The Stars that Rise at Dawn: Šehhinah Trilogy, #1

By Ivana Skye

Elīya thought she shared everything with her best friend—until Tamar ran away to see the true form of God.  And decided that she didn't owe Elīya an explanation.

Yenatru thought he had two friends—until, with only one left, it turned out he wasn't as close to Elīya as he thought.

Elīya's resorted to putting her all into her college ethics class, but it isn't giving her the answers she needs.

And nothing seems to tell Yenatru the right words to say, for any situation. He can't even manage to tell Elīya that he's been delving into some deep magic on his own. No one knows that he's creating things with the power of his soul—except the woman he meets in the library. 

And she calls herself Lucifer.

But Yenatru's new friend can't stay a secret forever. Elīya has something she wants so badly that she would do anything for it—anything at all. And it's Lucifer herself who might just be able to offer a deal.

If you thought you knew what a book about God, angels, demon college roommates, and motorbiking to Eden would be like, think again.

THE STARS THAT RISE AT DAWN is the first book in Ivana Skye's Šehhinah trilogy, an Abrahamic fantasy series where everyone's personal life is of cosmic importance—if they aren't too distracted by essay deadlines or coffee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivana Skye
• Release date: Feb 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393883173

Book preview

Prologue

Two years ago

At this point, Tamar’s pretty sure: she’s not who any of her friends think she is.

That’s why she’s out here, miles downriver from the city. She hadn’t planned it this way, but today’s the first day all summer that there’s a breeze. Though a breeze isn’t much compared to the movement of air Tamar feels just from being on her motorcycle, rushing almost silently across the desert. She’s just far enough away from the river to not deal with the sand, but still close enough to hear the water, even though the river’s wide and the water moves slow.

She’d hoped her hair would be short enough not to get totally messed up by the moving air, but of course the two-inch strands are finding ways to tangle anyway; nothing ever seems to stop them. It’d be better if she had a helmet, maybe. But that wasn’t at the front of her mind or the top of her list when she left the house this morning and decided to come here.

The city of Ēnnuh’s already far enough behind her that she can’t see it anymore. That means she’s getting close to where she’s going. Oh God, she’s getting close.

Her goal is Erezel Plateau. Well, that’s not her goal exactly—just the physical location she thinks would be a good place to enact her actual goal.

Safirah—not one of Tamar’s older friends but probably the one who knows her best by now, though not well enough to predict she’d do this—said it hadn’t been that hard for them to become one of the Holy. All you really have to do, they told Tamar some days ago, is tell God what you want.

Tamar grins just to think of it. Because she does want it. And she’s been praying lately, and every time she’s felt God’s mind, her want is sharp and harsh and burning. Like God, maybe.

She glances around her a little, though she’s still trying to mostly focus ahead of her—she’d been thrown off a moving motorcycle once before, and it wasn’t fun. And that was on a day she remembered a helmet. But today’s a very different day than that. The river to her right’s even wider than it was in the city, and to her left is stone and stone and stone, rising and falling in short plateaus and hoodoos all the way to the horizon.

The sun’s shining brightly, always a good thing for traveling. She’s brought plenty of charged batteries for her motorcycle, but still it’s reassuring to know that the solar panels on it are charging as well. It’s always safer to travel when it’s sunny. She’s heard stories of the danger of traveling long distances on overcast days, especially when far from a source of water. But this place, this day, is safe.

Which is good, as almost no one knows where she is. The only one who might is Safirah—as an afterthought right before leaving the house, Tamar called and left a message with their hotel desk. It went something like, I’m going to become a Holy. Headed to Erezel Plateau. Might have trouble getting back, given, you know. Anyway, see ya!

But everything in Tamar is charged and excited and alive and ready. Sure, she knows it’s probably questionable to make this decision as quickly as she did. She just doesn’t care. At all.

