Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “It’s so smooth! Feels like some kind of metal!” he exclaimed, turning to Tàran.

  Two wholly unnatural sounds—beep beep—emanated from deep within the canyon’s wall. A wash of rich blue light spilled over him, over everything, then faded, leaving a weak yellow aura in its stead.

  “What was that?” shouted Tàran. Kalas withdrew his hand and stepped back. After a brief, rising whine, two more pulses of light—green this time—illuminated an intricate network of fine lines beneath the object’s exterior, its skin, then disappeared. The object turned opaque, again resembling nothing more than a curious part of the rocky face.

  “I have no idea,” said Kalas, and he took a step toward the thing.

  “Don’t touch it!” ordered Tàran. Kalas froze, mid-stride, then lowered his outstretched hand.

  “Don’t…don’t touch it,” he repeated. “I don’t…I don’t trust it.”

  “But Father—!”

  “Not today, boy. The storm’s already delayed us. And I want to check your grandfather’s books. Do some research. Maybe someday, when we have more time, we’ll come back…”

  Tàran rubbed his temples. He slumped, as though burdened with invisible weight.

  “Father?” asked Kalas.

  “I’m fine, boy. Fine. Storm’s over: let’s keep moving.

  Without another word, Tàran searched for a path, found one, and started downriver. Kalas watched him. With one last glance at the overhang, he followed after his father.

  The next mile passed with relative insignificance; however, at midday, when the suns met at the top of the sky, Kalas screamed, pressed his hands flat against his ears, and collapsed.

  “Kalas!” shouted Tàran as his son’s eyes rolled up within their sockets.

  “Kalas!”

  4.

  Otherworldly music swelled along an infinite staff, created shapes of hope and promise as every note erupted in showers of wonder. The shapes assumed colors representing every facet of visible light, collided with and cascaded over one another like serpent-tongues of flame. Intersecting harmonies wove themselves into a seamless fabric of exultant melody that wrapped itself around Kalas’ mind, surrounded his thoughts with hints of purpose. The aural power swept through him along a river-like course, and, as though outside and within himself, he glimpsed his world from a thousand simultaneous perspectives.

  The music ceased; the shapes and colors fled; and Kalas, groggy, heard sobbing.

  “So…so beautiful!” he wept, and realized he was the one crying. He wiped his eyes, blinked them a time or two as he remembered his surroundings. He was on his back, his head cradled in Tàran’s shaking and knotted arms.

  “Father?” he said.

  “I’ve got you, son. I’ve got you,” Tàran comforted as he batted at his own uncharacteristic tears. With a trembling hand, he wiped away smears of blood that had trickled from Kalas’ nose and ears.

  “What…what happened?”

  “For almost half an hour, you—it doesn’t matter,” soothed Tàran. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you.”

  His voice cracked. Pent-up tension poured out of him in wracking waves as he wrapped his burly frame around his son and held him close—so very close—to his heart.

  5.

  Kalas removed himself from his father’s protective embrace, stood, and reeled from a throbbing rush of blood within his temples.

  “You okay?” asked Tàran. Kalas nodded—delicately.

  “Good. Pick up your pack: we’re going home.”

  “But Father! I—”

  “Enough, boy! I can’t—you can’t—This is no time to argue! Your mother’ll probably flay me alive as it is!”

  “But—!”

  Tàran held up a palm and glared at Kalas.

  “Yes, Father,” he acquiesced. He shouldered his pack, did his best to ignore the hammer-like pounding in his head. Tàran observed.

  “Ready? Let’s go.”

  “Help! Help!”

  Tàran stiffened, cocked his head and looked around. His eyebrow raised, he glanced at Kalas.

  “Did you—?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Somebody! Please, help!” came the nasal voice again. Closer this time, and more panicked.

  “That almost sounds like Dzharëth,” said Kalas.

  “Ëlbodh’s boy?” wondered Tàran.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Ëlbodh was on rotation to tend the Pump. Makes sense he’d have his boy with him.”

  “I thought the Pump was still a few miles downriver?”

  “It is,” admitted Tàran, puzzled. “Anyway, come on!”

