Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “We’d been away from the capital for about a week when the dogs discovered something unfamiliar—something they didn’t like at all: rather than draw us toward the trail’s source, they whined to get away from it. This piqued the king’s interest. I attempted to follow him as he ran off through the brush and low branches, but my skills weren’t adequate, and I lost sight of him.

  “Hours later, I finally managed to retrace my steps to where I’d left the rest of the party. All but the dogs had been torn apart. Indeed, the dogs had begun devouring their remains. I drove them off, then tried to make sense of the massacre in front of me. Only one man had managed to draw his sword—Kind Marugan—and something had broken that into pieces, then tore his face to shreds. Your ‘rudzhegume,’ no doubt, though no one would have said so at the time. It’s ironic: it was Marugan who’d spoken to the king about the wolves in the first place…

  “I searched for the king for a week—our provisions hadn’t been touched, and since it was just me, I had plenty. I found no sign of him, so I returned to Ïsriba with a strange tale and sad news.

  “Ësfàyami’s reaction was…peculiar, to say the least. Within a day or two, she stripped me of my rank and would have had me executed for allowing her father to come to harm. Now, passion, I would have understood—even indifference, a sort of detachment while she grieved her father would have made sense, but the way she carried herself…the way her counselors whispered in her ears…There was cold in her voice, all right, but the wrong kind of cold, if you can imagine. I’m sure I’m not describing it right.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure why she didn’t have me put to death. Perhaps Ilbardhën is more accurate a name than I understand. No matter. The shorter story is that I returned to the barracks, under the command of those officers I’d spited in the past. They made sure I understood just how little they esteemed me.

  “Yes, I was mad. At first. But something inside seemed to…not snap, but shift, perhaps, and I turned my attention inward. Back in the field, I became a student of the natural world: how to understand it, to manipulate it to some degree. I studied people, their body language and how it matched—or differed—from their stated intentions or their circumstances. Most other soldiers learned to keep their distance from me, lest their commanders punish them. That isolation enabled me to hone my skills: I hadn’t lost that determination that had carried me so far and so fast. I just…redirected it.

  “I was forgotten, I guess you could say, for quite some time. A fact that gave my ‘superiors’ immeasurable joy, I’m sure. Still, such anonymity afforded me luxuries I’d otherwise be denied: because no one paid much attention to me, I discovered ways to come and go without detection. I learned to blend in. Though to be fair, I think my commanders assumed I had nowhere to go, not really, and they were right.

  “What’s any of that have to do with this?” he said with another glance toward his stained scabbard. “I wasn’t part of Valderïk’s original company. I heard about the zhàrudzh plaguing your town. I wasn’t convinced—wanted to see for myself, so when Valderïk set out, I followed.

  “I’ve been…elusive. Partly because that’s become my nature, but also because I suspected certain elements within the queen-regent’s court hoped to catch me unawares in unfamiliar surroundings…”

  “Why out here,” said Kalas, having allowed himself a moment to consider Shosafin’s tale. “Sounds like the people of Ïsriba would’ve been happy to see you dead—if you’ll forgive my bluntness.”

  “That, lad, I can’t answer. Most Ïsribarinme believed the queen-regent when she accused me of murdering the king. At first. Over time, as her regime’s cupidity increased, the people’s love for their princess decayed—which only swelled her desire for power, for absolute sway over all her subjects. Truth be told, she would have done well to put me to death like she’d intended instead of listening to the petty schemes of her counselors.

  “One thing that comes to mind, however, is that all your townsfolks’ talk of wolf demons resurrected old suspicions about King Rufàran’s…disappearance. Perhaps there’s a connection there, and the powers-that-be have realized their mistake.”

  “You sound like you think he’s still alive,” noted Kalas.

  “A number of Sevens has come and gone since then…” he said without inflection.

