Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  Beep beep!

  Subtle vibrations emanated from deep within the canyon wall in tandem with a subsonic hum that rose to audible frequencies. The object—the artifact—shed its opacity as vibrant blue luminescence intensified along unnatural, perpendicular courses, snaked its way through a network of such subcutaneous corridors.

  “That sound!” shouted Zhalera, who’d already covered her ears.

  Gandhan and Tàran did the same.

  “Let go, boy!” shouted Kalas’ father. “Let go!”

  “It’s all right,” he protested. “Just a little more…”

  “Kalas, please!” Zhalera said, concurring with Tàran.

  “Just—”

  The noise surpassed the threshold of human hearing as the vibrations amplified, became tremors. Fragments of rock sheared away from the cliff, striking the artifact and sliding toward the ground. Though its corona still shone blue, the tracery of light glowed white, touched nearly every surface. A falling chunk of stone smashed into Kalas’ arm, breaking his contact with the object. The lights faded before winking out entirely. The rising whine and the tremors ceased as the thing assumed its prior appearance.

  “Wait! No!” said Kalas, and, ignoring the hurt in his arm, touched the object again.

  No hum, no lights this time: rather, some force seemed to punch out from the artifact’s surface, sent him sailing through the air and sprawling into the dirt. He felt his body convulse, heard shouts of concern, but for a moment, he couldn’t control his limbs as every muscle contracted at once. Tàran’s wiry strength and Gandhan’s powerful arms lifted him to his feet while Zhalera’s gentle hands cupped his cheeks and turned his face toward hers.

  “Are you all right? Kalas! Kalas! Can you hear me?!”

  “I’m fine,” he said, appreciating the warmth of her touch. “Just a little sore.”

  The two men released their grip on him, though Tàran held on a bit longer.

  “Looked like you got yourself kicked by a mule, boy,” he said, still assessing his condition.

  “Felt like it, too!” Kalas agreed. “I mean, sure, I’ve never actually been kicked by a mule, but I imagine it’s probably just as unpleasant!”

  “I told you I don’t trust it,” Tàran reminded him. “Even after all the shaking, why’d you reach for it again?”

  Kalas opened his mouth to explain, but realized he had no explanation. Puzzled, he thought for a moment before answering: “I really don’t know. I just wanted to get inside and—”

  “Get inside the cliff?” interrupted Gandhan.

  “No, not inside the cliff! Inside that thing, that…that artifact.”

  “‘Artifact?’” Zhalera interjected. “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it,” Kalas said, turning toward his father. “That sheet of…not-paper we found, with those drawings. Those lines. Someone knew—knows?—about this thing.”

  He retrieved the leaf his father had dropped.

  “But how do you know it has an ‘inside?’” she insisted.

  “I…don’t. I don’t know, it just…well, touch it—not where I did!—and tell me what you think.”

  Zhalera hesitated for a moment, looked to her father, who shrugged as if to say, I wouldn’t do it, but the choice is yours, then approached the object and ran a trembling hand across its surface, knocked at it in places.

  No lights. No quakes. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  “It feels like metal, but it’s not metal,” she said after a few seconds. “Not exactly. I can’t really explain it. I can’t tell if it has an inside, though.”

  She knocked twice, then withdrew her hand without incident and Gandhan and Tàran both relaxed, unaware of their prior heightened awareness.

  “When I touched it—both times—I kept thinking it was like a skin, like an outer covering. You all saw those lights, right? The shapes? The lines they followed? Have you ever known anything in nature to have such symmetry, such perfect angles?”

  “Certain rocks tend to split along their cleavage in predictable patterns,” offered Gandhan, unconvinced but still unsure.

  Tàran coughed, spat, and rooted through his pack.

  “Whatever it is, whatever its story, we still have tomorrow to figure it out. Boy, help me with this shelter.”

  Suddenly fatigued, he slumped somewhat as he untangled guy lines, skins, and poles, shook it off and continued his work. The rest of the party emptied their packs as well, and soon they had a four-person structure in place.

  “Father, are you feeling all right?” asked Kalas when the others were out of earshot.