  Tàran started toward the voice. Kalas followed, stifled an outcry as his head protested.

  The forest thinned as they progressed, gave way to splotches of dead and dying trees. The cries for help increased in volume and hysteria. As the pair crested a small hill, a gangly gray shape collided with Tàran, knocking him to the ground. He absorbed the impact, rolled with it, and sprung lightly to his feet in one fluid motion. The haggard figure remained where it had fallen, quivering. Tàran looked toward Kalas—

  Dzharëth?

  —who nodded.

  “Dzharëth,” said Tàran, reaching out a hand and placing it on the boy’s shoulder.

  He and Kalas recoiled as Dzharëth screamed, jumped to his feet and clawed at his chest.

  His clothes, reduced to thin strips in places, were soaked through with something dark. Red and white flecks of dried blood and spittle clung to the coarse hairs surrounding his mouth; his eyes, wide and unfocused, scanned everything. He whined, gathered himself and screamed again: “Help!”

  “Dzharëth!” shouted Kalas. “Dzharëth!”

  The figure raised his arms in a protective gesture.

  As though expecting a blow, thought Kalas.

  When nothing happened, Dzharëth lowered his arms. His eyes had snapped into focus. He wiped his mouth, worked his jaw. As though perceiving his surroundings for the first time, he whimpered, “Kalas? Tàran? Erume dàbires nir!”

  “Dzharëth, what happened? Whose blood is this? Where’s Ëlbodh?” asked Tàran.”

  “Oh! Father! The ilâegsali! He’s hurt—badly! Come! Quickly! Quickly!”

  With a rough shove, he sprinted away from them, his tattered clothing whipping in his wake.

  “Help!” he shouted again.

  “Boy, tell the truth: are you okay?” demanded Tàran.

  Kalas squeezed his eyes for a moment. “I’m fine, Father,” he insisted. Tàran’s furrowed brow belied his disbelief.

  “It’s not like we have a choice,” he muttered. To Kalas, he instructed: “Go home. Find a cleric. Tell him Ëlbodh was wounded in a rainfire storm. Tell him to get here as fast as he can: the Pump Road is probably the quickest route.

  “Take only what you need. After you’ve sent a cleric, find another one: tell him about…today. And stay with him.”

  “But Father, I—”

  “Mark my words, boy: stay with him! Now, go! I don’t think Ëlbodh has a lot of time! Hwer! Be swift!”

  Chapter II.

  Under a Shooting Star

  K

  alas grabbed a pouch of dried meat and a water skin from his pack and raced along the path leading to the Pump Road. Every footstep wracked his throbbing skull.

  What’s that noise? The Pump sounds awful! he noted as he rushed past the side trail that lead to its guts. He moved with such speed, such purpose, that he ignored anything not directly in his path.

  At the base of the cliff, he allowed himself only a moment before he ascended, grateful that the Pump Road was considerably less steep than the Ruins Road. When he hauled himself over the canyon’s edge, he panted for a moment, clutched at his head, and threw up. Immediately, he felt better, his head clearer. His stomach gurgled, and he remembered the meat he’d fished from his pack. After washing it down with a swallow from his water skin, he kept going.

  In less time than he�
�d anticipated, Kalas reached the sand-strewn outskirts of Lohwàlar. He paused for a sip of water, then sped the remainder of the rough way toward the clerics’ Sanctuary.

  Inside and out of breath, Kalas staggered toward a small dais, grabbed at the young secretary’s robe, and rasped, “Cleric!” Annoyed, he removed Kalas’ hand, smoothed his robe, and, with reproach, disappeared into the building’s dim interior.

  Once a temple—and one of the oldest surviving structures in Lohwàlar—the Sanctuary’s architecture evoked thoughts of what the town’s ancient past might have looked like. Vast stone walls, flecked with minerals and flanking broad corridors, sparkled in the torchlight. As he waited, Kalas felt his pulse slow, his focus sharpen, though the pain in his head remained. He became all too aware of the stink of his own sweat, mingled with vomit. Underneath those odors, however, ran a faint metallic component.