  “‘Wolf demons,’” repeated Kalas, latching on to Shosafin’s phrase. “The way you handled Dzharëth, according to Tzharak, must have been a sight. I know it wouldn’t have made any difference at the time, but still, I keep thinking that if I knew how to handle a sword, maybe I could have done something. You definitely know your way around a sword! Would you teach me?”

  Shosafin smiled, shook his head. After a moment’s consideration, he said: “You’ve piqued my curiosity, lad. Like I’ve said: there’s a quality about you that I can’t quite put my finger on. Let’s see what happens in the days ahead.”

  4.

  “What were you two talking about?” Zhalera asked Kalas as he returned to the task of helping pack up their campsite. He scattered the last embers of the fire, then filled the pit with dirt and covered it with pine needles and leaves. Almost as an afterthought, he sprinkled a few extra needles to better camouflage the area.

  “Wow, it looks like we were never here!” said Zhalera. “Did you learn that from Shosafin? Is that what you were talking about?”

  “Thanks,” Kalas blushed. “No, we were talking about…he said he might teach me how to use a sword—at least, I think that’s what he said! I, uh, I was thinking how you said someday you might make me a sword, and, well, I’d want to be able to use it the right way. If you did make me a sword, that is. You know, once you get the smithy up and running again…”

  “You think that’ll really happen? That I’ll be able to start a business? That it’ll be any good?” she asked, and it pained Kalas to hear the uncharacteristic uncertainty in her tone.

  “Zhalera, I know it will happen! And you’ll have more business than you know what to do with! It’ll be great!”

  “Of course you’d say that,” she protested—although a sly smile curled the corners of her mouth.

  “I’m serious though: all right, I might not be the most objective person to ask, but your father did great work, and all of Lohwàlar knows it. They know you were apprenticing under him, and even if it was only for a year or so, they know you pretty much grew up at the smithy. More than anyone in Lohwàlar, you know metal! Here, look:”

  Kalas pulled his knife from his waistband and held it up. Zhalera blushed and looked away.

  “I mean it, Zhalera! Look! I don’t know why you doubt yourself. I could tell the moment I first picked this up that it was perfect. In every way—and I’m pretty sure I said as much to you! But even if you thought I was just being polite…I know you hit your head and didn’t see it, but this knife—your knife—felt like a part of my arm when I used it to drive away the rudzhegu. You know what you’re doing. I believe it, the town believes it…Someday, I hope you believe it, too.”

  “That’s everything,” said Rül as he tightened the last straps on his cart. Zhalera grabbed its edge and hauled herself into the back. Kalas followed suit, and Falthwën climbed into the front next to Rül. Shosafin had already disappeared into that unnatural silence by the time Dancer and Runner had resumed the journey.

  It seemed to Kalas like they drove past the same trees time and again as the suns ascended. No one said much of anything, and travel across the well-worn road imparted a rhythmic vibration to the poorer suspension of the cart’s cargo area, where he and Zhalera sat. It wasn’t long before he nodded off to sleep.

  When he woke, the suns were almost touching. Hours had elapsed and soon, they’d need to stop to eat—an observation his stomach seconded with a low rumble. Beside him, Zhalera had also fallen asleep. With her giant sword still wrapped in cloths, and strapped to her body, she seemed smaller than life, more fragile than he knew her to be, and an overwhelming compulsion to pr
otect her seized him.

  If I’m honest, it’s probably me who needs her protection! he laughed to himself.

  Falthwën looked back at him, at the girl; nodded and turned toward Rül, to whom he whispered something unintelligible while he pointed straight ahead.

  “What time is it?” said Zhalera as she sat up and adjusted her sword. She yawned, stretched her arms and looked skyward.

  “Just before noon, I think, if I’m reading the suns right. I just woke up, too. Hey, Falthwën, what time is—”

  Kalas hadn’t noticed that the density of the forest had thinned out somewhat, nor that Rül had followed the road into something of a small clearing. What he did notice, as the suns came together, was the Song. Contrasted with the unsettling silence of the woods, its notes fell like hammer blows against his thoughts: not unpleasant, just unexpected. And loud!

