Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  Falthwën dropped his spoon while Rül was speaking. When everyone turned to look at him, he offered a self-deprecating smile and gestured for the farm boy to continue.

  “I pretty much forgot about those stories until all of you showed me that room under the Sanctuary,” he went on. “After that, I tried to remember anything—everything!—he’d told me. Came up with nothing, but after seeing Marugan…that dark pouring from his neck…Grandfather blamed the ilnàfëlme for blight, for poor yields and the like. I think his ‘dark ones’ might have been ekume. Or not. I don’t know, really…”

  “Falthwën, why didn’t you use The Song when those shagabme attacked?” Kalas thought aloud. “I mean, Zhalera and I saw you…do whatever it was to the shosayedhu that had taken Gandhan. Surely you could have done the same here?”

  “None of us was in immediate danger, and, as you’ve perhaps noticed, I find it’s preferable to understand as much as possible about a situation—about an adversary—before making a decision I can’t rescind. For example: whatever his original intent, Marugan now knows you’re…he knows you hear The Song.”

  “He had his bow pointed right at you!” Zhalera disagreed. “If you hadn’t stood and taken those few steps…”

  The cleric smiled, the creases around his eyes pooled with shadow as he said: “Perhaps. However, none of you was in immediate danger.”

  4.

  When morning came and everyone and everything had been packed into Rül’s cart, after removing any sign of their presence, the party ascended the increasing incline toward the wide, flat grasslands. No one seemed to have much to say until the next day when they reached the first well. Rül would have missed it had Falthwën not pointed out an almost indiscernible side trail.

  Beneath a slight dip in elevation, a column of ancient stones peppered with lichens wreathed the well’s mouth. Kalas leapt from the back of the cart—thankful for the opportunity to stretch his legs—and peered into the black hole staring out of the ground. It appeared as though it held no water, but Falthwën had tied a rope around one of their buckets and lowered it into the shaft. When it hit the water’s surface with a faint splash, the perturbation caused suns-light to ripple along the well’s cylindrical walls.

  After watering the horses and replenishing their supply, and after Rül had allowed Runner and Dancer to satisfy their hunger on the surrounding grasses, they resumed their places and their journey. Kalas looked around as they returned to the “Highway,” hoping to catch a glimpse of Shosafin. When everyone had woken yesterday morning, the old soldier had disappeared without a trace, and no one knew when—if—they’d see him next. His encounter with Marugan—or, perhaps more succinctly, with an eku that he didn’t believe in—didn’t want to believe in—seemed to have cracked his otherwise impervious veneer.

  “He’ll be back,” said Zhalera.

  Kalas gave up his vigil, regarded her with a half-smile.

  “He’s probably watching us even now and just doesn’t want or care for us to know,” she added.

  “I hope he’s out there,” Kalas admitted. He risked a glance at the misshapen package Zhalera guarded beneath her seat and thought about his prior conversation with Shosafin and his unconventional lesson.

  “In all our years together, Kalas, I’ve never known you to be so interested in swordsmanship,” she observed, having followed his gaze. “Where’s this all coming from?”

  “I’ve been naïve, Zhalera. Unaware of what’s really out there—out here. If the zhàrudzhme had never come to Lohwàlar…But they did come, and all I could do was watch. I will not be helpless anymore. I watched Valderïk fight Dzharëth: he was good—very good—but not good enough. I watched Shosafin fight him: he cut his hand off before Dzharëth even knew he was there. So yes, I’m keeping my eyes open for Shosafin. He has a lot to teach me, and I have a lot to learn.”

  Zhalera’s expression wavered between surprise and apprehension, and Kalas realized the extent of his intensity.

  “And remember,” he added, hoping to demonstrate his composure, “I’ll need to know how to use that sword you’re going to make for me some day!”

  “That’s all well and good,” Zhalera said, “but Kalas…The Song…Maybe your strength will come from other than the edge of a sword.”

