CHAPTER 13
I sang for a while, until my throat grew too dry, and then we passed the ridge and came upon a tiny village along the river, one that made Endwever look sizable. Ristriel did not insist we travel farther, so I found us a place to stay in another barn. The kind people who owned it didn’t charge me, and even fed me a helping of stew and traded with me so I could have some deep-blue thread for my tapestry and thicker socks for my shoes.
Ristriel did not come into the town, which was for the better. I needed to sort through my thoughts, my feelings, and determine what my next steps would be. Ristriel had, indeed, kept up his side of the bargain. He’d even seemed genuinely concerned for my welfare, which was touching.
Yet I struggled with trust again. I did not know what he was. I did not understand what he could do. And the godling he’d spoken to in the battle . . . The soldier’s words had stayed with me.
I see her darkness in you.
He could only have meant the moon.
I was of the Sun. All my life I had worshiped Him. My parents had worshiped Him, my grandparents, and all my ancestors before us. I had shared His bed and birthed His child. He had touched my face and asked me to love Him.
Trickster.
I rubbed a chill from my shoulders as I explored the small village, my thoughts interrupted by questions from curious locals. I passed along the story I’d arranged with Ristriel—that I’d come with my brother to find our relatives but he was still off hunting. And I asked about events going on beyond the town. Many people told me what I already knew—the gods had been angry last week, so they’d dedicated a day of prayer to both the moon and the Sun, supplicating them for peace.
What caught my attention in these stories were the words last week. Because for me, the battle had been last night, and morning had simply vanished. And yet my hair and nails had grown as if a year had passed.
None of this should have been possible, and yet he had done it. If Ristriel were merely a man, a guide I had hired, I would have had no reason not to trust him. And yet he was not a man. I had seen him call shadows. I had seen him walk through trees. I had seen him lose part of what he was when Sun’s light stole it from him.
What did it all mean, and what did it mean for me? It might be safest to dismiss Ristriel and continue on my way. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not only because I needed to make it to Nediah in one piece, but because the thought of leaving him behind drowned me with guilt.
Because if Ristriel were simply a mortal man, I would have cared for him. And despite my better judgment, I was starting to. He was kind, clever, temperate. But he was as intangible as the secrets he carried. My mind would not settle until I knew what they were.
After my wanderings, I returned to the farm to dine with my hosts. Our talk was pleasant, and before I left, I assured them my “brother” would be fine with the supplies we already had. When I reached the barn, it was empty save for a couple of lambs. I wondered where Ristriel had gone. What he was doing. I climbed a ladder into the hayloft and pulled out my tapestry, needing the focus of needle and thread to orient my thoughts. I sensed Ristriel when he appeared, the way one senses an oncoming storm or a passing cloud.
“What kind of godling are you?” I asked quietly, adding a stitch to his leg.
He hovered below me. Eager streaks of western Sunlight reaching through the barn window kept him ghostly.
“What do you mean?” he asked. He knew very much what I meant, but I let him play coy.
“What is your domain?” I tucked the needle away and smoothed the tapestry across my lap. “Most godlings who stay on the Earth Mother have a domain.” I thought of the being I’d encountered in the lake on my second night in Terasta. “What is yours?”
“My domain is not linked to any location. It is me. Myself.” He looked around the barn, taking in the common tools, the rusted hinges, the smell of animals. “I was once among mortals, but not anymore.”
“Are you not among us now?”
Instead of reminding me I wasn’t quite mortal, he said, “It is different.”
Sighing, I set my work aside and scooted to the edge of the loft to better see him. “We need to talk about last night.”
“Your starlight weakens me.” He didn’t meet my eyes. “That is why we were seen. Why I left your side.”
My lips parted at the confession. That was not what I had meant, but the information was valuable. I remembered how his cloud of inky darkness had dissipated the instant my starlight surfaced. I remembered the fear of watching his shadow merge with so many others. Of being alone, and unable to help.