  “I’m fine, boy, I’m…A little tired, maybe,” he confessed—which he never admitted. “I’m sure I’ll be all right after a good night’s sleep.”

  Gandhan built a small stone ring with some of the fragments littering the ground, dug a pit for some of the unburned wood nearby, and produced a small fire. Kalas hadn’t realized how cold the canyon had become since the suns passed over its towering walls. Though their stronger rays had dimmed, it would still be some time before the fire was their only source of light. Tàran prepared a supper of cured meat, biscuit-like bread, a significant block of cheese, and dried golfrasme, an apple-like fruit with a marked citrus flavor.

  Zhalera shivered, tried to ignore the dwindling temperature, but Kalas, seated beside her, got up, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Thanks,” she smiled and leaned into him.

  Seated around the fire, they took turns examining the translucent sheet and discussing their thoughts about the ‘artifact,’ as Kalas called it, and what else the cliff might contain. Gandhan suggested they attempt to break it free of the surrounding cliff, said he had some tools that might help, though he had other, more powerful means back at his shop. Tàran emphasized his disdain for the thing, said he had a strange feeling about it, same as when they’d first discovered it.

  “Gives me a headache,” he said.

  “Well,” said Gandhan after piling more wood on the fire, “both suns have almost set, and the more I think about it, I’ll admit I’d like to see what else is in there, too: Kalas, your curiosity is infectious! But it can wait until morning.”

  “That it can,” agreed Tàran. He stood, massaged his temples, and said good-night has he retreated into the tent. Gandhan remained outside with Kalas and his daughter for a time, trading stories. After a while, he, too, retired, and Kalas and Zhalera were alone. On their backs atop the shared blanket, they looked up at the sky, at every pinprick of light that stretched from one end of the canyon to the other.

  When the first sun followed the second sun into darkness, Kalas heard the Song again. It was different this time, as though major and minor chords vied for dominance.

  “What are you thinking about?” Zhalera asked him. “You’ve got that look on your face again.” She took his hand, and he realized he’d been lost in concentration, wrapped up in the contrasting melodies that somehow retained a measure of holistic unity.

  “Zhalera, do you ever hear music…in your head? Not like remembering something you’ve heard in the past, but something taking place within your own mind? I’m probably not explaining it very well.”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like that,” she said. “Do you hear something now? Do you think it’s because of that thing in the cliff?”

  “I do hear something now, but I don’t think it has anything to do with that artifact. A few weeks ago, on my second Seven, that day with Father, I heard it for the first time. But it wasn’t just hearing, no, it was something more—much more. I thought my head was going to explode! Father wanted to take me home, but I told him I was fine. And I thought I was, too.

  “Anyway, I heard it more than a few times that day: always the same song, but always a little different. Like different instruments, or different keys or variations on a theme. I don’t know. Gave me nosebleeds whenever it would start up. But that night with the wolf—with Dzharëth—som
ething changed, and after, when I woke up, the song was still there, but at the back of my mind. It still comes and goes: sometimes it’s louder—more present, I guess, than at other times, but it’s always there.”

  “What does it sound like?” Zhalera wondered.

  “There’s so much going on with it, it’s hard to say! Melodies on top melodies; motifs that seem to contradict one another at first, only to resolve as part of some amazing chorus. Overall, it sounds…hopeful. I can’t really explain how or why. Not the whole thing, not all the time—there’s fear, there’s doubt and uncertainty—but underneath every strain, there’s hope.

  Chapter VI.

  At the Center of Lohwàlar’s Crescent

  L

  ooks like there are words written here, but I can’t make them out. Tàran, can you read them?”

  Gandhan stepped down from the ever-growing pile of rubble where part of the cliff face used to be. He’d woken early, before the first sun had risen, and started hammering away at the rock. The noise had roused everyone else, and soon, bit by bit, they’d unearthed more of the artifact.

  “I can’t,” confessed Tàran after examining the strange markings the smith had discovered and comparing them with the translucency. “I’m not sure if they’re words or just pictures. Maybe after some breakfast, we’ll be able to make better sense of it.”