  Kalas’ reply must have surprised her even more than his impassioned outburst: “Maybe you’re right,” he allowed in mellowed tones. “Still, you heard Falthwën: The Song isn’t magic the way the fairy tales describe it. It’s privilege. With rules. And I still have no idea how it works. Swords, however…”

  Traveling the semi-arid grasslands allowed the party to chew through the leagues with unanticipated speed. The path had widened, and Kalas saw vestiges of crumbled flagstones that suggested something that, long ago, perhaps, could have been a highway. Having attained significant elevation earlier in the day, the slope of the road brought them out on a plateau with a subtle decline. Falthwën suggested Rül relax his team’s pace: by week’s end, the Highway would bring them to another rise, the most aggressive along their course, and his horses would need all their strength. Beyond that was a desert canyon, similar in many respects to Lohwàlar but colder because of the altitude and the shade afforded by the canyon walls.

  Shosafin had yet to make his presence known when the second sun dissolved into the haze beyond the horizon. The wind, which had intensified the prior night and had been more or less constant throughout the day, acquired an almost malevolent bent and chilled the party members to their cores.

  “This wind is so cold!” Zhalera shivered as she huddled next to Kalas, who nodded his agreement.

  “It comes down from the Taruúnme Ilkâshkit—Standing Mountains—after losing most of its moisture on the other side,” said Falthwën as he turned up his cloak. “There’s really no place to get out of it. We’ll have to get creative with our camp tonight! In fact, we’ve made great time today: we should come to a well within the hour. Let’s stop there while we’ll still have daylight.”

  With their shelter constructed from tent skins arrayed around the cart and the walls of the well Falthwën had predicted, the winds’ brutish pounding proved to be little more than an annoyance once everyone was inside and huddled around the fire. Occasional gusts would find a way in through a loose seam and stir the air, but each puff blew itself out before sapping any real warmth.

  In the morning, the winds had abated somewhat, though Falthwën warned that as the suns heated the air, they’d be back, no weaker than before. Soon, after making sure they had all the water they could carry and packing up, they returned to the Highway.

  As they rode, Kalas wondered why they hadn’t seen any other travelers (‘inhabited’ assassins excepted). Falthwën laughed and explained that as charming as Lohwàlar was, few people had reason to visit or do business within its borders; that, and Serular, with its reputation, being one of the nearest towns, only the bravest—or the most foolish—traveled the Highway west of Ïsriba.

  “Brave or foolish. Which are we?” Rül wondered aloud. Kalas laughed.

  The suns rose; soon, so did the winds. As twilight approached, Falthwën informed everyone that the next well was too far away, that they’d have to conserve what they had until tomorrow. Runner snorted. Dancer didn’t seem to care.

  Nightfall came and went; daybreak followed. For the second day in a row, Shosafin remained absent—or, Kalas allowed, perhaps just well-hidden. Late that morning, just before they reached the next well, Kalas thought the ground looked like something had chewed through it. As they passed, he caught a glimpse of something shining in the dirt and something red and spattered not too far from that.

  I wonder if he had something to do with that.

  “What’s this?” said Rül as he reined in Runner and Dancer, each wearied and in need of water. “I thought you said there was a well here?”

  Kalas understood the farm boy’s confusion. Rather than a well like the others they’d used, this structure boasted high, fac
eted walls arranged in a heptagonal pattern, each with a narrow gate. Each gate had a high stone archway—or had at one time, Kalas guessed: wind and time had eroded the northernmost arches and caused two of them to collapse. Something in their features struck a chord, but it was the spectacle inside the walls that interested him most. Open to the sky, the walls surrounded a narrow spiral staircase carved into the earth and leading down into some kind of underground cavern.

  “What kind of cistern—it’s a cistern, right? What is this place?” asked Kalas as he admired the friezes carved into the stone, the craftsmanship that had withstood untold centuries of suns and wind.

  “It is indeed,” Falthwën confirmed. “Many kings—many kingdoms ago—these steppes were a place of trade between various realms. The wind was much less of a concern back then. Today, all of those kingdoms have disappeared—though perhaps Ïsriba could be considered a ‘descendant’ of some of them.

