Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(33)

We stepped into the forest, though the trees were thinner and farther apart than they had been before, as though a fire had swept through some hundred years ago. The terrain was flatter as well, which made for easier travel.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“To Nediah?” Ristriel was about to step through a tree, then stopped himself and walked around it instead. “Two hundred forty-three miles and a third.”

My pace slowed. “That’s incredibly specific.” He didn’t have so much as a compass on him, let alone a map.

“I have watched Earth Mother turn for a long time.”

There was no mirth in the statement. It was as though he were remembering something unhappy, like the death of a loved one or the loss of a home. I wondered at it, but he closed into himself, shifting back into a horse. Though, by his size, he was more of a pony.

He didn’t appear to notice he had shifted. And for some odd reason, it felt cruel to point it out to him.





CHAPTER 11

I found some spring tubers along our way and pulled them, explaining to Ristriel that while I had some money, it was best to be self-sufficient. I showed him what edible plants I managed to find, and for the rest of the day, he pointed out any he saw as we walked, for in his Sunlit state, he wasn’t able to pick any of them. We made camp in the evening, and when night fell, he shifted into a midnight wolf and raced out into the forest, returning an hour later with a hare.

I thanked him, and he watched me in wonder as I pulled out a knife to skin it.

Preparing animals for meals was something I had done often in Endwever—rabbits, squirrel, or fowl. But when I pierced my knife through the hare’s hide and drew it down, that same burning shiver from days before coursed up my spine, and I dropped both tool and catch together, my hands shaking.

It had felt like that. The birth of my star. Like someone had stabbed me with a knife and cut me open head to hip.

“You’re hurt.” The wolf stepped closer. He sniffed my hands, but the only blood on them was from my dinner.

“No.” I wiped my fingers on the wild grass and then hugged myself. “No, I’m not. I just . . . remembered something.”

Ristriel lifted his head, eyes meeting mine. “Remembering can be the worst kind of hurt.”

I rolled my lips together. Swallowed. “I think you are right.”

“I will keep you safe, Ceris.”

I smiled and, forgetting myself, reached out to scratch behind his ear as though he were any tame dog. He dropped his muzzle, silent, but leaned into my touch.

After a moment he pulled away into a band of moonlight, and suddenly there was a human hand reaching for the knife. “I can do it,” he said, every bit the man he’d been before, but this time he was solid through and through. So close, so physical, I noticed he smelled like a winter storm. Like the stillness and cold before the snow fell.

“I can manage,” I insisted, but I didn’t reach for the hare.

He glanced at me with those ever-dark eyes, waiting for me to resist. When I didn’t, he took the hare and made quick work of it. His cuts weren’t the neatest, but it didn’t matter—the pelt was too thin to sell, anyway.

“You can manage it,” he said softly once he’d finished with the hare, set it over the fire, and washed his hands with collected stream water. “Manage it, escape it, or grow with it. Pain, I mean.” I noticed the fire didn’t reflect in his eyes. “But you can’t forget it. Even if you could, you would lose the strength it gave you. There is always strength in pain. It’s small and it’s hidden, but it’s always there.”

My lips parted, but no sound passed them. I felt like the hare once more—opened up, the excess stripped away to reveal what lay underneath. It hurt, but not like a wound. Like a balm that stung once applied, but would hasten healing.

Shifting close to me, Ristriel gingerly took my heel in his palm; I’d taken off my shoes while he was out. When I didn’t protest, he pulled off my wool sock and turned my foot so we could both see the red spot on my heel, where the shoe had chafed during our long walk.

“Our souls are like blisters,” he said, a whisper of smile flavoring the words. “The irritant, the hardship, the pain, will make your skin tougher. Stronger.” He delicately touched the sore spot. “But take that away, and you take away the growth.”

He set my foot down like it were made of glass. Reaching forward, I grasped his hand. He studied my fingers for several heartbeats before he met my eyes.

“Thank you.” I swallowed to keep my emotions at bay, though tears threatened the corners of my eyes. I would remember the

metaphor of the blister for years—centuries—to come. “Thank you, for saying that.”

We finished roasting the hare in silence. I had no salt to season it, but it was warm and filled my belly. And this time, when I offered a portion to Ristriel, he accepted it, marveling at the glistening meat as though I had bequeathed him a bar of gold.

I woke on my own to early morning birds chirping in the boughs overhead. The sky was still dark, but the dawn seemed close.

Ristriel was awake, a wolf again, prowling around our campsite, standing guard. He rustled through uneven patches of long grass in the small glade, the blades towering over the shy grass of early spring.

I grabbed my second dress and a bar of soap. “I’m going to wash in that pond we passed.”