She can already see Erezel, just a little to her side. The plateau connects to a gentle slope on the left, and Tamar knows from experience that it’s possible to outright drive up it. She’s been out this way before, once, on a day trip one weekend with Yenatru; Elīya, as usual, didn’t come with. She didn’t want to get potentially horribly lost; and, in typical Elīya fashion, she told Tamar that quite directly, in words just that blunt.

Those two really have no idea she’s here. Tamar's barely even told them about Safirah.

But it’s because she’s been up Erezel Plateau once before that every single time she’s thought about becoming one of the Holy, she’s thought about it happening here. And this morning she woke up and couldn’t stop thinking about it. So she’s here, living her dreams. Just like those counselors in secondary school tell people to.

She turns left, toward Erezel, and her heart starts pounding. She tries to take in the textures and colors of the ground and the various outcroppings of stone, but she’s already almost screaming and crying with excitement. Both the sun and moving air feel so strong on her skin that she can’t tell if she’s hot or cold—she’s both, she’s neither.

She should be looking at the subtle slope of the plateau, the way the red fades to orange, the bright blue of the sky. After all, she knows flaming well there’ll be a price for her becoming Holy, and she’s pretty sure she knows what she’ll pay.

But there’s no fear anywhere in her. She’s looked. She’s promised herself so many times today: if I have any hesitation, I’ll stop, I won’t do it. But she has none. And maybe that’s what should scare her.

It doesn’t, though.

Besides, she’s seventeen, she only just a month back graduated secondary school and was officially declared an adult. This is exactly the right time to decide to become something, not for any reason she can quite name, but because everything in her says yes and nothing in her says no, and what kind of person would she be if she didn’t listen to that?

So she navigates to the slope that leads up to Erezel, and begins to ascend. It really is gentle, easy to handle on the motorcycle. And flames, this is so the right place, it is so right to get a little closer to the sun, to get a little higher than everything around her, to get somewhere still and bright where no one else is, somewhere few even know about.

The breeze becomes more of a wind as she moves up the slope. It makes her smile. Most intense things will do that.

Beneath her, the hard stone begins disintegrating into pebbles, which would be a problem except that she’s already almost at the top of the plateau. So she shuts off the power to her motorcycle and disembarks it. She skips the few extra paces to the middle of the plateau, where everything feels open and covered in sun and heat. Which is absolutely appropriate for what she’s doing. She has to do this as right as she can. And she’ll throw caution to the fire.

Even if there wasn’t wind now, she’d be grinning. God, she almost runs to the center of the plateau. And, though she makes no outward sign, she starts to pray.

It’s a simple thing, a So, hey, I’m doing this, that she lets echo through her mind. And somewhere in the back of her she can almost hear a thousand wings rustling, she can almost imagine a thousand voices strung into those wings give something like a laugh. Oh yeah, They’re listening.

God’s a bit of a contradiction—one of only two people in the entirety of Šehhinah without a body, and yet, They created the world to be much more physical than They ever are. Tamar’s asked why, but all she’s ever gotten is a sense of wing movements and flickering flames that she figures roughly equates to a shrug.

Tamar skids to a stop on her last step to the center, childishly gleeful. She listens for a moment to what she’s feeling, tries to decide whether to sit or stand for this. And all the images that come to mind say stand, say that’s what she’d find the best. So she stands, her feet firmly planted, her eyes glistening with excitement and her grin spreading larger than she knew it could be.

And she’s not quite sure exactly what to do next. Other than to stay praying, direct every flaming thought she has to God, and—make herself clear, she figures.

If she does this—and she will, she knows she will—there will be a price. That’s how it works. To touch something of God, to feel Them directly, is to be burned. That’s not so much because of God’s importance—it’s more because Their very nature is fire and intensity, and it wouldn’t be much like Them to hold back. Nor would Tamar want Them to; after all, she wouldn’t.

In Safirah’s case, Tamar knows, the price was that their entire left arm got completely scorched in still-swirling burn marks, was made entirely unusable; but, in that arm, they still, to this day, can feel God’s soul.