  “Still, this cistern persists—how fortunate for us! Come, let’s get the water we need and be on our way.”

  Hundreds of thousands of footsteps over thousands of years had left distinct wear patterns in each limestone stair—more than a few seemed sticky with wet blood.

  “Uh, Falthwën?” said Kalas.

  “Be wary!” he nodded.

  As everyone approached the lower recesses of the well, their own footsteps began to echo through the subterranean vault. The few shafts of suns-light that penetrated the entryway shimmered in coruscating waves along the walls. On the last accessible step, the rest continuing into the bottomless, cold-looking water, a seated figure with its back turned seemed to be waiting for them. Kalas recognized him right away.

  “Shosafin!”

  “Lushà vam, sàme,” he said without standing.

  5.

  “Are you hurt? I saw blood not to far from here—” Kalas started.

  “Marugan!” Zhalera interrupted. “Did you…did you find him? Is he—?”

  “Where’s Breaker?” demanded Rül, a protective quality in his tone.

  Shosafin stood, almost stumbled into the water before he reached out a hand and braced himself against the wall. He kept his other, bloodied hand pressed against his side as he turned toward them.

  “Yes. Yes. Around,” he answered. Elaborating, he went on: “You neglected to mention, cleric, that these ekume can warp time. Yesterday, I found Marugan’s trail. Followed it across the plains until I caught up to him. I was…focused on the wrong things, so intent on finishing the job I…failed to do the other night.

  “I should have realized he was baiting me—not unlike the way I baited his shagabme. I’m usually more in tune with my environment, usually more aware, but I’ve never seen anyone—anything—move that fast!”

  “Like an almost physical wave of darkness: one moment, far enough away; the next, too close?” suggested Falthwën as he and the others helped the old soldier to the ground. The cleric reached beneath his cloak for his materials, prepared some kind of ointment as Shosafin nodded.”

  “Exactly.”

  “They can warp time?!” exclaimed Rül.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, depending on their mass and relativistic—”

  “Their what?”

  Falthwën laughed at himself.

  “Ekume—and erume—can travel hundreds of thousands of miles between human heartbeats. When they want to. Tell me, Ilbardhën: did Marugan say anything to you?”

  “Not a word. He just…he was there, then he wasn’t, and suddenly I felt something cold and hot beneath my ribs. I passed out. When I woke, I managed to get Breaker to carry me to this place. I told him to hide until I called for him—I take it you didn’t see him? Good! I stumbled down these stairs—almost ended up in that water—and waited.”

  The cleric, having finished mixing his paste with his thin, silver instrument, cut away a portion of Shosafin’s shirt to reveal the source of his blood loss. The left side of his abdomen sported a wide, fresh gash that began near his stomach and traversed his side until it ended somewhere on his back. He cried out—just a little—when Zhalera wiped away the dried blood; next, Falthwën smeared a healthy portion of his greasy compound over the wound and hummed a part of the Song.

  Though light continued to twist and ripple over the cistern’s wall, Kalas knew the subtle green luminescence rising from Shosafin’s wound wasn’t from the suns. The soldier gasped, his eyes wide. Kalas chuckled: he remembered how the cleric’s cures worked. He also hummed a few remembered phrases, harmonized with Falthwën: the faint glow swelled with intensity, became a many-hued ball of energy. Shosafin cried out again—this time from genuine pain.

  Kalas stopped, aghast, and the brightness subsided.

  “What did you do?!” demanded Zhalera, not unkindly.

  “I don’t know! I—Shosafin! Are you all right? I’m sorry! I—”

  “I’m fine, lad. Fine!”

  The soldier’s rapid breathing slowed as he wiped away fresh beads of sweat that had sprung from his forehead. He took a few shallow breaths, tested his lungs. Kalas thought he looked confused as he took a few deeper breaths. Shosafin looked down at his wound, where he noticed Falthwën’s paste had already dried and begun to flake. He wiped away the powdery residue and gasped again—this time from the lack of pain.