  As they ate their breakfast in relative silence, save for the sounds of the forest waking around them, Kalas couldn’t shake the sensation that something—or perhaps someone—was watching them, observing them from some nearby vantage point. He paused with a handful of golfras bread halfway to his mouth, cocked his head, closed his eyes, and listened.

  “Boy?” said Tàran after observing him a while.

  “Is it the song?” Zhalera, seated beside him, whispered.

  “No, it’s not that, it’s…probably nothing. An animal, maybe. I don’t know, just felt like something was watching us.”

  “Not that bedeviled deer?!” growled Gandhan as he retrieved his hammer.

  “No, I don’t think so. Like I said, probably just an animal sniffing at our breakfast.” Kalas shrugged, popped the morsel into his mouth.

  When they’d finished eating, Tàran took another look at the symbols Gandhan had discovered. The first sun, now having risen high enough above the horizon, cast its rays against the opposing wall of the canyon, which reflected them onto the work area surrounding the artifact. The gray-white metal warmed when hit with Tàfayan’s silver beams and radiated its welcome heat. Kalas extinguished their small fire with rocks and sand and joined his father.

  “I still don’t know what they mean, but some of these markings look like those on this ‘paper’ the boy and I found in Wodram’s old study. I’m not—”

  Without warning, Tàran doubled over, coughed, and spat blood.

  “Father!” shouted Kalas as he struggled to support the old man. Gandhan, for all his size, proved quicker, and propped him up until the fit passed.

  “Well, friend?” asked the smith, his eyebrows arched, once Tàran had recovered. “Should we call it a day? Get you back to Lohwàlar? The Sanctuary?”

  “Nothing so drastic as that!” scoffed Tàran. “Just let me rest a bit: I’ll be fine! I might be old enough to be your father, but I reckon I’ve got a few more Sevens in me all the same!”

  “All right, if you say so,” Gandhan deferred. “Holler if you need anything…”

  “Father, now you tell me the truth,” demanded Kalas once Zhalera’s father had resumed his work. “What’s going on? Ever since we got here, you’ve been, well, not yourself. Are you ill?”

  “No, boy, I’m fine. It’s this…this artifact of yours. I told you we’d come back here when we had the time, and here we are, but I still don’t trust this thing. It’s more than the lights and sounds. Tell me: you don’t feel the wrongness in what we’ve uncovered? Maybe the Creator buried it beneath the earth and sea for a reason.

  “Anyway, give me some time—and some distance from this thing—and I’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry. And…please, don’t tell your mother!”

  Kalas smiled in spite of his concern. He sat down beside his father, who eased himself onto a bed of skins.

  “Boy?” Tàran said when Kalas remained next to him. “I’ll rest easier if you’re out there doing what we came here to do! The sooner you’re done, the sooner we’re out of here, and I don’t need you babysitting me!”

  “Okay, Father, but if you need anything—”

  “I won’t, but I’ll let you know. No go!”

  Kalas stood and exited the shelter, winced as Tàran endured another coughing fit.

  “I’m all right! I said go!” he laughed in a wholly unconvincing manner.

  2.

  “I don’t know, my boy, this…whatever it is seems to stretch quite a ways into the rock. It’s amazing, that’s for sure: doesn’t chip or scratch, bend or break, or anything when I hit it with my hammer. And I haven’t seen any lights since yesterday. Even after running my hand all along the length we’ve uncovered.

  “And there’s Tàran. I know he won’t let us pack it in on his account, but you and I both know he needs to get to the Sanctuary, see a cleric. This heap’s not going anywhere. Why don’t we call it a day and get your father back to town?”

  Kalas wanted to protest, but he knew Gandhan was right. The three of them had been excavating the area all morning; soon, both suns, now touching, would separate. Regardless of Tàran’s condition, they’d need to start back soon.

  “You’re right,” he said aloud. “Before we pack up, can I just take another look at the parts we’ve uncovered?”