And, eyes open, Tamar looks into the sky, clear and bright, and thinks of and to God.

But at some level, there’s not much more to think than that she likes Them, that every communication they’ve had has left her smiling. It’s not an explanation, but she might lie to herself if she tried to explain. And, look—she can almost feel the turning of a thousand flames, a thousand eyes looking to her, and she knows, she knows, that God feels the same way about her.

Well, of course They do. She is, after all, pretty great.

Again Tamar can halfway hear a laugh of bells and wings, the imagined sound bright enough to almost sting her eyes.

And she thinks: I want to see You.

God’s rustling fire, Their thousand wings, Their burning eyes, are all focused on her, warning her.

Their soul, many of the Holy can attest, is brighter than anything, anything at all.

Tamar repeats, mentally: she wants to see it. Their soul. All of it.

Again a sense of heat and power and pressure around her asks for verification that this is what she wants. And it is.

Please, she thinks.

And suddenly, surrounding her in this plateau in the middle of the desert, is light. No, not light. More than light. It’s a brightness less like the sun and more like certainty, it’s an I am, I am, I am echoing and rippling and forming waves of light that should be far too intense to see, and yet Tamar can, surrounded by and in it. She’d thought it would be white, but it’s not—it’s far more similar to black, but made brilliant somehow. Made brilliant and infinitely bright. It feels like singing in her eyes, it feels like voices and voices. And it hurts, it’s scorching-hot and exhilarating, it’s a good pain somehow against her eyelids, and it constantly seems to trace something against her vision in the way it moves—it, the sensation of pain and the brightness and the singing, moves in patterns.

Tamar takes another breath, and oh flames, was all that in the space of one breath?

And it’s there, so there, the fire and the rippling, it’s there, and it looks incredible, like if she was staring into the sky and the sky was just stars. No, not it, but God, Them, actually literally God, Their soul, inside her eyes. They are with her, and They are so much, and this is why They don’t hold back, this is why They will not be seen without burning the one who sees Them, because how could it possibly be right to hold all this back?

This time, Tamar gasps, and her eyes are full of tears—well, no, they aren’t, because they’ve completely burned away.

She’s almost too stunned to smile, but she does anyway. She tries to blink and nothing changes, except in the patterns and ripples she’s already trying to understand.

Oh God, oh flames—and she understands now more than ever why people swear by fire—she’s one of the Holy now.

She will never, ever, see anything other than this again, nor will she ever stop seeing this.

Tamar outright grins. It’s so, so, so worth it.

1

Someone ought to date him

Once, Heaven expected; all after death to wake to fire. Now understood desires many. One day at world end, all resurrect to more choices. Which choices? What you wish; I the flame know not. Yet. Your lives will argue for you…

—Evian translation of God’s Covenant, originally delivered without words, 0 A.C. (After Covenant)

---

Elīya walks through the doors of her favorite campus coffee shop with purpose.

It’s spacious here; almost all the walls are glass windows, filling the room with light. There’s something almost instantaneously calming about the sound of the stream running through the building.

And she’s got someone to meet.

Yenatru’s an old friend she almost never sees anymore—except for when she sits down for coffee with him three days a week. He’s already sitting at a table close to the river, sipping a cup that probably tastes as good as the room as a whole smells. He looks like the picture of calmness, his straight black hair framing his face, his usual light pink lipstick adding a glow to his brown skin. A painting of him would probably be a great advertisement for this coffee shop.

And there’s two coffee cups on his table. Which means he got one for her, which really wasn’t his responsibility. Maybe that means she’ll owe him one.

Hello, she calls out to him as she walks to the table. It’s a formal greeting, but who really knows if their friendship is formal or informal these days.

Hello.

How are you? She always has to ask this, and she expects an honest response.

He hesitates for a moment, and says, Alright.

Elīya takes a long look at him. Does it seem like he’s actually lying? No, probably not; it’s probably more like he’s not the best he’s been, and he’s not planning on getting into details. Satisfied his answer is truthful enough for her, she nods.