  “Falthwën!” he shouted when he’d had a moment to recover. Strands of music still played against the boundaries of his mind, but he discovered, with effort, he could attenuate the Song’s mental impact while still perceiving every chord, every note. “What was—I mean: why is it so loud?”

  “What do you mean, Kalas?” interrupted Rül. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Falthwën ignored their driver and, with amusement, said, “Heard that, did you?”

  “Like it was my birthday!” Kalas had reached for his upper lip without realizing it until he brought his hand away. No nosebleed.

  “Certain times and places—and people, when combined, become a sort of amplifier for The Song, a spacetime nexus through which its movements gather and impart power from the immaterial.”

  I had no idea how much power you hide behind that unassuming guise!

  “‘Power?’”

  “Tell me, my child: have you remembered any more details about the night the zhàrudzh attacked you? Have you wondered why it spared your lives?”

  “What? No, I—what’s this have to do with The Song’s power?”

  “The Song is, in many ways, an abstract representation of the Creator’s Nalën Miral—his First Act, yet it’s so much more than a simple representation of a completed work…Consider your favorite piece of music: what makes it your favorite? The simple arrangement of notes? The technical ability of the singer or performer? No! Those elements contribute to its overall gestalt, but it’s how it makes you feel, how it makes you think: how it moves you as it moves through you. In those respects, Zhi Helimi is no different from any other song.

  “For certain souls, however, that…let’s call it motion: that motion manifests itself in the material world as well as the immaterial. I’m not talking about the physical vibrations that our ears perceive as sound—I’m talking about…call them spiritual vibrations that reverberate within our hearts and minds, that resonate within our kelâme. That’s grossly oversimplifying, of course, but it paints the picture. What I want you to realize is this: when properly understood, one who perceives The Song can harness its energies. Redirect them. It’s my belief that on the night the wolf attacked you, with Zhalera’s life at stake, you called upon The Song, and it responded with a display of power that even fallen elume had no choice but to respect.”

  “I still don’t know what this ‘Song’ is you’re talking about, but it sounds like you’re talking about magic,” noted Rül as he steered his cart toward a shaded spot within the clearing.

  “You’re not entirely incorrect,” agreed Falthwën as the party exited the cart. Rül tended the horses while the others stretched, massaged their kinked muscles, and prepared a simple lunch.

  “It’s not ‘magic’ in the sense most people consider, but it is a form of privilege, as I’ve described it before. Because The Song is, in a very real sense, the spiritual thread that binds together the Creator’s handiwork, that privilege is best exercised in accordance with his will. That’s not to say that people haven’t abused that privilege over the years—exercised it in accordance with their own wills…While it might seem like a good idea in the short term, in the long term…”

  “You’re thinking of something specific, aren’t you?” accused Kalas as he studied the cleric’s face, watched as his eyes lost focus on the present and traveled backward through time.

  “I am, my child. I am. It’s a long story—a sad story—and now’s neither the time nor the place…”

  “How could I call upon The Song if I didn’t even know that such a thing existed?” Kalas wondered as he chose to ignore Falthwën’s untold story. “I mean, how do you know that stabbing the rudzhegu in the chest wasn’t enough to drive it away?”

  “The Song isn’t purely reactive. It’s the music of creation, the cord of Ilun’s intent: his sovereignty remains unaffected by the whims of those he’s blessed with opportunity. And, more to your point: all of us—those who perceive The Song and those who don’t—we’re all bound together by that common thread. Speaking plainly, I—and others—heard you: or, more accurately, heard The Song through you on that night.”

  Kalas swallowed the mouthful of cured meat he’d been chewing, gulped water from a skin, and, in a subdued tone, asked, “My parents. Zhalera’s father…Could The Song help someone…y’know…”

  “It’s not the same for you—for Tzharak—as it is for the—for certain others. There are myriad aspects to The Song. But Master

  Kalas, we’ve talked about this. I thought you understood! I’ve already told you it cannot work that way. Not unless—”

  “I know, Falthwën! I know! It’s just…Well, what do you expect?!” he exploded. “Two Sevens! Two Sevens and suddenly I’m all alone! You really wouldn’t change things if you could? If you were in my place?”

