Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(37)

Another part of me wanted to stay far, far away.

I did not, and still do not, blame Sun for the pain of being a star mother. I had consented to all of it. I had known the sacrifice, as far as a na?ve mortal could understand such a thing. And I loved our child—Surril—even though she was far away and bodiless, a star in a sea of so many. As Sun would say, our union was the way of the universe. It was no more His fault than it was mine.

But that could not change how it had affected me, changed me, aged me. I believed Him when He said it would not hurt were we to . . . perform that act again. It might even be enjoyable. But His offer was not merely about sex. And I could not comprehend how an all-powerful god, a being I had worshiped since childhood, could want me with any sort of romantic fervor. Indeed, I was not certain our brief conversation had not been a fever dream.

Surril. I pushed away the confusing thicket of thoughts to focus on my daughter’s name. Surril. It was strange and beautiful, and I could not wait for night to fall so that I might say her name to her face, regardless of the miles and miles between us.

I wondered, Did she know my name as well?

“You are going the wrong way.”

The voice scared me so much that I jumped and fell to one knee, only to leap up again and spin, my bags carrying my momentum and turning me too far.

Ristriel was there behind me, ghostly indigo, in the shape of a human man, though his features were not as sharp as they could be.

He added, “You are headed toward Terraban, though it would take you three months to get there, and you would have to swim.”

I had never heard of such a place. For a moment I could find no words; my voice lost to the waves of shock and anger and betrayal warring within me, so deep and wild I was drowning in them, swimming in every wrong direction possible.

His color lost opaqueness. “You are angry with me.”

I gaped, choked, and sputtered out, “Wh-Where did you go?”

Shoulders slumping, he knelt in the foliage before me. “I did not mean to break my promise. But I am here now, and you are unharmed.”

“Ristriel, stand up.”

“I had to flee when I sensed Him coming. He is powerful. He cannot find me from the sky when I am like this”—he lifted an ethereal hand—“but down here, I feared He would sense me. So I ran.”

I stared at him for several heartbeats.

He feared Sun? But then, I supposed on this end of the universe, Sun lorded over everyone. He was the ultimate judge, the ultimate penalty.

“Ristriel.”

He looked up at me.

I pressed my lips together. He looked so pitiful like that, so afraid. “What did you escape from?”

Lowering his eyes, he again did not answer me.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “How can I trust you if you will not trust me?”

His gaze lifted up enough to fall on my hand. Or, perhaps, on the ring on my finger, lined with amber.

Speaking so softly I could barely hear him, he said, “My oath is intact. I will take you to Nediah. I will protect you. I am sorry.”

He was still kneeling before me, head slightly tipped. Even the people of Endwever had not genuflected so lowly.

Anger dissipating, I approached him and crouched down to his level. “Do you remember your lesson to me yesterday, about being godly?”

He slowly met my eyes.

“You tell me to behave as though I am better than the people around me, but what about you?”

He blinked at me, confused.

I lifted my hand to his arm, but my fingers passed through him.

“I was confused, and scared, and angry. Yes. But you are a godling, Ristriel. And as you said, your oath is intact.”

He didn’t respond.

Taking a more direct approach, I said, “Do you not know your own worth?”

His lips parted as though he wanted to answer, but no sound came from him. He looked into my eyes, his expression almost childlike, and my heart sank as I tried to picture what sort of place he had escaped. What torments would it take to convince a powerful godling that he was something less than a celestial being? For it was evident from the way Ristriel spoke, the way he moved, the way he transformed, that he did not understand his own greatness. No mortal should ever have to be convinced they were worthy of every breath they took, and no celestial being should have to, either.

I had seen Yar and Shu in Sun’s palace. I did not think they were prison guards.

Ristriel did not answer, so I asked another question, one that stemmed from the unease in my gut. “The Sun knows you?” Sun did not know half of His own servants, so why should Ristriel stick in His memory?

Ristriel looked away. He began to shift into something equine.

“Ristriel, you are safe with me.” Perhaps using his own words would inspire trust.

His shifting reverted until he was a man-shaped spirit once more. “Yes.”

I studied his eyes. “Do you know how to lie, Ristriel?”

He leaned back, surprised, and color firmed his features, almost enough to make him appear solid. “I have never lied to you, Ceris.”

“Then tell me, will you hurt me?”

He shook his head. “Never. You have been . . . kind to me.”

Those simple words struck me like a well-aimed mallet. “Will you not tell me where you came from?”

He set his jaw.

My fists tightened on the straps of my bags, then relaxed. “I believe you. And I will not hurt you, either.”