Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “Kalas?” she asked, and he placed his hands around hers. Operating in tandem, they tried to move it again, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “I don’t get it,” Kalas panted after repeated attempts. “Tzharak said he gave the table to Wodram, said it was heavy, but still, they were able to move it, right? So now that the table itself is gone, how is it that we can’t move this thing that was inside it?! It should be lighter!”

  “A reasonable deduction,” Falthwën agreed. “However, what was inside the table was also…elsewhere—and elsewhen—for a time. For millennia, actually. I’ve been searching for it throughout the years. Indeed, that’s…one of the things that originally brought me to Lohwàlar, though now I understand that it’s more than mere coincidence that Lohwàlar is also where our paths would cross…”

  “One of the things?” said Kalas, his interest piqued. Falthwën ignored his question.

  “Yes, it’s a sword; and yes, it’s heavier than anything you’re ever likely to encounter. It belonged—belongs—to a friend of mine, who lost it many Sevens ago. Hàfilrifar, she called it. I think she’ll be pleased that it’s been recovered. I’m hopeful we’ll be able to return it to her in Ïsriba.”

  “How are we going to get it there? We can’t even move it!” Zhalera wondered.

  “Maybe you can’t…” replied Falthwën as he grabbed its hilt and hefted it as though it were so much steel. He smiled, his eyes twinkling, as Zhalera’s jaw dropped. With a flourish, he carved another series of shapes within the air before placing it in a nondescript leather sheath neither had seen him wearing before.

  “That’s just not fair!” Zhalera marveled. Falthwën grinned.

  “No, I suppose it is not.”

  “You have a friend who’s thousands of years old,” Kalas accused.

  “More than one,” the cleric nodded. “Many of whom I hope to introduce to you in the near future. For now, however, the suns have set and the night grows colder. Let’s go.”

  6.

  They walked in silence through the dimming streets headed toward Zhalera’s home, Kalas realized after a short while. When they arrived, it appeared as though no rudzhegume had disturbed it: though it was closer to the Crescent at Lohwàlar’s center than Kalas’ place, the late Gandhan’s estate was far enough removed from the most common routes that it had never seen much traffic. In the lengthening shadows, its simple, rustic features seemed more weathered, more used up than Kalas remembered.

  “Why…here?” Zhalera wondered, her words stained with the faintest shade of hurt.

  “My apologies, my child: I thought, given the hour and our need, we might make use of your home for the night. If you’d prefer, we can always—”

  “No, here’s fine,” she insisted.

  She stepped ahead of Falthwën and tried the latch, which lifted without incident.

  “Wait!” she hissed as her free hand flew toward Gandhan’s massive sword strapped across her back. “Door’s unlocked!”

  Zhalera started to draw her father’s ancient blade from its scabbard but stopped herself.

  “What is it?” Kalas whispered, his knife already in hand.

  She shook her head, let go of the sword, and said, “I’m the one who left the door unlocked. That night: Father told me to come get this, and I was hurrying and, well…”

  “All is well within,” finished Falthwën, opening his eyes after a contemplative moment’s consideration. “If you’re certain here is all right with you…”

  “It is. Come on in.”

  With torches lit and placed within their respective sconces, Zhalera raided the larder and spread out what items she could find. Kalas’ stomach growled its approval, and he and the cleric joined her in preparing a meal of cured strips of meat, fruit preserves, and stale bread.

  When they’d finished eating, Falthwën nodded toward the mammoth weapon Zhalera had been toting, now leaning up against a wall without ceremony.

  “I noticed your sword earlier, in the Empty Sea. It’s a beautiful piece: surely your father must have instructed you regarding its lineage?”

  “He was most proud of it!” she agreed. She retrieved it, removed it from its sheath, and held it up to the dancing light, which caressed its edge with almost lurid movement.

  “Said Sevens of grandfathers had passed it down from generation to generation. Everything he made, he judged by that sword—so did his father, and his grandfather, and…well, you know. Before I even began as his apprentice, he told me it was made from some kind of mysterious metal, something unbelievably strong and flexible. The way he went on about it! Probably what made me want to be a smith someday! Probably what made him curious about the artif—oh!