  “That would be blood, no doubt,” suggested a deep, rich voice from somewhere behind him. He whirled and faced the voice’s owner, draped in robes and wrinkles. Most of his features were obscured by prodigious eyebrows and a gleaming white beard that flowed across his chest, rippled like water with every breath. His bald, dark brown pate reflected torchlight; his green eyes seemed to radiate some kind of energy—or maybe it was just the old man’s crows’ feet. Still, there was something peculiar about the cleric. Kalas was too curious to consider his appearance further:

  “Blood? What? Wait, how—?”

  “You’re at the Sanctuary, child!” The old man smiled, and his eyes flickered with the torches in the mid-afternoon breezes that filtered through its hallways. “An olfactory curiosity, I’m sure, the ability to discern various odors. Useful most of the time, though it certainly has its downside! But I noticed the dried blood on your face, and, well, come along: we’ll get you patched right up.”

  The old man beckoned for Kalas to follow him, and he did, for a step or two, before remembering his purpose.

  “No, I’m not here for me! I’m here for Ëlbodh, Dzharëth’s father! They were working out in the Empty Sea, and the ilâegsali—”

  “Rainfire! All right, child, allow me a moment to collect my things, and we’ll be off!”

  “Please hurry!” urged Kalas, and this time he did follow the old man into a small cloister off the main corridor.

  The cleric wrapped the traditional leather pouches around his upper arms, then looked about the room, searching, thinking. He waggled a finger, nodded, and reached beneath a counter and withdrew a few small bottles, a bowl, and other items. With practiced care, he mixed his ingredients in varying proportions, squinting as the concoction’s fumes assaulted his senses.

  “The downside,” he coughed with a wink. “And the name’s Falthwën, young…?”

  “Kalas, sir,” he answered. Falthwën’s smile broadened.

  “Tell me, young Kalas, what were you doing in the Empty Sea? That’s not exactly the safest place for a child.”

  “Today’s my second Seven,” said Kalas, bristling in spite of himself. “I was helping my father, Tàran, with the Pump. That’s where we were headed, at least, before we found them.”

  “Your second Seven!” exclaimed Falthwën, and spared a glance at the young man. The cleric’s thoughts seemed to trail off, or perhaps complete some side journey as he once again turned them toward his work. Kalas watched, rapt, as the old man, with deftness that belied his aged appearance, withdrew a gleaming instrument, small and intricate, from within the folds of his silver-threaded robe and stirred the mixture, humming softly as he worked. A faint luminescence seemed to rise about the bowl’s contents.

  That’s the tune! thought Kalas. That’s the sound I heard!

  “That song! Where did you—?”

  “All right, we’re ready!” he said as he poured his potion into an empty vial. He slipped it into one of the pockets sewn into one of his arm pouches, slung a stout bag over his shoulder, and grabbed two staves. One he tossed to Kalas, who reflexively reached out and caught it. Falthwën nodded.

  “Let’s go!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kalas as the pair exited the small room. Something unremembered tickled the back of his mind, but, as though compelled, he followed the old man’s hurried pace.

  2.

  “We’ll take the Pump Road,” said Falthwën. Kalas nodded as though the cleric required his approval. “It’s…this way, yes?”

  “That’s right, sir,” Kalas nodded again. “Just came from there.”

  “It’s been…a long, long while since I’ve been in Lohwàlar,” noted Falthwën. “Glad to see I haven’t forgotten everything!”

  “You’re not from here: I didn’t think I recognized you, and, well, I thought I knew everyone in town. So where are you from?”

  “No, I’m not from here, though I’ve visited often. Last time was probably long before you were born.”

  “You still haven’t told me where you’re from. Your accent: are you from Tarular? In the north? I’ve never met anyone from Tarular.”

  “Not Tarular, young Kalas. Let’s just say I’m from…beyond many sands.”

  “‘Beyond many sands?’ What does that even mean?”

  “It means ‘let’s talk about something else,’” finished Falthwën. “The second sun will set in a little while, and we still have some distance to cover: if we move quickly, I think we can reach the Empty Sea before it does.”

