Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “‘There’s magic in your blood, child,’ he said. ‘Hiding for now, but it’s there. Someday, Tzharak, you’ll understand.’ I didn’t remember telling him my name. Found out later I never did.”

  “‘I have to be somewhere else soon. I can’t take you with me, but I can take you to a place where you’ll be cared for, where you can be a part of a family. Of course, you don’t have to come with me: you can stay here, if you’d like, though it would break my heart. It’s your choice.’

  “That’s when he brought me to Lohwàlar. Back then, everything was green here! Tall trees, thick grasses, and the Ilswàr running strong through what’s now the Lower Quarter. He was right about me becoming part of a family, too: ‘In time, that eruseranà, that magic in your blood, will manifest itself—how, I can’t say; when it does, though, be…discerning. Be wary. To protect this family—your family—from other powers that would visit destruction upon them.’

  “Then he was gone. Right away, though, my new family comforted me as best they could, integrated me into their lives, and by the time my second Seven came and went, I’d almost forgotten I hadn’t been born to them. They—and most of the townsfolk back then—were adherents of the Randa pïni Sharumilël, the Order of the Emerald. They believed the eru Sharuyan, delegated his powers by the Creator, ensured the health of their crops and their forests, and beyond that door is where they gathered, twice a year, to express their thanks.

  “Tens of Sevens came and went, and over time, crops failed, the forests died, and the town’s namesake river dried up. Mercifully, my parents had died long before all that, but Sharuyan’s devotees grew fewer and fewer in number, until almost none remained. This temple—these lower parts now—was mostly abandoned. So was the town: the famine, blight, and drought killed scores of people. Survivors stored the bodies in the levels above us, hoping, I think, to get the erudas attention.

  “Then someone discovered the Pump. To this day, no one knows exactly where it came from, how it got down into the Empty Sea, nor what its original purpose was. Some people thought Sharuyan or some other eru—maybe even elume—caused it to be there. Most didn’t care once they discovered that one thing the Machine could do—what people called the Pump at first—was move water from the River: after a few years of some genuinely creative engineering, the Lohwàlarrinme brought water back to their town. Not a lot—not enough to be the agrarian society it used to be, but enough for its people to survive. Of course, the effort resulted in a lot of injuries: we were used to working the soil, not the rocks beneath it; we were trying to understand technologies we’d never encountered before. The few clerics that remained started using this temple as a makeshift hospital: a tradition that continues to this day.

  “Remember, this was generations after everything dried up: those who knew anything of Lohwàlar’s former abundance only knew what they’d heard through stories. It was already ancient history to them. For a while, I tried to set the record straight, but almost no one believed me, and to be fair, why would they? It’s all pretty unbelievable. Still, I told my ‘stories,’ trusting that one day, they’d find an audience who’d recognize them as truth.

  “These markings tell the same story: Lohwàlar’s history. This symbol represents the Machine—the Pump; over here, this block describes the Night of Falling Skies, visible even from here so many, many Sevens ago…And here: this sequence, running through every block—sometimes subtle, sometimes less so—describes a portion of the prophecy that brings us here tonight.”

  Tzharak had been pacing around the room while recounting his tale, pointing here and there with impassioned gestures as he moved. Kalas listened, rapt; still, Shosafin’s bearing belied his unswayed amusement.

  “You don’t buy it, do you?” the young man asked the soldier.

  “Nine hundred years old?” Shosafin said, after a while. “No, friend, I’m not persuaded. It’s a good story, sure, and I think Tzharak believes it himself, but there’s just no way it’s true. How many people do you know who’ve lived more than fourteen or fifteen Sevens?”

  “He knows one,” interjected Tzharak, “and you’re free to believe or disbelieve as you choose: the truth requires no one’s approval.”

  “I won’t argue that point, but all you’ve provided is your own say-so. No corroborating evidence. If I told you that before I left Ïsriba I was a ball of twine, would you believe me? You wouldn’t. Nor should you! I’m simply reserving judgment.”

  “As is your right,” deferred Tzharak.

