Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(4)

For no mortal woman could survive the birthing of a star. Once a woman left to be a star mother, she always returned nine months later, her body cold but strewn with heavenly treasures, a smile on her face. Or so it was said. It happened infrequently, only once every hundred or so years, so tales were all we had to go on.

The call had gone out, and we could not be long in answering it.

No one wanted to test the patience of the Sun, who could burn all of Helchanar with a touch, if He so wished.

The women gathered on the second day. There were twenty-seven women in Endwever of childbearing age. Some of them were already married, but the honor of being a star mother was so great even married women could volunteer. Our meeting had not yet officially begun, and already the women whispered to one another about who was worthy, quoting scripture and gossiping. I listened with only half an ear. Having worshiped the Sun all my life, I knew of the honors, the promises. But my path was already set before me. I would marry Caen, have a mortal family, lead a mortal life, and die as any mortal would.

“Gretcha would be well for it,” the midwife whispered to Gretcha’s mother, though Gretcha, a year my junior, stood right beside her and could hear every word. “She is fair and unspoken for.”

Gretcha’s mother startled at the notion, but Gretcha did not. She took the suggestion reverently. There were not a lot of eligible bachelors in these parts; towns were small, with wide spaces between them. What better future could a young girl hope for than to be chosen by a god?

Jani, the herbalist, wished it could be her and said so over and over again. Her husband had passed away the year before, and she hungered for the salvation guaranteed to a star mother and, so it was said, her family. But Jani’s youngest child was already older than I was. The torch had been lit too late for her.

While the talk went on, I surveyed the familiar faces and found one missing. Idlysi was not here, though both Pasha, my baby sister, and my mother were present. Curious, I slipped away from the delegation and returned to our home, where I found her in our shared bedroom, cocooned in blankets, staring wistfully out the window.

“Lys?” I approached her.

She must have been lost in thought, for she tensed when I spoke. “Leave me alone.”

“But the torch—”

“I know about the torch!” she shrieked, then cowered into her blankets, apology written in her eyes. “How could I not know? I can feel it, even here!” She shook her head. “Pasha is young yet, and you are spoken for. I’m a prime candidate, aren’t I?”

Her fear struck me like a dull knife running the length of my breastbone. “Idlysi, they will only take a volunteer—”

“And what if no one volunteers?” she whispered, pulling her blanket-covered fist to her mouth, pressing it against her teeth.

I gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and touched her foot. She shrunk from me. “Why would no one volunteer? It’s a glorious path to have.”

But my sister bowed her head. “Is it so glorious, to die?”

“The spirit never dies.” It was a verbatim quote from scripture.

She shook her head like we spoke different languages and shifted her gaze back to the window. In an attempt to comfort her, I said, “I think it will be Gretcha.”

Idlysi drew in a shuddering breath. “I hope so.”

Pressing my lips together—I was unsure what else to say—I let her be. I did not return to the meeting, but to the beading on my wedding dress, which hung from a dress form in my parents’

bedchamber.

My heart twisted inside me as I worked on the gown. Was I na?ve, to believe scripture? To believe the promises passed down from the generations before us? Or was it merely easy to believe because I knew someone else would volunteer and it was not a decision I would be forced to make?

I wondered what would happen if no one volunteered. Would the Sun punish us? Would He turn away?

Or was Idlysi right? Would one of our women be forced to go?

Eager for distraction, I focused on the task at hand. My wedding dress was simple but lovely, cut from linen I’d woven with the aid of the village midwife and edged with lace I’d braided myself. I thought to try it on, but found I could not pull it from the dress form.

Instead, I went to visit Caen.

It was just past noon. The village was eerily quiet, the women’s meeting having adjourned, families sheltering in their homes instead of completing their daily labors. Even the birds withheld their song, and the hounds their play. My footsteps felt unnaturally loud, and I slowed to quiet them.

I spotted Caen’s profile on his back step, his head in his hands, the shadow of the forest across his lap. I paused, breath catching against a great rising ache within me. He looked so sorrowful, so stooped, so small. I approached with care.

“Caen?” I asked.

I startled him. His head shot up, eyes like a child’s, wild until they found me and softened. “Ceris.” His voice was rough.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded, but the way he sat said otherwise. I lowered myself beside him on the step and ran my palm down the length of his back.

Felt his spine move as he breathed.

“I am afraid,” he admitted.

“We all are. One never believes lore and legend will come alive before their eyes.”

He leaned into me, and I relished his weight. I brushed my fingers through the ends of his hair, cut across the nape of his neck.