  “He also said no one—none of his grandfathers, even—had ever produced an alloy like the one this sword is made from, though certainly not because they didn’t try! Somewhere along the way, one of them tried to melt it down—out of frustration, probably!—but no matter how hot he got his furnace, it never took color, never showed any reaction! It’s all in the notes—or was—at the smithy.

  “Here’s the weirdest thing, though: it looks heavy, right? Like someone my age, my size, shouldn’t be able to carry it around without breaking my back? The truth is it’s really light! Probably weighs about a quarter what you might think…”

  Zhalera grew quiet and her expression, so alive one moment, fell: Kalas watched her features change with her thoughts, and, aware of his eyes on her, she blushed and continued, “I guess now it’s down to me, but there’s so much I still don’t know. So much I needed him to teach me…”

  Kalas, speechless, raised a trembling hand to wipe away her fresh tears. She smiled, took hold of it with her free hand and pressed it against her cheek.

  “My dear, would you permit me to examine your sword?”

  “Of course.”

  She let go of Kalas’ hand, turned the hilt toward Falthwën, and offered it to him. He accepted it with a peculiar reverence, thought Kalas, and seemed to search for something within its lines. No one spoke while the old man ran his fingers across its surfaces, tested its weight, its balance. At last, he locked eyes with Zhalera and smiled as he held it sideways for a moment—a moment in which thousands of razor-fine, honey-colored lights swirled within and across its faces in subtle ripples—before he presented her the hilt.

  Awed, she took it back and stared at it as though seeing it for the first time.

  “That wasn’t the lights, was it? The lights? Was that the lights?” said Kalas, surprised. Falthwën cocked an eyebrow.

  “No, of course not,” the boy mumbled.

  “Your forebears, Firebird, were men and women of remarkable skill: it’s no wonder all of them aspired to the greatness contained within this blade! It’s true: Gandhan, your father, had more to teach you, but it’s my contention that he taught you far more than you realize, and one day, maybe you will surpass him. All of your ancestors.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she looked away from Gandhan’s—from her sword.

  “No maybe about it!” puffed Kalas. “Why, just take a look at this knife she made for me!”

  He drew his birthday present from his belt and handed it to Falthwën.

  “Kalas!” Zhalera hissed. And blushed. “It’s just a knife!”

  “Perhaps the boy’s confidence is well-placed?” the cleric suggested as he handed the blade back to Kalas.

  “Perhaps,” she allowed.

  “Very well! Now, I recommend you two get some sleep: in the morning, we’ll make the last of our preparations, say our goodbyes, and begin the journey to Ïsriba.”

  Chapter X.

  On the Eve of Departure

  W

  e’ll need a team of horses. And a cart,” Falthwën said as Kalas and Zhalera, still groggy, each sat up. They’d been so tired, so reluctant to entertain the darkness alone that they’d fallen asleep on the great room’s floor while Falthwën, Kalas guessed, kept watch. “With the attack, though, I’m concerned
any that might have been available will be employed helping clear debris or hauling materials for the rebuilding effort. Nonetheless, without such things our already-long trip will take weeks—maybe months—longer.”

  “My friend Rül,” said Kalas. “His family runs a farm near Lohwàlar’s outskirts—away from all the stuff that happened nearer the Crescent. Most of their horses are probably being worked, like you said, but maybe they could spare one or two. I’m not sure about a cart, though.”

  “It’ll be more difficult to acquire horses—the cart can wait. Let’s visit your friend and see how his family might be able to help us.”

  Despite the fresh wounds inflicted on the town by the zhàrudzhme, as the trio passed through the Crescent, the lamentations from prior evenings had given way to the shouts of people barking orders, the blows of hammers driving pegs, and other sounds describing Lohwàlar’s resilience. Horses neighed, drawing carts laden with all manner of rubble here and there and materials from site to site. Zhalera ran ahead, looked down the cross street that led to Gandhan’s smithy—what remained of it, at least. She returned with a bittersweet smile.