  “How long do you think he’ll be?” Vàyana whispered to the old man, waking Kalas in the process. After Tzharak had finished his story, he’d fallen asleep with his head on Zhalera’s lap as the adrenaline in his bloodstream burned away; she’d rested hers on his side. For a moment, he thought the cleric’s voice was his mother’s.

  It had been…actually, Kalas had no idea how long it had been since they’d reached the door in front of them. The torches guttered as invisible wind from some unknown source danced upon their flames. He shivered, and Zhalera, startled, awoke. Kalas sat up and wrapped an arm around her, nodded at Vàyana and Tzharak.

  “I thought he would have been here by now,” he confessed. “Still, he wrote his name in the sky…Shouldn’t be much longer.”

  “Expecting someone?” added Shosafin, still seated against a wall with his eyes closed, somehow alert even while at rest.

  At that moment, bright, green-white light leached from behind the door’s edges, gained intensity and shone with such brilliance that Kalas had to shield his eyes with his free arm. The others did likewise until a coarse, grating sound echoed across the chamber. In spite of the oppressive effulgence, every eye turned toward the door, now rising from the ground as though lifted with unseen hands. It shattered: smoldering sticks of wood and glowing clouds of dust sailed through space; somehow, no one was hurt, and as quickly as it had appeared, the brightness dissipated. From within the now-exposed inner room a figure staggered into the torchlight.

  He held a familiar-looking staff, thought Kalas, and in the places where his outer garment wasn’t scorched the boy glimpsed hints of sparkling silver. The visitor panted. Collapsed. Tzharak and Vàyana rushed to his aid and helped him into a seated position.

  Hey! That’s—!

  “Falthwën!” cried Tzharak. “We saw Sharuyandas sru in the sky…”

  “You’re hurt!” shouted Vàyana as she began tending his wounds as best she could. “What happened? How did you get here?”

  “That,” said the injured cleric, “is a long story.”

  5.

  “When the boy first led me into the Empty Sea, when I first came face to face with his friend Dzharëth, I had my suspicions,” Falthwën began after a few minutes of rest, “but the tether was imperfect, incomplete: hard to discern. After he attacked Kalas, that’s when I was sure the zhàrudzhme had returned. Kalas, Zhalera—all of you: forgive me. I had hoped to spare Lohwàlar the fate of Kësharan, but I was too late…”

  “What happened?” Vàyana repeated in hushed tones, more in wonder than accusation.

  “I intended to consult with my colleagues, to ascertain the ebb and flow of the celestial tides and their potential intersection with the prophecies, but I never made it that far: soon after departing Lohwàlar, I was waylaid by a band of ekume, and—”

  “Ekume?” interrupted Kalas.

  “Lightless stars. Harbingers of darkness and lowest servants of Ilnëshras, the Accursèd One.”

  “Ilnëshras?” Zhalera repeated.

  “Chief among the elume, once, although that was a long, long time ago. And elume are—”

  “‘Messengers.’ ‘Warriors.’ ‘The will-bearers of Ilun,’” said Kalas. “According to the stories, at least…”

  Falthwën smiled. “Yes, exactly. Now, where was I…Oh! Yes, the ekume…I’d be their prisoner even today had not a like-minded colleague happened upon my circumstance: she, too, had become aware of the ascending darkness; she, too, was seeking
answers, which is how she and I crossed paths. That was two days ago.

  “With her help, I escaped, and we confirmed one another’s fears. Knowing others had sensed the same thing, I intended to return to Lohwàlar with all speed, but my wounds required patience.

  “Tzharak, I believe Sharuyan heard your petition: I saw his fire in the sky not too long ago!”

  “So he must have,” nodded Tzharak. Kalas noted the ancient figure arch an eyebrow as he addressed the cleric, who seemed not to see it.

  Did I miss something? he wondered as he looked back at Falthwën.

  “If only he’d been able to send his tongues of flame sooner…Nonetheless, Tzharak: how would you gauge the extent of the wolves’ destruction?”

  “It’s bad, but it could have been much worse: it will take decades to rebuild, but at least enough men and women survived to undertake such an enterprise, and having lived roughly seven lifetimes here, I’m confident they—we—have the fortitude to get it done.”

