Fuschia thread pulls taut on the loom in front of me. I cross the strands over each other, creating intersecting loops in the robe I'm making. My fingers move lithely over the thread, and I barely think about the motions I'm doing, the interconnection I'm forging between the singular threads.

My work began this morning once the sun rose a little higher in the sky and the tribe started to wake up. The sun has migrated to nearly overhead, yet I'm almost done with my first robe. Years of experience have hastened my task. Having multiple mentors has also assisted, though I can't tell anyone about the secret lessons Mother used to give me. Her techniques save me so much time, enabling me to produce more robes to trade with the other tribes. Really, it's all thanks to my mother that I'm considered one of the foremost weavers among the tribes even though I'm only seventeen years old.

Still, I constantly feel like I'm at the bottom of the totem pole. I have to push harder, strive for increasingly difficult designs, to prove that I deserve and can maintain people's perceptions of me. More importantly, even after so many years have passed, my mother's reputation still tarnishes mine. Deep down, I think I'll never be a true member of the tribe, always on the fringes, always the person who never belonged, the daughter of a betrayer.

I glance up from the colorful fabric practically hanging off the loom's wooden frame, catching the eye of a few women who spare looks in my direction. They quickly look down at their own weaving or sorting projects. Some, who had the gumption to turn around and peer at me, whip their heads back to their friends. The collective, noisy chatter prevents me from eavesdropping on a single conversation. But my name sticks out like a sore thumb oftentimes when they speak of me. It's funny how selective hearing can be — only latching onto the parts that hurt.

My fingers loop the thread several more times until the fabric is complete. I fold the first of many long swashes of cloth I must weave. In two full moons, Nal m'se will lead our tribe to meet the others for our seasonal trade meetings.

I walk across the clearing to present the first part of my quota to Jeayma m'ke.

"Excellent work," Jeayma m'ke gushes. She runs her hand over the fuschia knots, a smile on her lips. "This will be a beautiful robe." Her eyes shift to the sides, then back to me. In a low voice, she asks, "would you like a short break?"

My eyes turn to the sky for an instant. They snap back to the matriarch, like the sun burned my pupils. "It's nearly noon."

"I know," Jeayma m'ke says. "But perhaps there are other things you can get ahead of during this time."

I remember the task Nal m'se gave me, the water-proof parcel I must weave. Jeayma m'ke wears her usual bright smile, but she levels me with a gaze that hints at something, perhaps a secret arrangement I made with the head matriarch. More than likely, all the matriarchs know of my task. Jeayma m'ke must be giving me extra time to work on it.

I dip my head. "You're too generous, Jeayma m'ke. I am very grateful."

I truly was. There might be enough time to slip away into the mountain peaks and collect the sunlight I need. Though hunters may be on the prowl, and the rocky echo might draw their attention, this is the prime opportunity to work toward my tasks.

Jeayma m'ke squeezes my hand. "We're very grateful, too."

I start toward my cave. The question now is how I'm going to get my raeriel out of camp without being spotted. People roam the paths that run alongside the tribe's dwelling caves. Once inside my cave, I open my wooden chest, removing the biggest outer robe I can find. I pull it over me, then take a brief look at the entrance. No one seems to be around, so I dig deeper in the box, removing my raeriel. After one more look over my shoulder, I shove my arms through the bag's straps. The oversized robe should conceal the lump on my back, though it will appear strange to wear such a heavy garment at the tail end of summer. I slip from the alcove, heading up the mountainside.

It's nice to finally ascend the mountain the normal way, not climbing up the side of a cliff with only the moon and stars to light the way. If anyone asks, I'm just taking a walk, basking in the fresh air after a long morning. I pass several people on the way up. Sure enough, every single one of them sweeps their eyes up and down my attire, barely bothering to conceal their furrowed brows.

"Momma, why is she wearing her winter clothes?" a little girl asks her mother, her eyes impossibly wide as she stares up at a woman several years older than me. They stand against the cliff as I pass by.

"I don't know," the woman says, an edge to her tone.

"Isn't she hot under all that?"

I don't hear the mother's reply. My feet take wide strides to remove me from the tribe. I stare at the ground, focusing on the next step. I don't want to fall off the cliff. More importantly, it's a good distraction.

Left, right. Left, right.

One foot in front of the other. That's all it takes to reach my destination.

The pathway rounds higher and higher until it tapers at a plateau. I pause in an undulating, grassy field, covered in tiny flowers. On the other side of the wide expanse is more ascending gray rock. I half-jog across the field to reach it. There's no path carved here. It seems as though there's no escaping physical exertion when on the hunt for sunlight. I'm unfamiliar with this precipice and must climb more slowly than normal. My arms and legs burn, and I even feel a twinge of weakness in my wrists. I forgot about the morning's fall. I should probably take it easier on them to ensure that any injuries, no matter how slight, heal.

It's too late now to back down, though. When I glance down, I'm halfway up the mountainside. I feel like a spider, stretching myself to reach the next rock.

The spaces grow progressively wider. In order to grasp the next rock, I swing my entire body upward, wrapping my hand around the jutting step. Then, turning to my feet, I stretch my right leg out as far as possible. Barely, my foot slides into the foothold I spotted. A stretch pulls through my legs. I'm not flexible enough to do air splits.

My upper body and right foot take the brunt of my body weight as I try to move my left leg closer. It lands on a bump in the craggy surface, so that my legs are a little wider than hip-width apart. My left hand reaches for the next rock. But when my fingers close around the protruding gray stone, it breaks away from the rest of the cliff. I move my left leg just in time to avoid it hitting me.