  “Someone’s cleared away most of the wreckage. That’s good. I guess. I just wonder what will become of the lot: that smithy had been in Father’s family for generations. Now it’s gone, and I have no idea how to start over. Where do I even begin?”

  They passed through the rest of the town, the animated noises growing fainter with every step, until they reached the long, gradual incline that led toward Rül’s family’s farm. The ground here bore sporadic patches of mixed grasses on which a handful of goats and an occasional cow were munching. As they followed the dry, rocky path toward the house—a squat, sprawling structure composed of various eclectic additions erected over the years—a farm hand, his mind on something other than his surroundings, stepped from behind an outbuilding and bumped into Kalas.

  “Oho! Sorry, sà! Didn’t see you there!” he apologized. The suns, though still somewhat low, had begun heating the day, and the man mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Looking for Barish? Should be down at the stables. You know where that is?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Kalas. “Hey, is Rül around?”

  “I…yes, he’s at the stables, too…”

  “Oh? Is something wrong?” said Falthwën, noting the subtext in the frazzled man’s tone.

  “Well, ain’t my place, and I probably shouldn’t say anything—”

  “Very well. We’ll just—”

  “—but lately Barish has been…in a mood ever since that Dzharëth kid killed half the town. Thinks the rest of ’em might think he was part of it, since he sold Ëlbodh a bunch of goats just before his boy, well, y’know.”

  “No one thinks that!” insisted Kalas. The man shrugged, held up his hands.

  “That’s what Rül’s been tellin’ him—the rest of us, too—but Barish won’t listen.”

  “That’s…unfortunate,” Falthwën frowned.

  “Sure is. Stables is that way.” The farm hand tipped his broad straw hat, dabbed at his brow again before returning to work.

  “The good news is this,” the cleric said, his expression wry: “from that man’s description, Barish’s paranoia probably means most—if not all—of his horses are still here. Still available. The bad news, of course, is that he’s unlikely to part ways with them. But we’re here: there’s no harm in making our request.”

  The three figures walked in the direction they’d been given. The few people with whom they crossed paths regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and pity, as though they somehow knew that no matter why they’d come to the farm, they’d wasted their time.

  After a few minutes, Kalas pointed out the stables, which he’d seen a time or two before. Drawing nearer, two loud, animated voices intermingled with the sound of their footsteps.

  “Rül’s really getting into it with his father!” Kalas noted with a frown.

  Without intending to listen in, they heard Rül say: “How do you think hiding at the farm makes you look?! If you just took a few days—a week, maybe—and sent a team of men and horses and supplies into town, people would realize you didn’t know what Ëlbodh was up to, what Dzharëth was up to!”

  “No! They’ll think I’m tryin’ to put a good face on things! That I’m tryin’ to throw off suspicion by makin’ a big show of it! They’ll say, ‘Hey, it’s Barish! Tryin’ to make us think he weren’t in on it!’”

  “Then send a smaller team! Maybe two or three hands—and yourself! You’re worried about what people might think: they’re worried about how they’re going to go on without their fathers, their mothers and children! Father, I mean no disrespect, but it’s been years since you’ve left the farm: when you send me into town, if anyone says anything about you, it’s to ask how you’re doing, what’s going on up at that farm. They’re concerned for your well-being. I’m telling you: go into town! Offer the farm’s services—donate a cart full of staples to the Sanctuary or something! Just—”

  “No! I can’t! They won’t—”

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Falthwën interrupted, “We’ve come to—”

  “You there!” gasped Barish. “I’ve never seen you before! What do you want? Did Sàrush send you? You here for my hide?! And you, lad! Rül says you said Dzharëth was dead! Maybe the townsfolk should take a closer look at you!”

  Kalas had no response. Rül, however, disgusted, retorted: “Kalas’ father Tàran died that night, too! And the townsfolk aren’t taking a closer look at anyone! You have no idea what you’re talking about anymore! You know what? It’s good that a cleric has come to us: now Mother and I won’t have to trick you into an examination!”