  Underneath the remains of the unguent was nothing but a thin pink line.

  “Gili erume á zhà!” Rül exclaimed.

  “That…is not possible,” muttered Shosafin as he prodded his belly, his side, his back.

  “Nonetheless, it appears as though your wound is healed,” Falthwën disagreed. Addressing the soldier with his words, Kalas felt the cleric’s gaze and looked elsewhere: all of a sudden, the ground seemed quite interesting.

  6.

  Rül and Zhalera hauled skins and buckets filled with icy water from the well. Shosafin tried to help, but none would let him. Kalas lagged behind, stared into the endless depths of the vast pool while Falthwën, he sensed, stood just a few steps above him.

  “How deep is it?” he asked.

  “Deeper than you know, my child.”

  “Those kingdoms you mentioned: did they build this place?”

  “They did not, which, judging by your tone, you’ve already guessed. No, this place predates them by millennia. Those aren’t your real questions though.”

  For a protracted moment, Kalas didn’t respond. He continued to peer into the water as it lapped against the chamber’s walls. Falthwën didn’t move, gave no indication that he had anywhere else to be.

  “What…what happened?” he dared to ask after a while. “What happened to Shosafin?”

  “You healed him,” Falthwën said with a subtle chuckle, as though the answer should have been obvious.

  “I healed him?!” Kalas blurted, incredulous. “I—no, that can’t be…can it? How?”

  “As paradoxical as it sounds, you almost healed him to death! If you hadn’t ceased your portion of The Song when you did, Ilbardhën’s body might not have survived the shock. Next time, warn me before you ‘assist,’ all right?”

  Kalas turned toward the cleric at last, saw the good-natured glint in his emerald-like eyes and confessed, “I don’t understand. What did I do? What do you mean, ‘almost healed him to death?’”

  “When you woke from the zhàrudzh attack, four days had gone by, yes? Why do you think that was? The human body can only bear so many stressors at a time—physical, mental, spiritual…Had I or another ilhadzhalas—privileged one—attempted to put you back together in a matter of moments, you would have died: The Song’s demands against your flesh would have been too great.

  “Ilbardhën’s hewn from sturdy stuff, however. I imagine he could have borne even more, had it been necessary.”

  “But how? I was just humming part of The Song!”

  “You were thinking—willing—Ilbardhën to recover.”

  “How did—?”

  “Remember: Zhi Helimi is more than a simple collection of notes
, chords, and movements.”

  “What about that goop you smeared all over the wound? On Ëlbodh’s wounds, come to think of it: does it really do anything? Is it real? I mean, why bother with it when you can use The Song?”

  “My medicines are most definitely real!” Falthwën laughed. “Creation—the world we inhabit—is a collection of melodies within The Song. Think of the compounds I use as motifs within those melodies. Because they’re part of the same composition, their intersections harmonize quite well, if you will. When ilhadzhalasme integrate external themes, sometimes the intersections can be quite jarring.

  “You’re discovering your place within The Song, my child. Continue to listen. Continue to learn. Consider which path you’ll travel as many of them open up before you.”

  “I want to learn how to use a sword,” Kalas admitted, “but Zhalera says maybe The Song is where I’ll find my strength. I saved Zhalera with a knife…and I guess I helped save Shosafin with The Song, but…What do you think, u Falthwën?”

  “Uh, we’re all ready to go. If you are,” said Rül, who’d descended into the cistern. “I mean—I’m sorry!—Didn’t mean to interrupt!”

  “Not at all, young man. We’re on our way up.”

  Before they reached the surface, Falthwën answered, “Maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s half-right. Maybe she’s wrong. Zhalera loves you, wants what’s best for you: that much is plain to see. What might require a second look, however, is acknowledging that as tempting as it sounds sometimes, we can’t let others make our decisions for us. Consider their input, weigh their counsel, yes, but ultimately, we must be responsible for our own choices.