Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “Oh?”

  He shook his head, tried to forget—for the moment—the dispassionate fact that his parents were forever gone.

  “Yeah, I don’t know…I was in a smithy—not Father’s, but still, there was something familiar about it. Except it was clean—too clean!—like it had never been used, or at least not for a long, long time. I had a hammer in one hand, tongs in the other, and I was standing over an anvil made of some material I’ve never seen—something even stranger than what you found in the canyon. All around me, even though I couldn’t see anyone, I heard voices. Not talking, but singing. I couldn’t understand the words, but there was some message underneath it all, like the voices were trying to guide me, warn me, maybe. I don’t know.

  “There was a flash, like oil catching flame from a quench, but more intense, and suddenly an ingot of some…substance was hovering over the anvil. Metal glows when it reaches a certain temperature—you know that, you’ve seen it—but this…I don’t think this was metal: it glowed, but it was a different glow, a purer glow, like something other than intense heat had made it shine. Like its essence was a source of light all its own. It was so bright it cast shadows across the rest of the smithy. The singing got quieter and more intense at the same time. I felt like I was supposed to do something, but I didn’t know what: I said as much to the voices: ‘What do you want from me?’

  “That’s when some vast silence overpowered the singing: everything just stopped, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the voices were disappointed in me. There was another burst of light—I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the ingot was gone! Maybe ingot isn’t the right word: I don’t know if it had been cast or what, but whatever it was, it was gone, and everything was dark.

  “But out of that silence, I heard a new voice. I couldn’t make any sense of it, not at first, but it kept ringing out, and when I was just about understand it, I woke up.”

  She looked at the floor, the lines on her face suggesting a mind hard at work. With a sigh and a hitch in her voice, she said: “I wish Father had been there. He would have known what to do…”

  Kalas stepped from his bedside to hers, sat down and placed an awkward hand on her shoulder. He started to say something: when he produced tears instead of words, he wasn’t all that surprised. Zhalera pressed his hand against her shoulder, squeezed it as though it were her only tether to reality.

  “I wish those…those rudzhegume had never come here!” he fumed and jumped to his feet, forgetting his sorrow for the present as raw, untapped fury surged through him. “I wish that lightning killed every last one of them! Forever!”

  Zhalera nodded, not sure how to respond, though in her features, beneath her shared anger and anguish, Kalas glimpsed uncertainty; perhaps the thought (however distant) that simple, unadulterated rage wouldn’t suffice. He knew she was right, but now, however impotent, rage was comfort: grief was misery.

  His outburst attracted Vàyana, who soon appeared in the small room’s doorway.

  “Master Kalas? Is…is everything all—I mean, I—”

  With a knowing exhalation, she closed the distance and wrapped her arms around Kalas, buried his head in the fold of her robes. He felt her tremble, felt her gesture for Zhalera to join them, and for one merciful, silent moment, she held the two of them in what felt like a ritualistic embrace: practiced, but wholly sincere.

  Of course, thought Kalas, I wonder: How many times has she had to comfort the ones who remain when the people they love…go away?

  “Shâu Vàyana,” said Kalas in an attempt to redirect his thoughts, “People keep talking about a prophecy. My…my mother: she said something just before she died…”

  The next words seemed to catch in his throat. Somehow, giving voice to the reality he’d tried to ignore felt like watching Màla perish all over again.

  “I’m all right, I’m—no, I’m not, but nothing will bring her back. I know that. Just…just give me a minute.”

  The cleric sat him down on his bed: Zhalera sat on one side, she on the other.

  “Shâu, my mother, before she died, she said something about a prophecy from ‘before the world was cracked.’ Dzharëth said something about it, too. Tzharak knows something about it: you do, too, I’m guessing, and so does Falthwën. It seems like Zhalera and I are the only ones with no idea what’s going on!

  “Dzharëth, before Shosafin—what was it, ‘unskinned’ him?—before Shosafin unskinned him, he said something about ending the prophecy, and he came after me! What is this prophecy? What does any of this mean?!”

