Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  He glanced toward the bow slits in the tower above the gate; at his fellow sentry, who nodded after looking toward the Highway, as though he’d seen or heard something behind them. With a dismissive huff, the soldier waved them through.

  “Welcome to ivambar,” he said, making sure they understood they were not, in fact, welcome.

  6.

  “I don’t like this place,” Zhalera whispered as they rode through well-maintained avenues, past manicured landscapes and bright, cheerful-looking shops. As in Thosha, only more so, residences were piled on top of one another. Most windows, tall and elaborate, were open to the afternoon suns; others remained closed or bore shades to blunt the intensity of their rays.

  “Sure, it looks nice enough—beautiful, really—but…I just don’t like it.”

  Kalas agreed. After wrapping its scabbard in cloths, he’d returned Shosafin’s sword to his leg, though he still did his best to keep it hidden.

  “Shosafin said Ësfàyami had spies everywhere. Maybe it’s just me, maybe it’s just because of his warning, but I can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched, even now.”

  “We’ll keep our visit brief,” Falthwën nodded. “ivambar is a big place—aptly named, too: soon, we should be able to see the battlements of iva pïni Ilrâidh Fin—Castle of the Hunter Bird.

  “Yëlisha told me about a place we might stay the night. Some place…not safe, but less dangerous than most others. Young lady, your intuition serves you well: I, too, sense an unwholesomeness about us.

  “Rül,” he said through the small window, “Look for the inn with a red door and three windows: you’ll know what I mean when you see it. The Black Falcon, it’s called.”

  “Red door, black falcon. Got it!” said Rül as he flicked the reins.

  After another mile (and reluctant directions from some of ivambar’s less surly citizens), they reached The Black Falcon. Falthwën instructed them to remain with the coach as he entered the establishment.

  As with most other façades they’d observed, The Black Falcon’s exterior sparkled in the waning suns, especially its door’s polished steel hardware. Painted a deep red the color of fresh, arterial blood, the door seemed to drink in the light. The cobblestones leading to its hitching posts (recently oiled) had been swept not too long ago, too.

  When Falthwën emerged from the Falcon about half an hour later, he showed them where to park the coach and where to board the horses. When those tasks had been completed, he led them through a side door, away from the inn’s main hall, and toward a dim staircase. At the top of the stairs, he produced a key from within the folds of his robe and let them all inside. He waited a few minutes for each of them to find a place within the small room—smaller than their accommodations at Yëlisha’s—before he explained what he’d learned from Firïg, the innkeeper:

  “Something portentous hovers just beyond the horizon,” he began in low tones as he eased himself into an unremarkable chair. “Ësfàyami’s grip on the kingdom has been slipping for the last few years. According to Firïg, she’s been issuing decrees that, on the surface, appear to benefit her subjects, but, on closer examination, only serve to consolidate her power. What’s infuriating, he says, is that until recently, most people—particularly the ones most injured by her edicts—have been unwilling to take an objective look at things: they’ve remained convinced her hurtful policies are somehow helping them.

  “‘She’s proven herself adept at statecraft,’ Firïg said, ‘but it seems she’s overplayed her hand. People are waking up to the true costs of her schemes, and they’re not happy!’ She’s attempted to placate as many subjects as she can, but her reach has at last exceeded her grasp. Firïg thinks she’s the one hinting at the possibility of war to gauge the people’s reaction.

  “His points may be valid, but there’s an underlying…call it energy, I guess: there’s an underlying energy running through the world of late. Ësfàyami will be held accountable for her choices—someday—but I suspect there are other players we’ve yet to encounter.

  “Kalas, the day you woke from the rudzhegu attack, I told you I had some errands to run: until recently, zhàrudzhme had remained content to prowl the shadows. That’s changed. I can’t help thinking about your friend Dzharëth. I can’t help thinking about Ilbardhën’s tale, about King Rufàran’s disappearance: I can’t help thinking that it was more than coincidence at work that day. Conferring with my colleagues would have been one of my ‘errands.’ I say would have been because, as you know, I never reached my destination: Ïsriba.”

