Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(48)

Ristriel nodded, his hoof-falls soundless. “This is true. Many godlings prefer to live in peace, if they choose a domain, as you call it, on the Earth Mother. Else they might attract unwanted followers.”

I understood that.

“Some want the followers, however. There are godlings who make themselves very well known. People build shrines to them and give them offerings, often without asking for anything in return. There is something peculiar about human beings and their need to worship.

Their need to find hope outside themselves.”

I rolled the jerky between my fingers. “It isn’t a bad thing, to seek hope when you cannot find it within yourself.”

“No, it is not. We have both done so.”

I glanced at him. I understood my hopes, but I did not yet understand his. Not entirely.

“What do you hope for?” I asked.

He gave me that curious look again, which I could read even on the face of a deer. Like he was surprised anyone could possibly want to know.

Before he could answer, his ears pricked.

“Another godling?” I whispered.

He shook his head. “No. Mortals.”

I followed his gaze through the trees. We were nearing a narrow road, a good sign that we would approach a town before the day was out. But I saw nothing.

It took a quarter hour before I heard hooves on the road. Ristriel shied into the trees, and I followed him, wondering if there might be a wagon among the party. I wouldn’t mind a ride.

The horses came at a canter, a party of about four men. No women, no wagons. I shied a little farther from the road. As they neared, my stomach dropped into my hips.

I recognized them. These were men from Endwever.

I slipped behind a gnarled tree, and they almost missed me completely, but a young rider in the back slowed as he passed, calling out to the others. A soft but foul word slipped over my tongue, drawing Ristriel’s attention to me.

“You there!” the man called, dismounting. I could remember his family name—Grotes—but not his first name. He was about my age.

The age I should have been, that was. “Have you seen—” He paused midstride, eyes wide, and called out to the others again. “I’ve found her!”

I gripped the strap of one of my bags tightly in my hand. Ristriel, still a hart, glanced up at me. “Family?”

“No.” My pulse thudded in my neck.

Two of the three men dismounted and ran over; the fourth stayed in his saddle, perhaps ready to give chase should I decide to run. The broadest of them was Callor May, descendant of Farmer May, the one whose scarecrow I had set out before my world turned upside down. I didn’t recognize the other man approaching, and wondered if he’d been recruited from another town.

Callor’s relief was quickly replaced by a heavy brow and narrowed eyes. “We’ve been searching half of Helchanar for you, Ceris! Half-convinced you’d been eaten by wolves or murdered by bandits!” His eyes slid to Ristriel, questioning. “Never seen a hart like that.”

“She’s the Sun’s chosen.” The unfamiliar man sounded far more awed. “Of course nothing would lay a hand on her.” He bowed to me.

Callor reached to seize my elbow. I twisted away. “Come,” he demanded. “Let’s take you home.”

“If I wanted to ‘go home,’ I wouldn’t have left,” I protested. I felt starlight pricking the underside of my skin and urged it down. It would not help me here.

“Surely you jest!” Grotes’s hand flew to his heart.

Callor reached forward, and this time my back thumped into the tree behind me, its rough bark catching strands of my hair.

I blinked, and as quickly as two fingers snapped together, there was a body between Callor and me, solid from the shade of the trees, skin pale, hair black as a pupil. Gooseflesh soared up my limbs.

“What the—” Callor and his companions stepped back. On the road, the mounted horseman calmed his startled gelding.

Ristriel tilted his head toward me, though his eyes remained on the Endwever riders. “Do you want to go with them?”

Such a simple question, but relief surged through my chest.

“No.”

He refocused on the men. “You are not welcome here.”

“Who are you?” Grotes asked.

Callor’s hand wrapped around the hilt of a short sword at his waist. “Stand down, man. Whatever you are. This woman is of Endwever and has been returned by the Sun Himself to bless our people for our sacrifice.” My jaw set at the word our. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“No jurisdiction,” Ristriel repeated, his voice low and quiet. He took a step forward, and the three men retreated the same distance.

“You walk the face of my mother and dare tell me that?”

The shade deepened, as though a second forest had sprouted around us, canopy blocking out the morning light. My lips parted as I watched it creep over the ground like oil, even lift to swallow Grotes’s shoe. He noticed and backstepped farther. The unnamed companion followed.

White gleamed all around Callor’s irises. He started to unsheathe his sword, but Ristriel’s hand flew out to stop him. I thought I saw ice crystals forming on Callor’s glove. Tendrils of darkness unfurled into the road. Callor’s horse reared and took off while the others wrestled with their own mounts.