  “Master Kalas, it’s not my place,” began Vàyana as the color drained from her face. “u Falthwën—or even Tzharak, perhaps: it should be one of them. I’m telling you the truth when I say I don’t know the particulars myself!”

  “Shâu Vàyana, please! I just learned I’m not my parents’ natural son! I just watched them die! And some devil wolf ranting about prophecy wants me to follow in their stead! Is there nothing you can tell me?”

  The cleric remained seated, her eyes far away, until at last, with a reluctant heave, she confessed: “‘Before the world was cracked,’ your mother said? I haven’t heard that before, but it makes sense, I suppose. What little I do know is that hundreds of Sevens ago, the world was shaken—cracked, perhaps, though the prophecy isn’t specific. The edhunàm who inherited this changed world had much to overcome.

  “Unless I miss my guess, Falthwën—Tzharak, too—believes you have an important role to play in events that have yet to unfold. That’s really as much as I can tell you.”

  “A pawn, then,” muttered Kalas.

  Vàyana opened her mouth to object. Discovered she couldn’t.

  “Even a pawn,” suggested Zhalera, “can shift fortunes when played by a wise hand.”

  Kalas’ thoughts turned to the night he’d returned home from the Sanctuary and the similar comment Zhalera had made then…

  “Like a knife,” he whispered.

  2.

  With Kalas and Zhalera awake, Vàyana prepared a light breakfast for them and ushered them into her cramped kitchen.

  “Këndan and I never had children, and with him gone for all these years, this room always seemed so much bigger to me,” she apologized.

  “No, thank you,” insisted Zhalera as she enjoyed Vàyana’s freshly-baked golfras bread. “It’s plenty big—right, Kalas?”

  “Yes,” he agreed through a mouthful of the same. “You didn’t have to put us up. We’re grateful.”

  The cleric smiled, causing the subtle creases at the corners of her eyes to deepen. Kalas had assumed she had five, maybe six Sevens, but perhaps she was closer to his mother’s age.

  “In the Sanctuary, before Falthwën left,” he continued, refusing to follow his former line of thought, “he’d asked me to keep an eye out for anything unusual—do you remember?”

  Vàyana nodded.

  “Well, it’s nothing that happened in Lohwàlar, but if he’s really hundreds of Sevens old, maybe he knows about that strange thing in the Empty Sea.”

  “I’m sorry, what ‘strange thing?’” said the cleric, confused. Zhalera shrugged.

  “Oh, right,” he began, and told her the story.

  “Strange thing indeed!” she remarked after Kalas had described it to her (with Zhalera’s help). “Perhaps he does know something about it—I’ve certainly never heard of such things before! And you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tzharak might have answers for you, too—if he’s as old as he says.”

  “You don’t believe him?” wondered Kalas.

  “Oh, I believe him,” she countered, “although I’ll admit it’s something of a shock. The oldest person I ever knew, personally, had only attained three and twenty-one Sevens—and looked as though he’d lived every last year of it!

  “But Falthwën will most likely be preparing for his trip to Ïsriba: you might catch him at the Sanctuary, you might not. Tzharak might be easier to track down. Come, I’ll help you find one of them.�
�

  Bathed in the light of day, the destruction wrought by the zhàrudzhme was all too evident. As Vàyana led them through its disheveled streets and smoldering structures toward Tzharak’s place, neither Kalas nor Zhalera could fully comprehend the extent of the mounds of debris that had been peoples’ homes and businesses as recently as last night.

  The distance between Vàyana’s home and the Sanctuary wasn’t great, but the streets still thronged with townsfolk in the throes of shock. She led the young pair through the same back door from which they’d escaped the previous night. The halls of the ancient temple had quieted some, but the timbre of pain and suffering persisted.

  At the dais, Vàyana inquired about Falthwën’s whereabouts, but the young man with whom she spoke hadn’t seen him all morning.

  “I’m not surprised,” the cleric admitted, “but please, if you see him, let him know that we were looking for him. We have…some questions for him.”