  “Very good. Vàyana: casualties?”

  “More than a few dead, many more wounded, but not as many as one might have anticipated. Kalas lost both his parents; Zhalera, her father…”

  “You never answered her question,” said Shosafin, who’d just returned from a cursory examination of the inner chamber. He’d been listening to the back-and-forth from the shadows from which he now emerged. “‘How did you get here?’ she asked you. The door was sealed, and there are no other passages within that larger…vault. I’ll confess: you’ve surprised me, and I’m not one who’s easily surprised.”

  “Magic,” said Falthwën with a dismissive half-smile.

  “‘Magic,’ you say? All right, keep your secrets if you must.”

  “There’s no secret,” defended Tzharak even as he continued his silent assessment of the bald old cleric. “Eruseranà—star magic. If such a thing as seranà exists—and it does—he knows about it. I’m sure.”

  “Does it, now? Does he? What makes you so confident?”

  “Because I’ve seen it—I’ve felt it before: Falthwën is the one who rescued me from beneath Kësharan,” Tzharak contended.

  “Then according to your prior tale, that would make him, what? almost a thousand years old?”

  “It would,” admitted Falthwën. He stood as though he’d never been injured: indeed, the bleeding had stopped; the obvious bruising so apparent when he’d arrived had all but disappeared. His beard, once caked with dirt and blood, now gleamed white; his penetrating eyes blazed with an internal light; and even his torn clothes had repaired themselves, their silver sparkling in the torchlight.

  “Falthwën?” whispered Kalas as Zhalera clutched his hand Shosafin put a hand on his sword’s hilt, Vàyana took an involuntary step back, but Tzharak just shook his head and chuckled.

  “Yes and no,” he interjected before the cleric could respond. “I feel like I owe you an apology…Falthwën, for not recognizing you when you first arrived in town. True, your skin’s a touch darker, all your hair seems to have migrated from your head to your chin, and your bearing—your accent, too—are new, but your eyes! Unforgettable, even after all these Sevens.

  “I never knew your name beneath Kësharan’s ruins: might have been Falthwën, might have been something else entirely. Doesn’t matter. Would it be safe to assume you possess other names as well?

  The revitalized cleric smiled, and there was something wholesome in his eyes, his laughter; an impression of something lofty that Kalas couldn’t otherwise describe as Falthwën addressed

  Tzharak: “It would not be beyond the realm of possibility, that’s true. Tzharak, my child: it is good to see you again, though I’d hoped never to do so—at least not under these circumstances.”

  Tzharak held Falthwën’s gaze a moment longer, then, with unexpected fluidity and grace, rushed upon him and wrapped his arms around the cleric and wept.

  “I’ve waited almost nine hundred years to say ‘thank you,’” he said once he’d collected himself and released his silvered robes. “Thank you…Falthwën.”

  In Kalas’ mind, a subtle melody bubbled up from an unknown source, bobbed and weaved across his conscious thoughts like an aria, ephemeral and ineffable, and then its strains receded. He looked around out of habit and suspected both Falthwën and Tzharak had heard the same tune, though both were pretending to ignore it, so Kalas did likewise.

  “When Sharuyan set the sky on fire, we were expecting him on the other side of that door,” said Vàyana. “Uh, not that we’re not happy that you’re here now, too!”

  “Like all heavenlies, elu and eru alike, Sharuyan serves the Creator’s will: I can say with utmost confidence that he has his reasons for how he chooses to execute that will.”

  “Oh,” said Vàyana, deflated. “I really hoped he’d be here: I’ve never met an eru…”

  6.

  “What do we do now?” wondered Kalas aloud, giving voice to the question gnawing the periphery of everyone’s thoughts. “My mother and father are…I can’t go home! I can’t! And Zhalera…

  “You, Falthwën: you know magic, but even that doesn’t seem to be enough! What is there for the rest of us to do?”

  For a protracted moment, no one spoke. The silvered sage had closed his eyes, furrowed his brow in apparent thought or prayer or some other form of communication. He twined most of his fingers together and pressed his lips against his outstretched index fingers.