  Focused, the pair traveled in relative silence. Occasionally, Falthwën would pause, tilt his head, as if listening for something; then, without comment, he’d continue.

  “Why do you keep doing that?” Kalas asked the next time the old man stopped.

  “Doing what?” he said, resuming his pace.

  “You keep stopping and listening—for what, I don’t know. I don’t hear anything, and I thought we were in a hurry!”

  Falthwën nodded without making eye contact. Instead, he followed the second sun through a thin string of nascent clouds as its edge intersected the horizon.

  “Well?” demanded Kalas. “Aren’t you going t—”

  Again, the world around him dissolved into a whirl of light and color as music swelled and ebbed into and out of existence. In his mind, the chimes acquired spatial coordinates; the melodies seemed to rise and fall and whip past him, too quick to be analyzed or deconstructed. In front of him, the swirls swooped and turned and gave way to a luminous bloom of penetrating green light.

  It looks like health, thought Kalas—

  —and in that moment, the chimes fell silent. The colors flashed white and faded into his present reality. Falthwën stood above him, observed him, his eyes dancing in the suns’ waning light.

  “Everything all right?” He waved his staff at Kalas’ face even as the young man felt the warmth of his own blood on his upper lip. He stood—only then realizing he’d fallen—and wiped it away. The last vestiges of green were slow to dissipate: the old cleric seemed wreathed in emerald. The pressure emanating from every direction within his head increased, making the simple act of seeing painful.

  “I…my father told me to stay in town, to find a cleric and tell him about…about this. It’s never happened before! I mean, sure, I’ve had a nosebleed a time or two, a headache, but nothing like this. And then there’s—”

  “And your head?” wondered Falthwën. Kalas realized he was massaging his temples again. “Here,” said Falthwën as he rummaged around in his pockets. He produced a small, translucent green lozenge and tossed it to Kalas, who regarded it with curious suspicion.

  “That’ll help, but only if you put it in your mouth!” laughed the cleric. He appraised Kalas’ condition, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and said, “All right, you’ll be fine. Let’s be on our way.”

  Falthwën turned and resumed walking. Kalas shrugged, popped the medicine into his mouth. A cold wave of innervating energy swept through him, starting from his tongue, swelling within his mind and traveling the length of his entire body. He gasped as the ever-present throb behind
his eyes disappeared. The element tucked into his cheek began to melt, taking with it the fatigue of the day.

  “What was that?” said Kalas, amazed.

  “Better?” asked Falthwën.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Excellent! If memory serves, the Pump isn’t more than a few miles from here.” He looked around again, nodded again, and started down the subtly sloping road. Kalas, frustrated with the cleric’s reticence, considered leaving Falthwën to his own devices and returning to the Sanctuary.

  That’s what Father would want, he affirmed; however, his curiosity overwhelmed him and he rushed to catch up to the old man.

  3.

  Though longer, the Pump Road’s overall gentler decline allowed Kalas and Falthwën to reach the floor of the Empty Sea with greater speed than Kalas thought probable. Years of feet, hooves, and wheels had compacted its surface, presenting a somewhat smoother journey than the rough trail along the Ruins Road. In a short time, the pair reached a crossroads and a crumbling archway bearing traces of delicate scroll work, worn by time and weather. Beyond, buried in the earth behind the cliff face, the ancient Pump whirred and clicked, its gears and assemblies struggling to irrigate the land surrounding Lohwàlar in the distance.

  “You were on your way to the Pump, yes?” asked Falthwën. Kalas nodded.

  “Then we head upriver, to the northeast! Come!”

  They turned, passed beneath the archway, and, with the Rumiyilswàr on their left, quickened their pace. The Pump, historically much quieter, produced a noise that increased in volume. Again, something in its rumbling cadence seemed off to Kalas. Atonal. Though he’d only been to the Pump a few times with his father, he remembered its workings sounding like a kind of music. Now, he thought of the orchestra that played in the town’s Crescent during the last festival; he remembered how one of the less skilled percussionists weaved in and out of time with the rest of the band and tainted its overall harmony.