A hundred eyes bear into my back, lurking from the treetops to the bushes. I vibrate with a nervous energy magnified by a sleep deficit. It's been three nights. And many more are to come.

The trees' canopy opens, allowing the sun to blind my bleary eyes at full strength. I raise a hand to block it, though it still makes me squint. I drag my feet to my mother's cave, hoping she won't be too displeased that I didn't bring my raeriel. It was too much to try to figure out a way to sneak it from my trunk. Lessons would be ineffective anyway, since I'm so tired.

I duck inside the rocky room. My mother sits pressed against the wall, as always.

"You don't have to be so obvious about it, Celisae. I know quite well that I haven't bathed in a while."

"What?" I say, handing her the fruit I scavenged the other day along with some meat from today's second meal.

"Your nose appears to have smelled the greatest abomination in the forest," Mother states. I realize that my face is scrunched from fatigue and has probably worn the same, pained expression all day. I try to relax it, though I'm unsure of how successful my efforts are.

"Sorry," I mumble.

"I don't see why you're returning so soon," Mother continues between the berries she pops in her mouth. "It takes three days to die of thirst, not one."

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice edging on a growl. Mother freezes in place, a blank expression on her face. I sigh, slumping against the stone wall. "I really am sorry, Mother. I—I just couldn't come. It was—" I was about to say that it was too dangerous, but it occurs to me that maybe Mother shouldn't know about the hooded woman. I don't want her to be as racked with worry as I am.

"You didn't even bring your raeriel," Mother says after a moment.

"I forgot." The excuse tumbles off my lips with practiced ease. At this point, it might actually be true.

"Sure," Mother scoffs. "Whatever you say, daughter."

"I'll refill the water buckets," I say, though weakness in my arms protests against my offer. They ache from last night. Even the slightest tick sends pain shuddering through my muscles. "Actually, Mother, I had to do a lot of physical labor yesterday. I didn't want the... soreness in my arms to interfere with my playing. I'll bring it next time."

Mother appraises me with her eyes. "Whatever you say, Celisae."

I take a breath and forge onward. "I hoped we could go over something else today instead."

Mother's unkempt eyebrows twitch, but that's the only sign of surprise I get. "And that is?"

I choose each word carefully. "I was wondering if there's a way to keep sunlight from burning me."

Mother doesn't reply. After the first minute ticks by, I get the distinct impression that I've rendered her speechless.

"Why the sudden interest?" Mother asks at last.

"Well, it's just that my... uh... fingers. They've been awfully sensitive lately. You know from the dyes and the playing..."

"Please, Celisae," Mother cuts in. "You don't honestly think that I'd believe you've been practicing the raeriel to the point that your fingers hurt." My gaze flickers to the ground. When it returns to my mother, her eyes have narrowed. "Unless there's another instrument you'd rather play. Perhaps the ciwien pipe or the obrie, or the laivo."

My eyes fall away from her again. Mother clucks her tongue.

"It is the laivo, isn't it? You prefer plucking those silly strings compared to playing the rich raeriel. Really, Celisae, you get so much more color, depth, and resonance out of the raeriel."

"Then why is it banned?" I mutter.

"I'm sorry," Mother says. "I didn't catch that." I doubt that's true; I think she knows exactly what I said. But I answer her anyway.

"If the raeriel is as glorious and beautiful and perfect as you say it is, then why is it banned?"

"We've been over this, Celisae. The matriarchs don't want us to be able to manipulate light. They want to remain in darkness, away from the enlightening beauty of the raeriel."

"Well, maybe they have a point," I snap.

Mother doesn't even flinch. "I would try to remember that you wouldn't be where you are today if it weren't for the raeriel." Underlying her statement, there's the implied fact that I wouldn't be where I am if it weren't for my mother. She's the one who taught me to make a raeriel, instructed me on all the right materials to gather and the right way to put it together. She taught me to play it by singing tunes, not lifting a single, broken finger during my years of training.

"Fetch some water, will you?" Mother says. "Then I'll tell you about ika silk."

The water basins I refill are so heavy, they feel like they're going to rip my arms out of their sockets. I spill far more water on the way back to the cave than normal. Mother squints at the waterline when I set it down, but doesn't comment on the fact that it is almost a third lower than usual.

"Come sit." Mother motions to the empty space beside her. I collapse by her side, panting. Mother raises a tentative hand to my hair, touseling the ends with crooked fingers. Whenever I glimpse them, I imagine how long they used to be. Mother said they were practically made for playing the raeriel. The length was ideal for reaching even the furthest of intervals, while also being slender, lithe, able to drum the string faster than raindrops can fall from the sky.

It was the matriarchs that destroyed her fingers. When they discovered Mother with a raeriel, they smashed her hands, ensuring that she'd never be able to play a musical instrument again. They then banished her on the opposite side of the mountain, even sent guards to take her there.