The rock tumbles to the ground below with a crack. I dangle in the air, held up by only the right half of my body. Fear sparks inside me, and my head spins slightly from the height. My grip tightens on the rock, my foot pressing into the stone as if to brand it. I swing back toward the cliff, grappling for the nearest notch my foot will fit into. My left hand grabs onto another rock.

I hang there for a moment, catching my breath, letting the moment's action catch up to my brain.

Too close. Against my better judgment, I spare another peek at the ground below. If I fall, I won't survive.

That's about as good as motivation gets. I continue up the cliffside, being more careful to not trust any notch or rock with my full weight until I've tested it slightly. At last, I drag myself onto a frosty patch of grass. Sweat drips down my back, mats hair to my neck and face. I'm grateful for the chill seeping into my skin. Slowly, I lift my head from the icy patch, wiping away the cold moisture on my temple.

I nearly fall backward with surprise. Fortunately, I have enough sense to scoot further from the cliff's edge. Though I'm on a narrow ledge, light glistens before me, nestled in crags in the mountain peak shooting above me. My eyes scan gold, gold, and more gold, until they reach a flash of pink. I blink at where I saw the flash, certain it had to be an illusion. Starlight rarely fell from the heavens, and even in the rare event that it did, it usually was quickly destroyed.

The thin strand wriggles out of the crevice it'd been hiding in just long enough to prove my eyesight correct. A bubble of excitement wells in my chest. I rarely see anything other than sunlight. Then again, I don't normally climb this high, either.

For a moment, I contemplate attempting to catch the extraordinary beam. If I don't try to preserve it as thread, more than likely, it will simply disintegrate within a few days' time.

But even though Mother taught me the song of starlight, I've never wielded it before. My experience lies with sunlight and, if I'm lucky, moonlight. I might destroy it.

It'll be destroyed anyway. Just give it a shot.

I mull over my options as I remove my raeriel from my bag. I suppose I can start with sunlight, then, if the rowdy tune doesn't ruin the starlight, I can try collecting it as well.

When I raise my instrument, I close my eyes, taking a moment to center my head. I clear away my negative experience this morning, the stares I got on my way up the mountain. An imaginary broom sweeps my doubts into the furthest corner in my mind. I release the tension, I've been holding onto so tightly, infusing the new thoughts with happiness, or at a minimum, contentment.

Memories flood me, mainly ones from my youth, of Mother while she was still part of the tribe. Her stories play through my head, and the voices and intonation she used is preserved, even after so many years, giving the stories a liveliness no other person can imbue. A smile edges at my lips. I raise my bow, my eyes still closed. I don't need to look to know it's poised above the string at the perfect angle.

My fingers flick to life. The tune that pours from my instrument is light and fun, carrying the youthful energy I summoned. My bow bounces across the strings in a fast spiccato. The nip in the air stiffens my right hand, but the relaxation techniques I did beforehand enable me to drop any tension from my fingers so they flow between notes. I let the music swell inside me and overpour onto the rocky precipice so that the stones sing the sun's jig.

I hope no one's around.

The thought surfaces from seemingly nowhere. I tamp it down before it can distract me.

Mother. Think of Mother and her stories, the good times we shared.

Shared — past tense. Those moments are in the past.

I inhale a calming breath against the constant motion from my fingers. Mother's voice returns to my ears.

Once upon a time, there was a sun queen.

As the song grows in intensity, my fingers trip over each other. I force myself to not panic, to simply jump in on the next line of notes. It's like a momentary step to earth while trying to balance on one leg. Clarity drags as my right arm gets tired, the crisp articulation of the rapid strokes beginning to slur together. I open my eyes for an instant to adjust the bow's position to right in the middle of the stick, angling it also toward my fingers.

The sprightly energy returns, in a glorious burst, race to the top note. The final pitch vibrates around me, and though I don't dare move, my bow and raeriel frozen in the air, I steal a glance at the light emanating before me. Sunlight forms a tight, blinding sphere a few paces away. Slowly, I place my instrument down and pick up a wooden box.

I take tentative steps as I approach it. Disbelief stirs inside me, but I refuse the full crash of realization, not until I have secured the sunlight inside the box. With the lid closed, I can finally breathe. I clutch the side of my head, processing the extent of sunlight I captured in this one trip. It may be enough for the entire sunlight robe. Even if not, it will jumpstart the project. I may only need a few more ventures outside camp to finish the job. And the waterproof parcel, I can certainly finish that now within the timeframe Ixek gave me.

A pang of hunger shoots through my stomach. It's probably the second meal at the tribe by now, perhaps it's even finished. Part of me hopes no one is looking for me. The other, more traitorous half wishes that someone would notice my absence. It'd be nice to be missed once in my life.

Mother missed you, I remind myself. Then again, it's hard to fully count her since she depends on me for survival.

The wooden box slides into a pouch inside my bag. I can't risk anything happening to it. I'm about to place my raeriel inside, too, when I hesitate. Pink light winks in my peripheral, a challenge, a dare.

Catch me if you can.

It certainly is a task only the most experienced light wielders would attempt. I'm not even sure if Mother's caught starlight before. I stare back at its teasing twinkle. Then, I wrap the raeriel and bow up, slinging the pouch over my shoulders. Maybe next time I'll attempt the hardest song of all. But I don't want to spoil my morale today, nor do I wish to delay returning to the tribe any further.

Deep down, though, I suspect I'll never have this chance again.

Goodbye, starlight. At least I got to see you once.