  “‘What do we do now,’” he repeated without any apparent alacrity. “An excellent question, Master Kalas. Excellent question…

  “I hadn’t intended to reveal so much in so short a time: now, I must travel to Ïsriba—and, I think, you should come with me. Mistress Zhalera, too.”

  “Ïsriba?!” Kalas and Zhalera murmured in synchronicity.

  “And the rest of us?” wondered Vàyana with a mixture of fear and wonder etched in her features.

  “Vàyana, my dear, I hope you and Tzharak will be kind enough to remain here in Lohwàlar—”

  “But we can help!” insisted Tzharak. “Let us come with you!”

  “Tzharak, my child—and you as well, Vàyana: nothing would make me happier than to have you accompany me, but as much as I might desire your presence, this town, its people: they are the ones who truly need you. I won’t insist you remain here—I haven’t the authority—but someone with your depth of knowledge and experience, someone with your unfathomable empathy, would be best suited to shepherd the survivors, to care for their present needs and, in the days and weeks ahead, to assist with the rebuilding efforts.”

  Tzharak’s spirits seemed to sink some, though Kalas read in his expression that he recognized the wisdom in Falthwën’s counsel. Vàyana nodded, her relief palpable.

  “Well, you’re not leaving tonight,” she insisted. “Kalas, Zhalera: it’s not much, but in my home I have a spare room. You’re welcome to it. Then I’ll need to triage the rest of the wounded and—”

  “Leave that to me, Vàyana,” interrupted Falthwën. “Tonight, your talents would be best employed in caring for this young man and woman. Would you not agree?”

  “Of course, u Falthwën,” she bowed. “Thank you.”

  Something in the way the old cleric spoke unraveled a thread of subtext that Kalas didn’t quite understand, nor did he try: the day had already taken its most severe toll, and the suggestion of sleep reminded him of the extent of his exhaustion. Vàyana beckoned for the young pair to follow her. They allowed themselves to be led through the temple’s quiet, musty levels toward the rising cacophony swelling within the Sanctuary. Through lesser-used passages, the matronly cleric guided them toward the street, away from the swell of townsfolk and their shared lamentation.

  “Thank you,” said Kalas, somewhat numb, as Vàyana brought them into her home, a small, unassuming structure not too far from the Sanctuary. Her spare room housed two small beds and a single table between them; a simple lamp with an undulating flame adorned the table, its light a welcome hint of
warmth against the night’s oppressive chill.

  “It’s not much,” she began, but Zhalera interrupted.

  “It’s enough. More than enough. Thank you,” she repeated. Vàyana smiled.

  “Well, should you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask: I’m in the next room.”

  With a small bow, she left, pausing for a moment to glance back at Kalas. Mixed with the compassion in her expression was curiosity, he thought. She seemed to feel his scrutiny and, her face reddening, she smiled again and disappeared.

  “Was she looking at me funny?” he asked as he turned toward Zhalera: that’s when he realized she’d already shed her massive sword and collapsed atop one of the beds. From her slowed breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulders, he knew she was asleep.

  “I’m probably just tired,” he convinced himself as he approached the remaining bed.

  Too tired, too spent to do much else, he, too, lay down and closed his eyes.

  The lamp. I should put it out before Mother—

  With as little noise as he could make, Kalas cried into his pillow, hoping neither Zhalera nor Vàyana would hear him.

  When he finally fell asleep, the lamp, still burning, glowed orange-yellow against the shadows.

  Chapter VIII.

  Outside the Skin of the Artifact

  I

  had the strangest dream,” said Zhalera, once Kalas had finally woke. Threads of suns-light shimmered through the loose weave of Vàyana’s window coverings: their interplay created intricate patterns on the far wall.

  Zhalera sat on her bed, her eyes closed as though she were attempting to will the departing images into focus. Kalas said nothing as he, too, sat up. For a moment, he wondered why Zhalera was here, in his room—then the unspeakable truth of the prior evening rushed upon his consciousness, hammering his mind’s eye with scenes of his father, his mother.