  “You looked like you were in bad shape when you showed up under the Temple,” Kalas prodded. “Like you’d lost a fight or something. You never did give Shosafin a real answer as to how you got there…”

  “You’re not wrong, dhëmahal: I had ‘lost a fight,’ as you put it,” the cleric said with a self-deprecating air. “Time, I believed, was of the essence, and so I chose to kaliswàr—‘light-travel’—not unlike what you did when you moved us away from the Áthradho. I realized too late that certain other powers had been watching me: as soon as I merged with the kalithesh—the ‘light realm’—these powers captured me within the event horizon of a singularity. Think of it as a cage that’s all but impossible to escape. Loradan—a dear…friend, shaken by my absence, searched high and low for me for weeks. She found me and, with some effort, managed to collapse the singularity. This freed me, yes, but the stresses nearly unmade me, which is why I had to wait before returning to Lohwàlar. In Deridzhas, you asked why I couldn’t kaliswàr away from there (though not with those words): that’s why. Our adversaries have writ their mark upon me, preventing me from merging with the kalithesh lest they capture me again.

  “It’s that energy that’s undergirding the upheaval the world is facing. An absence of light that seeks to subsume the entirety of creation within its utter darkness. It’s my hope that we’ll be able to put an end to this encroaching night before it’s too late.”

  “I have so many questions and no idea where to begin,” said Kalas, reeling.

  The cleric smiled, offered the boy an understanding nod.

  “That’s fair,” he confessed. “Right now, though, even though it’s a little early, let’s get cleaned up and head downstairs, find something to eat. No doubt we’ll attract attention: if we’re in and out before the regulars stumble in for the night, we might be all right.”

  Though more spacious and better appointed than Mbirin’s Place, Kalas noted the Falcon’s common room lacked the same warmth. A handful of townsfolk occupied tables over here, a bar stool over there, and all regarded the newcomers with abject suspicion: even the drunks, it seemed, believed themselves to be of higher station than this out-of-place band of travelers.

  Firïg, for his part, saw them enter and offered a familiar nod as Falthwën led the others toward a secluded table. At the cleric’s suggestion, Kalas had worn Shosafin’s sword across his back: as he situated himself, its falconine crest flashed in the inn’s hazy light. Once seated, the cleric began a superficial conversation: his companions understood and responded in kind. The innkeeper brought them a round of drinks, promised someone would be with them soon, and pretended not to notice Kalas’ sword.

  More people filtered into the Falcon as the suns sank lower and lower. They’d almost finished with their meal when a rough figure with a tankard in each hand bumped into a chair, sloshing mead or beer or something all over their table. Kalas recognized him as someone who’d been at the bar even before they’d arrived, and, judging from his faltering steps, reddened cheeks, and apparent inability to navigate his surroundings, the beverages in his hands weren’t his first.

  “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” he slurred as he rounded on Zhalera, who happened to be closest to the brute.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, head down after risking a glance at Falthwën.

  “You made me spill my drink, nimmafa ádhemín! What are you gonna do to fix it?”

  Although the man was a
mountain, perhaps seven feet tall and half as wide with scarred hands the size of Kalas’ head, Kalas couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—tolerate such belligerence. Sudden courage—or foolishness—welled up from some hot place within him as he grit his teeth.

  “Sir, you bumped into her. You owe her an apology.”

  “Child!” cautioned Falthwën even as he realized his warning came too late.

  “Oho! The doxy has a friend!” he snarled. He downed the contents of one of his cups and tossed it over his shoulder: it clattered to the ground somewhere behind him. Though it seemed a struggle, he brought both of his watery, bloodshot eyes to bear on Kalas. He raised his empty fist and waggled it just in front of the boy’s face. Rül, large in his own right, stood—tried to, at least: Falthwën sensed his movement and stayed him with a touch.