And you? Yenatru asks.

My classes are being nothing but frustrating and it’s way too hot. She shrugs. "I’m not bad, though." She takes a moment to take a sip of coffee; it’s as bitter as it is sweet, and the taste hits her all at once. Perfect.

Well, at least the nights will get longer after tonight, but it probably won’t get any cooler anytime soon.

Summer should just go die in a hole, probably, Elīya says. Not that I’m condoning murder. But it would be nice.

You’re not wrong. He goes back to sipping his coffee, and looks peaceful as he does it. His eyes, dark green, are lost in thought somewhere. Flames, he’s pretty.

Elīya’s never wanted to date him—she doesn’t have that impulse with anyone, really, and especially not men—but she’s always thought he looks good. So someone ought to date him, though it wouldn’t be her. But though she often does make comments or questions that are close to prying, she decides not to say anything now; last time she tried bringing this up, he seemed pretty sad.

Instead, she decides to bait him with something else. I hear that summers are easier to handle if you wear shorts.

Yenatru almost spits out his coffee; his look is one of pure indignation. Have you ever in your life seen a pair of shorts that looked good? No, you haven’t, because none do.

Doesn’t your comfort matter? Elīya leans back and watches.

Yenatru blinks a few times. I can count at least ten ruffles on your circlet.

So? Her circlet looks good; like all circlets it’s a single piece of cloth that barely covers her breasts, allowing her to show them off any time she lifts her arms. It’s classic summertime feminine wear.

So you don’t dress casually either.

"I don’t wear long skirts in the summer."

Well, I’m not going to wear pants in the summer, that would be way too hot.

"Anything below knee length is generally considered too hot."

Okay, but women get to wear short skirts, and those can look fine. But men have to wear shorts, and I draw the line there. He points to his shirt, a crop top that’s a reasonable tan for the season. I mean, I wear normal summer shirts…

Elīya smiles. I was just teasing you. Obviously.

Come on, Elīya. I know pushing people isn’t one of the things that’s against your moral code, but if you think people don’t get on my case all the time for not wearing shorts…

Elīya nods. You’re right. You do set yourself up to have to defend your fashion decisions left and right.

"I look good." This, he says with actual confidence.

You do, but at what price?

One I’m willing to pay.

Conversation stalls; Elīya and Yenatru take sips of their coffee.

So, Yenatru says, "do you have a different conversation topic?"

Well, there’s always your classes, although I’m sure you talk about those a lot too.

Strangely, I actually talk about my classes less often than I talk about shorts.

Elīya lets out a breath halfway to a whistle. She picked that one up from her roommate Hannuša, although it works better if you can actually whistle. Which she can’t. When I said you had to defend your fashion choices left and right, I guess I meant it more than I thought.

Well, I have to say it’s interesting having only—what, a month and a half?—left in the general program.

And then you’re going to the law program…?

Yenatru nods.

Law is still not something Elīya expected from Yenatru of all people, but this is something she’d rather not press him on—not while he can still back out, not while pressing him might actually hurt his future. No, she’ll wait until the next term starts, and then try to figure out why under God’s flaming eyes he chose law.

"And you’ll be on your last year in philosophy," he adds.

Elīya nods. Like most specialized programs, philosophy is three years long. And since Elīya chose to enter it directly, without doing the two-year general program first, she’s going to finish quickly. A lot more quickly than Yenatru, especially since—well, Elīya’s actually going to ask this one. Law’s what, a five-year program?

Yeah, he says. It’s a lot of stuff. The law… does things.

I believe that. So you’ll just keep on being here, for four years after me… Elīya takes a sharp breath. "Tamar never went to university, and I went right to philosophy as if it’d actually teach me anything, and you’re just. Going to be here."

