Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(51)

His lip quivered as he came around the desk, squinting at me.

“My goodness, is it really you?” He bowed, winced, and straightened.

He looked to be in his late sixties.

I grasped his shoulders to help him balance. “Please, there is no need to do so on my behalf. I’ve merely come for the night on my journey. I do not wish to be known. Marda asked me to see you.”

“Yes, yes! But you must stay so we might capture your likeness —”

“I must leave in the morning to go to Nediah.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned my destination, but the kind father bobbed his head in understanding, and I didn’t think it would be a problem. If he tried to capture me the way Father Aedan had, I was certain I could steal away again, especially with Ristriel’s help.

“But of course. If you would . . . If you would write of your journey, or bless the water, or leave a print of your hand . . . I would be ever grateful.”

I frowned. I didn’t think I could bless anything. “I would be happy to.”

This thrilled him, and he returned to his desk to sort through his limited supplies. I followed him, glimpsing the book he’d been working on, grateful my father had been literate and taught me to read. It took a few lines for me to understand what was written, and I ogled the page. “This is the gods’ language.”

“Oh yes, yes. Tarnos is entrusted with much of it.” Tarnos must be the name of the village—Ristriel hadn’t mentioned it. “It is an incomplete guide, of course, but it is our charge to remember what we can and pass it down. That is the third copy I’ve made, and I’m nearly finished.”

I marveled at it, tracing my hand along the edges. “May I?”

“Oh! Of course.” He turned the finished copy toward me and again adjusted his spectacles. “You might know a few words yourself.”

I didn’t, though I had occasionally heard the language spoken in Sun’s palace. The book was open to the T s, and I carefully flipped back through the pages, watching the words fly by. Sarn. Pon.

Niana. Li. Lamen. Garalus.

I paused, catching sight of El at the top of a page. It was a common sound in godly names. Beside it was written, Of the; one who is.

Curious, I flipped back to the R s, scanning down the page. Sure enough, near the middle was the word Ristri. My breath stuck when I read its entry.

Chains, chained. To be bound.

I pulled my hand away from the book as though it had grown claws. Ristriel . . . one who is chained?

That was the meaning of his name?

I escaped.

What kind of place had Ristriel left, if he was named after his own captivity?

“My dear woman, what is wrong?”

Father Meely had tilted his face very close to mine so he could better see me. Rubbing a chill from my arms, I said, “I’m sorry. It’s been a long journey, and I find I am very tired. Might there be somewhere I can rest?”

“Of course!” He took me by the hand and led me toward the ambulatory. “I have a room here in this cathedral you may stay in.

And do not fret over me; my son is in the village and will take me in for the night.”

I swallowed. “Will he wonder why you’re not here?”

“I’ll promise to tell him tomorrow.” He winked at me, and it wrinkled his face in such a way I laughed. “Make yourself at home.

I’ll see something warm brought to you.”



“Thank you.” I patted his hand, hoping I did a good job of masking my unease. “May the Sun bless you for your kindness.”

Ristriel hovered outside my window just before the last of the Sun disappeared into the horizon.

I sat up on Father Meely’s narrow bed, having tried to sleep earlier and finding I could not. I ran my thumb over Sun’s ring. “How do you find me?”

He didn’t quite touch the windowsill. “I looked for your starlight.

Tarnos is not a large place.”

So he did know the town’s name. I paused for a moment, working through my thoughts. “One of the godlings, from before”—I treaded carefully—“he said he saw ‘her darkness’ in you. What did he mean?”

His dark gaze regarded me for a beat. “Starlight and shadow are not good and evil, as many mortals depict them. They are simply light and dark. My purpose has always been good, even if I was born of the dark.”

Scooting to the edge of the bed, I asked, “What do you mean, ‘born of the dark’?”

He studied my face in such an earnest way my cheeks warmed.

Did he ever flush, or was he always cool as a summer stream? “I was created in war. The feud between the Sun and the moon is everlasting, nearly as old as they are. I am one of the moon’s scars.”

He considered for a moment, almost touching the cathedral, but refrained, and I wondered at his hesitation. “A portion of her dark side fell to the Earth Mother,” he explained, hands clasped together, thumbs fidgeting. “The Earth Mother gives life to all things, and thus I was born.”

My lips parted as I tried to comprehend life created in such a manner. “The moon is your mother.”

“The Earth is also my mother,” he clarified, “but the ways of the gods are not the ways of mortals. It is not . . . the same.”

I thought of the pleading look he had given the sky when the moon was out. Did he yearn to have a mother, as a mortal would?