  “I would want to—I’ve admitted as much before,” began the wearied cleric. “However, with the clarity experience brings, I would choose not to. You’re right: two Sevens is a terribly young age, even if it is the threshold of adulthood. You’re also wrong: look around you! You are not alone! I’m not pretending that any of us—or Vàyana or Tzharak—could ever replace Màla and Tàran. Or Gandhan. Never.

  “And I won’t pretend to understand the complexity of the Creator’s ultimate design. I’m not that vain. Likewise, I won’t pretend that my heart doesn’t ache for you—for you as well, Zhalera, and for all Lohwàlar—for the tragic loss you’ve suffered.

  “What’s more, to answer your question: it cannot work that way unless such interruption of the natural order should fulfill the will of the Creator. It’s less someone’s simple exercise of The Song’s energies than it is the intersection of that person’s and the Creator’s wills. Perhaps it’s not ‘fair,’ as most would define it, but in matters like this, we don’t get to choose which definitions to use. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, Kalas, and no time in which to do it. You have my sympathy.”

  5.

  After the horses had been fed and watered, the party resumed its trek toward Ïsriba. Shosafin had joined them for a brief moment while they ate, but he’d remained invisible for the remainder of the afternoon. Kalas kept to himself, and after a few attempts to engage him in conversation, Zhalera left him to his thoughts.

  “I miss my dad,” she’d said with a nonchalance that surprised him, “but even if I could use magic or ‘The Song’ or whatever, I wouldn’t bring him back.”

  “What? How can you say that?! You really wouldn’t? You said there’s so much more you wish he could teach you: what about that?”

  “It’s been more than a Seven since Mother died: Father’s been without her ever since. I choose to believe they’re together again. How selfish would I have to be to take that away from him? From her?”

  “So bring back your mother, too!”

  “Oh yeah? Just like that? How about everyone else in Lohwàlar who died in the attack? Or, for that matter, how about Vàyana’s husband? Tzharak’s parents? How about all of Kësharan?” Zhalera had retorted.

  “That’s not what I meant—just one or two…maybe three or four…” Even as he’d at
tempted to defend himself, he’d allowed that perhaps Zhalera—and Falthwën—were in the right.

  “I…I don’t want to talk about it any more,” he’d sulked.

  The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. Within a few hours, the forest that had seemed unending thinned out with younger deciduous trees supplanting the ancient pines. Suns light dappled the King’s Highway—

  More like the King’s rutted mud pit, thought Kalas,

  —and the interplay of alternating bursts of light and shadow as they passed beneath spreading branches created interesting patterns all around. Kalas spared a glance toward Zhalera, who stared with impassive disinterest at some distant point behind them. He shifted position and placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Zhalera, I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right—you and Falthwën. Admitting that means admitting that my parents—our parents—are truly gone for good. Forever. And I’m not…I thought I had, but I wasn’t ready to do that. I am now. I don’t like it—I hate it—but I accept it. I’m trying to accept it—I hold on to that last moment with her. I see that…that peace in her eyes, and I can almost…I’m not as selfless as you are. Maybe…maybe someday…

  Her rigid posture softened as she reached up and took his hand, squeezed it, and relaxed. She turned, offered him a smile, then continued looking at the twine of road as it unwound behind them.

  As they exited the forest, the road ascended a gentle slope with alpine meadows on either side. The immense and ancient pines gave way to lesser trees, scattered here and there in copses. The first sun had set; now, the soft, warm light of the second cast a ruddy glow across the land, seemed to impart its vibrance to the abundance of small white flowers that blanketed the fields all around them. Rül stopped his team with greater frequency, allowing Runner and Dancer the opportunity to feast upon the succulent grasses undulating in the subtle breezes.