Another explosion rent the sky, this one like a full bloom, orange and blue like true fire. I saw Ristriel speed away from the godlings faster even than his war stallion form could move, then rush back in so swiftly he blurred. A horned godling took off after him.
Fear-fueled energy pumping through my limbs, I wheeled my arm around and threw my rock. It sailed true, striking the horned godling on the back of its head.
Behind me, a snakelike voice hissed, “Do you fight for the day or the night?”
Grabbing the handle of my bag, I whirled around, letting its heavy load smash into the head of a gargoyle-like godling that reached no higher than midthigh. It flew two feet and hissed, shaking its head, trying to orient itself for a counterattack.
I ran.
The field lit and darkened over and over with the battle of the gods, all the while festering as godlings rained from the sky or wriggled from the ground, some armed with weapons, others wielding their own hands and feet. My starlight pressed against my skin, urging me to unleash it, but I forced it down. I needed to see what warriors stood in my path, yet I dared not draw attention to myself.
There were so many of them, I couldn’t find a clear way out.
A godling noticed me and rushed for me. Biting down on a scream, I darted in a different direction until he called, “Ceris!”
I wheeled around as Ristriel crashed into me, his arms enfolding me and pulling me tightly to him. We fell and froze, the ground inches away.
And everything changed.
The grasses shifted with a dozen breezes. The sky brightened and darkened, colored and blackened, all too quickly to be natural. The shadows and faces around me distorted, blurring or disappearing entirely, only for new ones to appear, shrink, and vanish. The Sun whisked across the sky in a fiery streak again and again, until noon daylight washed over the field, the battle was over, and everything went still.
I hit the ground, dazed and confused. Ristriel, ethereal and looming over me, stared wildly into my eyes.
My breaths came deep and sharp, my body still recovering from its run. I stared back at him, so many questions pulsing in my mind. His ghostly nose hovered inches above mine. His chest heaved like any man’s would, even without solid lungs, blood, bone. Had his hair been solid, it would have brushed my brow. And his eyes—his eyes were wide and fierce, darker than new ink and as insubstantial as cloud.
What had just happened? Where were the other godlings?
Why was it midday?
But Ristriel, still as shadow, whispered, “It’s . . . yours.”
It took a moment for his words to register, for his presence to make sense, for my body to feel mine, and the world to feel whole. “What did you do?”
He pushed away from me, curling into a crouch, still staring at me, the emotions on his face very much mirroring my own. His body warped for a moment, like it wanted to transform, but he snapped it back into human shape again. And me . . . My nails were long, my hair was long, reaching past my hips. The grass below me was dead and curled like it had been cast into a fire and hastily pulled back out. The blades beside it were as tall as my shoulders, while the rest of the field was just as it should have been.
“Ceris,” he spoke carefully, “how long has it been since the Sun lit your torch?”
I sat up, blinking away a wave of dizziness. “Seven hundred years.”
He hesitated, then nodded, as though he’d known it all along. Again his body rippled, but after a moment, it settled on his human form, though he was so faint he was only translucent shades of gray. He found his feet without effort and moved toward the ridge he’d indicated earlier, every step soundless, his gait that of an old man.
I hurried to his side, wanting to grab him, but my hand passed right through him. “What did you do?” I asked. “What happened? Ristriel, what did you do?”
His face lost definition. “I did what I had to to get us away.” He paused as though out of breath, but Ristriel had never shown any signs of mortal fatigue. “It’s over now.” He met my eyes. “I couldn’t let them hurt you.”
I looked him over, searching for signs of injury, for he had been the one fighting. If he was wounded, they weren’t the kind of wounds that could be seen. But he was very shaken. We both were.
His answer didn’t satisfy me. I wanted to know what had happened on that field. What had happened to me, to us.
But he spoke before I did. “Will you sing, Ceris?” A breeze slipped past us, carrying away the question asked in such a sad tone my frustration simmered down to a thick syrup.
I swallowed it, steadied myself with a breath, and started the song of Surril’s first lullaby as we walked, and for miles all around us, it was the only sound to be heard.