he thickened my name with his lisp—“he’s not here. He’s out in the wood somewhere.”

I blinked. “Out in the wood?”

Todrick shrugged and closed the pane, for there was a slight chill in the air, and he clearly wished to return to the warmth of his bed.

Concerned, I clutched my embroidery to my chest and wrapped around the house, peering into the south wood. It was summer, the leaves still bright and green. I knew it wasn’t wise to venture into the wood at night—there were wolves and godlings, though the latter were rare—but Caen also knew not to wander deeply, which meant he couldn’t be far off. I followed the worn dirt path left by many members of his family, passing a little shrine to the Earth Mother, and pushed myself between the trees beside it, walking among them until the brush around my hips grew thick. I didn’t go far before I saw a lamplight ahead and heard murmuring voices. Creeping as close as I could without detection, I stuffed my embroidery into my mouth and climbed a tree for a better look.

I couldn’t make out what they were saying, only a word here and there, but it was Caen and Anya, the weaver’s daughter. I wasn’t surprised to see them together; they had been good friends since childhood, and I’d often suspected Anya of harboring feelings for Caen.

I’d just never thought he’d reciprocate.

She held the lamp. He bent low, talking close to her ear. I heard my name a couple of times, saw Caen caress the side of Anya’s face. That was all he did, for I stayed up in that tree until long after the two parted. Their voices were laced with regret and sadness and love, but I knew them both, and they were too good in their hearts for a tryst. They would neither shame their parents nor break my heart.



But after that night, it started splintering.

He will learn to love me, I told myself again and again. I had learned to love him. He just needed more time.

After that, I doubled my efforts. Brought Caen larger lunches, showed him the embroidery, and made him laugh. I put more time into my wedding dress, perhaps thinking that if the gods saw my dedication, they might be willing to help turn my betrothed’s heart away from the weaver’s daughter.

But once I knew, I saw his sorrow whenever Anya passed by, and her ache during noon worship. Their pain mirrored inside me.

I’m not sure they noticed. I hope they didn’t. For even if I could be selfless enough to give up Caen, the choice wasn’t mine to make.

Our parents had bound us together when we were little more than children, under the eyes of the Sun. They would never tolerate a parting. All of the arrangements had been made, and our cottage was nearly finished.

I looked forward to the future, to having Caen as my husband and babes scattered around our little cottage. Babes I would love with all the love within me. Babes I would never forsake no matter how old they grew, or who they were promised to. I wanted to give them everything my parents had failed to give me. I wanted a place to call home, and people who would be mine as I was theirs.

I avoided wondering if Caen would still look at the weaver’s daughter with such anguish, even with our children sitting in his lap.

At her, or at the memory of her, should she leave. I avoided it, and yet in the minutes before falling asleep, when my mind was its weakest, the worries surfaced, churning and bitter, and I was afraid.

It was only a few months before my twentieth birthday when the Sun reached down and lit the torch upon the roof of the cathedral. A torch wide as a man lying down and deep as a child standing up, kept filled with wood and oil.

It had never once been lit, in all the centuries the cathedral watched over Endwever.

The torch burst alight just an hour after dawn one morning, and stayed alight long after the fuel ran out. The flames burned higher and brighter than any man-made fire, for the Sun Himself had reached down and touched the fuel, though none had seen His finger.

The faithful knew what this meant, once we were done reeling from the spectacle, reeling from being chosen. A star had died, and the Sun had turned His eyes toward Endwever for its replacement.

Stars are perhaps the most powerful of godlings, which makes them incredibly long-lived. But unlike demigods like the moon, or full gods like the Sun, they are not immortal.

They are children of the Sun, and can only be born through a mortal mother.

I sat in a tree not far from my home, staring at the flames crowning the cathedral. They heated the cathedral beyond a bearable temperature, so no one could enter, and yet none of the stone or glass had scorched. The whole town was bathed in warmth.

A meeting among the men had already been called, but there would be another for the women. There would have to be, for only a woman of childbearing years could appease the will of the Sun.

It was a great honor to be a star mother. Though Endwever had never been chosen before, tales were whispered of star mothers from other places, sometimes in other towns or cities in Helchanar, sometimes in the lands beyond our borders. There were poems about them, songs, tapestries. The star mother’s home would be greatly blessed, and her name would be woven with praise and admiration. Her face would be numbered among the stars, and her rest would be heavenly and eternal, in a paradise beyond what any mortal mind could conjure.