  Back outside, Vàyana wove a path for them through the crowd, stopping from time to time to offer what help she could. Despite his own losses, his own fears, and despite the impatience that gnawed at his thoughts, Kalas smiled when she knelt before a small, injured child, whispered something in his ear, and handed him a translucent green lozenge: the lad’s surprised gasp sounded all-too familiar.

  As they gained some distance from the Sanctuary, the river of bodies thinned; soon, it seemed as though they were the only souls around.

  “Father’s smithy!” shouted Zhalera as the cleric’s path brought them near.

  Most of the ancient structure had been reduced to rubble. Its roof had collapsed—or exploded: regardless, it was gone. Its stone walls, once believed to be unmovable, had visibly shifted and crumbled. Zhalera rushed into the mess.

  “Zhalera! Wait! It’s not safe!” warned Vàyana. Zhalera didn’t listen.

  Something had burned the immense wooden door from its now-blackened hinges. The young smith leapt over its ashes, climbed over fallen rafters and disrupted stock and approached the biggest forge, where Gandhan had performed most of his work Now wrecked, most of its bricks had been broken and now rested at odd, canted angles.

  “Zhalera?” said Kalas, who’d followed her into the building’s remains.

  “It’s gone. All gone,” she whispered to no one in particular.

  “Zhalera, I’m so sorry,” he offered.

  “Right here,” she continued, “is where Father used to stand when he was heating steel. I can’t remember how many things I watched him make from just over there. Swords, spears, plowshares, and things like that. This place feels empty—feels wrong—without him here.”

  “Gandhan definitely had a presence,” agreed Kalas.

  Vàyana waited for them at the threshold without impatience or any sense of urgency, and for that, both Kalas and Zhalera were grateful.

  After a few silent minutes passed, Zhalera turned and, shaking her head, admitted, “There’s nothing here for me anymore. The forge is gone, and I—hey, wait…”

  She interrupted herself and walked a few steps toward a former piece of the roof. It had landed atop some other debris and formed a small cave-like space. Kneeling, she peered into it; then, belly on the floor, she snaked an arm into the dark cavity and struggled for a moment.

  “Kalas, can you lift this?” she asked, still prone.

  He found a corner suitable for grasping and made his first attempt.

  And failed.

  “Heavy,” he muttered.

  Bracing himself, he squatted and tried again, this time lifting the mass just a few inches—and just for a few moments. Zhalera crawled into the opening he’d made.

  “Zhalera!” he wheezed through gritted teeth.

  “Almost…” she said. Not to him.

  “Zhalera!” he wheezed again as he felt his hands grow slick with sweat. “I can’t—”

  “Got it!” she exulted as she cleared the wreckage. Just in time, too: Kalas lost his grip and the beam he’d been holding smashed the floor where Zhalera’s body had been just a moment before.

  “Children?” Vàyana said and appeared beside them.

  “We’re fine,” said Zhalera. She stood, dusted herself off, and held out a rather unremarkable hammer.

  Kalas, still panting, cocked his head. He said nothing, but Zhalera read the confusion in his expression. Somehow, she laughed.

  “Four-pound hammer,” she explained. “My four-pound hammer. Father gave it to me on my second Seven. It actually weighs a few grains less than four pounds, but no matter. I have his sword, sure, but that’s been passed down for generations: this hammer? he made it just for me.”

  Now Kalas understood. He nodded. “How’d you even see it under all that stuff?” he asked.

  “I don’t know—maybe the suns-light hit it just right. Maybe…maybe Father’s kelâ gave me a nudge…”

  “Maybe,” agreed Kalas. Vàyana nodded, too.

  “That knife I made you? Started with this,” she said, hefting the hammer again. “Now, though, there really is nothing left for me here.”

  “Lohwàlar will rebuild,” the cleric reminded them, although she said nothing else.

  Their course carried them quite some distance from town, past its outskirts, and up into a series of small hills. Both suns shone bright against the heavens: when they met at the top of the deep blue sky, Kalas felt the Song again, with more force than he’d experienced in prior weeks. He stumbled as its melodies seemed to swoop and swirl within his thoughts, much like before, though today its tempo elicited a sense of urgency.