For the first few moons, everyone thought she died. All the odds were against my mother's survival: it was winter, so most rivers and food sources were scarce, and with broken hands, my mother wouldn't be able to fend off predators that crossed her path.

Against all odds, come spring, I stumbled upon my mother in the forest. I'll never forget her expression, blank except for her two twinkling eyes. She raised her two hands, now disfigured from improper care.

"Will you fetch a poor woman something to drink?" she asked.

That was when I found this cave by the river. I've cared for her ever since, both because of her weak fingers and stiff joints but also so she stays hidden at all times. I still don't know how she survived and gave up asking long ago.

"You remember the story about Ika, yes?"

I nod. "The spider who spun a dress for the Sun Queen." Mother told me this story often, both before and after her exile.

"That's right. The Sun was growing too hot, its rays scorching the earth, causing droughts, fires, and famines. To protect the earth from burning up, the Sun Queen was banished to earth for six years unless she could find a way to tame her heat. The Sun Queen roamed the earth for four years as a peasant.

"Eventually, her only dress grew shredded and tattered during her aimless travels. When she reached the mountain, her radiating warmth wasn't enough to resist the night's chill. With the sun growing dimmer in the sky, the days on earth were progressively getting colder.

"One night, the Sun Queen curled up shivering at the base of a tree in this very forest. The vibrations roused Ika's attention as she was sleeping high above in the tree's branches. She peered down at the cause of the disturbance. Ika thought that she looked down on a peasant, not at the Sun Queen. Yet still, she took pity on her plight and weaved a dress of spider silk for her.

"The Sun Queen woke the next morning, finding the gown of spider thread beside her. When she tried it on, she discovered not only that it insulated her from the cold, but also tamed her heat. Because of Ika's kind heart and innovation, the Sun Queen returned to the sky two years early."

Mother didn't need to repeat the entire tale for me, but I found it oddly soothing. I'm surprised to even find my head leaning against my mother's shoulder by the end. I angle my eyes upward to see my mother's expression. Part of me expects her to appear annoyed that I'm using her bony shoulder as a pillow. Instead, I see a hint of a smile on her lips, the most contentment I've seen from her in at least a year. A smile eases onto my lips in return.

"So where do I find this spider silk?" I ask.

"It's only found in celestial maples," Mother says. "Do you know what they look like?"

Slowly I shake my head. I'd heard the name mentioned at least once before, but it isn't a tree the tribe typically gets food or wood from.

"Fetch me that rock over there." Mother nods toward a white rock in the corner of the room. I bring it to her, and very slowly, she begins to outline a leaf on the wall. She holds the jagged stone with both hands, quivering with every movement. After a minute, she lets the rock clatter to the ground. "I've never claimed to be the best artist, but you get the idea."

Despite some stray lines and angles, I can make out a tree's shape. It has a thick, stout trunk, branches intertwining at the bottom and diverging as they reach upward. Its leaves are wide and round at the base and narrow at the tips.

"The tree will be a rich brown color, tinted slightly red," Mother describes. "And the leaves are a deep gold color. It's hard to miss when you see it. But if you wish, you may bring back a leaf to me to verify that you found the right tree."

"What about the ika silk?" I ask.

"It's usually at the very top of the tree, sometimes underneath the leaves, sometimes stretched across the bark. If you're lucky, you may even find a web. There's little color difference between a normal spider web and ika silk. Pay attention to the overall structure of it. The ika silk is longer than most spider's, slightly more durable, too, though they are still extremely delicate. If you aren't careful, the fibers will break down, and you won't be able to weave a pair of gloves from the strands."

"How do I do that?" Weaving dresses from light seems hard enough without tacking on spidery gloves.

"I'll show you if you bring me the spider's thread. Once woven, it can last a lifetime protecting your hands from the sun's harshness."

I wrap an arm around my mother's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Thank you."

"Bring your normal weaving needles, too," Mother continues.

"I will."

"Though I would prefer to work on your raeriel next time," Mother says.

Guilt starts to churn in my stomach. I don't know how harshly she's going to take this, or worse, if she'll refuse to help with the spider silk.

"I don't know when I'll be back, Mother," I say. "These next few days are going to be very, uh, busy."

Mother peers at me. "When will you return?"

"I don't know." I just said that.

"When do you think you will return?"

"The next chance I get." Mother doesn't respond, taking up the task of brushing dirt off her old, hole-riddled dress. "Please, Mother. I just... there's a lot going on. I promise I'll try to come when the opportunity presents itself."

"You'll try?"

"I will. And I'll bring my raeriel."

"Be careful what you promise, Celisae," Mother says. "It's better to make no bargain at all."

My mind flashes to last night, to the bargain I made with the hooded figure. I close my eyes briefly as if to block it from my mind.

"I will bring it, Mother. And we can work on the silk next time."

After a moment, Mother nods her head. That's about all the agreement I'll probably receive from her. I push onto my feet, my head narrowly missing the top of the cave.

"Goodbye, Mother," I say while leaving. Take care while I'm away. Your safety is in jeopardy.