Yeah…

It’s so weird how things have gone, Elīya says. Actually, I can even think of like, a bookstore debate style tagline, like you know, the way they write things on those flyers when they’re advertising debates? ‘Three friends graduate secondary school: you won’t believe what happens next!’

There’s a pause; Yenatru sips his coffee.

It sounds like you get along with your roommate, though.

I do.

Yenatru seems to be looking off into the distance, and sadly at that. Oh, right, Elīya remembers—he doesn’t even have a roommate this year. There were an odd number of people in his building or something, and this is just how it worked out.

She’s got to say something. You’re not going to be alone forever, Yenatru.

He blinks several times; flames, his eyes are a little wet. Elīya wonders if Tamar has any idea what the trio of friends kind of disintegrating seems to have done to Yenatru; she wonders if she’d even care. Talk about someone who doesn’t practice ethics well in her own life.

Although, she continues, "if you do meet someone—any kind of someone—you are going to tell me, right? Like we all promised?"

You really don’t count the promise as broken? Not even when Tamar became one of the Holy without telling us?

"She broke our pact, Elīya counters, but that doesn’t mean we have to. I think it still stands: if something cool happens, we’re supposed to tell each other."

We meet three times a week for coffee.

Elīya’s not sure if he’s trying to guilt her into suggesting more for them to do together; maybe they ought to, but she’s yet to think of anything. She knows he doesn’t dance, and that’s how she spends half of her free time. So that’s probably when we’d bring it up. If something did happen.

You don’t let things go, do you?

Not promises.

Yenatru takes another sip of coffee. When’s your next class?

You know me and time. By which she means that she has almost no sense of it at all. It’s because of that that they meet when they do. On these three days of the week, Hannuša wakes her up for her first class of the day, History of Philosophy. After that, she knows to head to the coffee shop to meet with Yenatru, then he tells her when she should walk to her next class, her ‘wild card’ one, Secrets of the Solar System. It works out.

I was talking to myself. He checks his watch. Not yet.

Okay. Of course, if you want me to go…

No, I don’t. Just needed to be sure I didn’t lose track of time, since you are counting on me and everything. He smiles, but it doesn’t seem genuine. I guess I’m just thinking about Tamar. I liked her, you know.

I know. Elīya doesn’t know what to do with Yenatru, but Tamar did: the two of them would go out walking through the city, trying to find the most interesting food they could, with or without Elīya joining in. Tamar was one of those people who just did stuff, interesting stuff, and invited you along.

But she just… just left. She’s gone.

My fault, if anything, Elīya says, and just manages to suppress a wince at how true it feels. No matter how many times she says it, the guilt doesn’t seem to go away. I can’t stop thinking about that day she called me, saying she’d seen this Holy in a store and was like, obsessed. Elīya tries to stop herself, knowing she’s had this conversation a thousand times before, knowing it never helps.

But maybe this time she’ll somehow figure out what she did. What went wrong. Why Tamar disappeared the way she did. Literally when she made that call, she was asking me about the ethics of stalking. Like just seeing that one Holy, she’d decided to go out and see another, and was looking for advice about if she should, and if it’s stalking if it’s not the same person, if it’s in a public place—she went to a bookstore debate, I think.

Yeah, you’ve told me before, Yenatru says. She was telling me about this one of the Holy she met at a debate, Safirah. And I might be wrong, but that wasn’t so long before the end of our last year of secondary, and then, wasn’t it about this time of the year that she just… left?

"I don’t remember the time. Obviously. But I thought she’d just gone off exploring, like she did, and I was going to run across

Reviews for The Stars that Rise at Dawn

[Yorabeth · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Really surprised and unexpectedly humbled by this book. What I expected to be a fun and satisfying gen z/lgbtq spin on criticizing christianity and reversing traditional heroes and villains turned out to have a fierce and poignantly lovable religious system and god, with a just as sympathetic analysis of its limitations. I think it reminds me of some things I’ve heard from jewish people’s impatience with christian assumptions, despite this being fantasy. A very refreshing and affecting read.