  “Kalas?” said Zhalera. Vàyana stopped, turned when she spoke.

  “I’m fine—uh, just…thought I heard something.” He made a casual swipe at his upper lip, relaxed when all he touched was sweat.

  “Something…musical?” she prodded.

  “Did you?! No, of course not…Uh, I mean, yes: the song.”

  “Song?” wondered Vàyana.

  Kalas thought for a moment, unsure of his next words.

  Falthwën trusts her, he reminded himself, and Tzharak, too…

  “Sometimes I hear a kind of music that no one else seems to notice. Sometimes it’s barely there—sometimes I don’t really notice—but other times, it almost feels like I’m being pushed. Or pulled. I don’t know how else to explain it.

  “You don’t…you don’t hear music like that, do you?”

  Vàyana smiled: “No, child, I am not so blessed. Tzharak calls it erunoriyël—star music: yes, he hears what you hear. Falthwën calls it Zhi Helimi.”

  “‘The Song?’” laughed Kalas. “That’s what I call it, too.”

  “Do you hear it when the suns rise and fall? when they touch?”

  “I do!” Kalas confirmed.

  “Erunoriyël,” the cleric repeated. “The suns are stars, too, remember.”

  3.

  Not too much later, the party passed beneath a tall, wide arch and into an almost bowl-like depression. Though the peculiar space was smaller than Lohwàlar’s Crescent, it sported many mature trees—some of which threatened to peek above their confines—and patches of grass bedecked with varying species of wildflowers. Toward the elevated center of the basin perched a small, unremarkable structure that Kalas assumed to be Tzharak’s home.

  “How did he build those walls?” he wondered aloud.

  “srutaru—‘fire mountain.’ Volcano,” Vàyana explained. “Hundreds of years ago—maybe more—the earth split apart right here. Hundreds of years later, when everything had cooled, this was the result, more or less. According to Tzharak.

  “I always wondered how he could be so sure. When you’re one hundred twenty-something Sevens, I guess you see a lot!”

  In his peripheral vision, Kalas thought he caught a glimpse of something moving from tree to tree. He stopped and Zhalera bumped into him.

  “Why’d you stop, Kalas? More music?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment: whatever he’d seen in the trees was gone by the
time he turned for a closer look—which only made him more suspicious.

  “Shosafin?” he called out.

  “Should chasing prophecies prove not to be to your liking, you’d make a fine watchman,” said a voice just over his shoulder. Kalas whirled and withdrew his knife, but by the time he’d raised it, Shosafin had brushed his arm aside with almost no effort, as though the boy’s advance was but a game.

  To him, it probably is, Kalas thought.

  “Shosafin! Where did you come from?” said Zhalera. Kalas returned his knife to his belt, did his best to hide his embarrassment.

  “Adventure has a tendency to follow you,” the soldier answered. Though the question had been Zhalera’s, his eyes addressed Kalas. “It seemed prudent to keep an eye on you. And I meant it: you’re prone to rash decisions—pure reaction in most situations—but there’s an element of something…noble in your choices, from what I’ve seen, and that attribute is sorely lacking in Ïsriba.

  “But don’t let me keep you! I’m interested to hear what Tzharak has to say about that object in the Empty Sea, too!”

  “You’ve been eavesdropping!” accused Vàyana.

  “Hish,” said Shosafin without inflection.

  Tzharak seemed unsurprised to see everyone—Shosafin included—when he opened the door to them.

  “Come in, come in,” he said as he stepped aside.

  They entered, and as their eyes adjusted to the shaded interior, Kalas noted just how much stuff Tzharak had accumulated over his many Sevens: though arranged in neat stacks, his shelves seemed on the cusp of breaking from the weight of all the books and other objects they bore. Laid out on a small table he saw plot after plot of what looked like city maps and architectural drawings, as well as copious blueprints. Tzharak noticed his interest and explained, “I thought the city planners could use some of these old drawings for the rebuilding effort: compare what worked in the past and what might be improved. It’s providential you arrived when you did—tomorrow, I planned to deliver the most relevant plans to Lohwàlar!”