  “Of course,” Gandhan said. “Zhalera! Let’s get our things together. We’ll take the tent apart last…”

  Kalas stepped up to the “words” Gandhan had found earlier, looked them over and compared them again with the symbology and shapes scattered across the odd medium he’d discovered in his grandfather’s study. Everything…printed? painted? on the revealed portion of the object remained indecipherable.

  What are you saying? he wondered as reached for one of the pictograms, then another, traced their lines with his outstretched finger.

  Something inside the artifact clicked as one of the icons glowed with a dull blue light; something whirred beneath its skin, and the luminescent shape began to pulse. Slowly, at first; then, as Kalas simply stared, transfixed, its rate and intensity increased. The whirring noise became a familiar whine as the now-vibrant blue light shifted toward violet, then crimson.

  “What did you do, Kalas?” said Zhalera as she jogged toward him.

  “Nothing! I mean, I touched some of these symbols, but that’s it!”

  “It’s getting faster! And louder!” she observed.

  “Yeah. I don’t like it,” said Kalas as he tapped at the other shapes.

  “Then why are you still messing with it?!”

  “I know, I know! Just wait a minute!”

  Zhalera said nothing with her voice, but Kalas couldn’t drown out the discomfort in her body language as he stared at the network of lights that had begun leaching into the surrounding surfaces of the artifact. He could hear internal elements shifting position with faint creaks and groans. Thin black lines like those he’d seen when they’d first noticed the object appeared, spread out along its contours.

  C’mon! he chided himself. Think!

  He stared at the translucent item from Wodram’s collection, tried to unlock whatever secrets its words and shapes contained by force of will. He glanced again at the artifact, realized it was generating heat from something more than reflected suns-light—a lot of heat.

  “Well, Kalas?” demanded Zhalera at last. He scanned the not-paper again, his eyes darting back and forth between its contents and the artifact.

  “All right,” he mumbled as he pressed three symbols in quick succession.

  “Nothing happened!” Zhalera said and clutched his arm.

  “I know! I—�
��

  The heat dissipated, the lights faded, and the whirring stopped. The black lines seemed to melt together, and a faint punch of bright red light, accompanied by two noises of different pitch and duration—beeeeep BOOP!—signaled an end to the excitement.

  “How did you—?” she began.

  “I didn’t! But this ‘paper…’”

  All the commotion had woken Tàran; he and Gandhan had finished packing up the shelter in time to observe Kalas’ frenzied poking and prodding.

  “You about done, boy?” sighed Tàran.

  “I—yes, Father,” Kalas answered, abashed.

  “Let’s get home. Should reach Lohwàlar before suns-down.”

  Without another word, Kalas nodded, shouldered his pack, and took his place in line.

  Kalas thought his father might be right about the object and his proximity to it: as they increased their distance from it, Tàran’s pace quickened, his coughing ceased, and his spirits seemed much improved, though still gruff as ever.

  They reached the canyon’s rim shortly after the second sun disappeared. No crazed deer attacked them, and aside from an unshakable sensation of a presence on the cusp of Kalas’ perception, nothing untoward interfered with their return. Gandhan ascended with much less hesitation (though Kalas still heard him curse the slope more than once), and as he pulled himself onto flatter ground, he wheezed his satisfaction that the worst of the trip was behind him. Tàran laughed, his former malaise naught but a memory.

  Conversation trended toward what had just happened that afternoon: Gandhan, Zhalera, and Kalas voiced their conjecture about the artifact’s provenance, its possible purposes, but Tàran kept his peace.

  “It has to be some kind of machine,” insisted Gandhan, “but I have no idea how it generates those lights, those sounds, nor why anyone might have built it!”

  As an aside, he added: “Ha! Maybe it’s magic!”

  “‘Magic,’ Father?” Zhalera mock-scolded. “I thought you knew better than that! But what about that metal it was covered with? It’s not like iron or steel, neither bronze nor brass. Kalas, I think you’re right: the way those lights were under its…what did you call it? ‘skin?’ There has to be some kind of system inside the thing, maybe operated via levers and pulleys? To what end, I don’t know, either. What do you think?”