  “u Barish, we’re here on our own behalf,” said Falthwën. “We’d like to borrow a few horses, some provisions. Perhaps a cart? We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  “Where are you headed?” Rül inquired, forgetting his father’s tantrum.

  “To Ïsriba,” he answered.

  “Oh? Yes! Of course we’ll lend you some horses! And a cart! If Father won’t send them into town, then why not send them with you?”

  “You can’t do that!” spluttered Barish as his eyes widened and his cheeks reddened.

  “Father! Enough!” shouted Rül. He allowed himself a moment and a deep breath; then, in more measured tones, added, “Never mind. I have…I should get back to work.”

  With a nod, he stormed from the stables. The four of them watched him go, then, addressing Falthwën again, Barish continued, “No, friend: I can’t spare any horses today. Busy, busy, busy. Perhaps another time. Now, you must go: we’re running a farm here!”

  Falthwën held the man’s gaze. Barish was nearly as tall as Gandhan had been, less girthsome but wiry. A shaft of light snaked through the stable’s walls and fell across his face, giving his eyes a manic gleam. The cleric looked past him at the seven or eight horse noses protruding from their respective stalls and tasting the air with their velvety nostrils.

  “Very well,” Falthwën said with a slight bow. He turned and exited the stables. Kalas and Zhalera, unsure, followed him.

  “What now?” Zhalera wondered. “With no horses, no cart, how are we going to make it to Ïsriba?”

  “The same way we made it here,” he shrugged. “We’ll walk.”

  “Walk?!” said Kalas in disbelief. “Why, it’ll take us forever to make it to Ïsriba!”

  “It won’t take us quite that long, but come, let’s return to your home, Zhalera, and reconsider our options. At this time of year, we may have to postpone our travel: while the winters in Lohwàlar are somewhat temperate, they are decidedly less so toward the end of our route. Perhaps it’s not an altogether bad thing: if we’re in town, we can help.”

  “That’s true,” said Zhalera, and Kalas smiled at the sparks of thought that danced across her eyes. “With some help, I’ll bet I could get the forge up and running: with all the work everyone’s doing, they’ll need someone who can repair b
roken tools, make new ones when necessary…Yeah, maybe it’ll be a good thing!”

  Near the bottom of the long hill that led away from the farm, the sudden sound of frenzied hoofbeats shook the ground.

  “What’s that?” Kalas asked, turning. “I got the impression that Barish’s horses weren’t going anywhere.”

  A swelling cloud of dust obscured the source of the sound and pounded ever nearer.

  “Hey! That looks like Rül!” Zhalera shouted.

  “Kalas! Zhalera! u cleric! Get in!” the farm boy instructed as he reined in his team. Two large, well-muscled draft horses drawing a cart trotted to a halt, pawed the earth and snorted. Kalas, who knew little about horses, thought they looked like they’d been anxious for a chance to stretch their powerful legs.

  “Rül! What are you doing?!” Kalas exclaimed.

  “Getting you to Ïsriba!”

  “Master Rül, I appreciate your, ah, initiative, but as much as I disagree with your father’s position, I can’t condone the theft of his—”

  “They’re not his horses! They belong to Mother as well! The farm belonged to her family back in the day. And you saw how unreasonable he was: it’s been like that for years! I don’t know what happened, not exactly, but I knew he wasn’t going to help you. I talked with Mother, explained your situation, and she helped me pack the cart!

  “Now come on! Climb in! Let’s go before Father figures out what’s going on!”

  “What about your mother?” said Zhalera.

  Rül laughed.

  “Mother will be fine! She knows how to handle herself—and Father! She’s the only person I’ve ever seen talk him down, put the fear in him. From time to time, anyway.”

  “Very well!” said Falthwën, his smile genuine this time as he helped the others into the cart.

  With a snap of his reins, Rül drove the horses from his family farm in a writhing cloak of dust.

  2.

  “Where we headed?” Rül asked as they approached Lohwàlar’s outskirts. The horses seemed grateful for the reprieve as he reined them in, reduced their gallop to a relaxed gait.