  “Tell me, rudzhín: what are you gonna d—”

  Kalas was on his feet before the oaf had finished his threat. In one fluid motion—stone and water, he remembered—he’d unsheathed his sword, swatted the man’s arm away with the flat; now, he pointed its gleaming tip at the man’s throat. He noticed the rest of the blade still bore traces of ilrâigme blood: so did the ruffian, despite his compromised faculties, as his bloodshot eyes remained fixed along its length.

  No one moved. No one made a sound as the inn’s patrons held their collective breaths. Light from a pair of fireplaces flickered along the lines of the sword’s crossguard and crested pommel, seemed to catch in its Poyïsriba falcon’s jeweled eyes.

  Chapter XVI.

  In the Custody of the Crown

  T

  he hot anger that had risen in Kalas’ blood subsided and with it, his bravado. He maintained the façade as best he could, however, and, praying his voice didn’t crack from the stress of the situation, demanded, “You were saying?”

  The drunkard backed away, knocking over a table in the process. Someone complained: others chuckled. The boy held his sword high and took a step forward.

  When did this sword get so heavy?! he wondered.

  “You tell him!” someone shouted. Others grunted their agreement. “Irudh should’ve known better than to pick a fight with a Poyïsriba soldier—even if he is on the short side!”

  “Irudh, is it?” said Kalas. “Well, Irudh? Don’t you have something to say?”

  “I—I’m sorry! I should have watched where I was going! I’m sorry!” he blubbered. His watery eyes glistened as he held up his empty hand in supplication. Kalas raised his sword and, after holding it aloft long enough for Irudh to anticipate what would happen next, brought it down hard and fast—flipping it sideways and absorbing its momentum at the last second so the once-belligerent figure received no more than a slight tap on the forehead. The combination of fear and alcohol must have overwhelmed his system: his eyes, struggling to keep pace with the blade, rolled toward the back of his head and stayed there while he collapsed onto the Falcon’s floor.

  Most of the Falcon’s patrons erupted in cheers and laughter as Irudh fell. Several came up to Kalas, patted him on the back, and congratulated him for his restraint.

  “Irudh’s in here most every night, making a scene whenever he thinks no one’ll mess with him!” someone said.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t recognize the color of your scabbard! Serves him right, the ne’er-do-well!” said another.

  “I told him to knock it off! Just a matter of time before he picked the wrong fight!”

  “Lemme buy you a drink!”

  His adrenaline nearly spent, Kalas glanced at his friends for help. Rül stood and made his way to Kalas’ side.

  “Uh, K—I mean, u…uh…Sh—Soldier! It’s time we return to—”

  “We have…a mission—the mission!—in the morning,” added Pava, who’d joined them. “We really should get some rest. Long day tomorrow, right?”

  “I, uh, yeah—yes! Right!” said Kalas as he returned Shosafin’s sword to its sheath.

  Falthwën, in spite of himself, seemed to be hiding a smile behind his prodigious beard; Zhalera, however, remained impassive as she and the cleric stood and followed the others toward the exit.

  When they were free of the sudden revelry on the other side of the door, Falthwën led Rül and Pava toward the room while Kalas, exhausted, and Zhalera remained in the hallway. A man making use of the same exit almost ran into them as he pushed the door open. Surprised to see the pair of them still standing there, his eyes darted toward the green leather scabbard, toward Kalas’ face, before he apologized and made a show of stepping back inside the main hall.

  “Shosafin’s instruction sure paid off!” Kalas began. “I just hope I didn’t overdo it! I just—”

  She slapped his face with her open palm.

  Caught off guard, he fell silent, left his mouth open in mid-sentence as he gave the sting in his cheek a moment to subside.

  “What—?” he began: she interrupted him with a kiss.

  He smiled as she pulled away. Cocked his head when she slapped him again.

  “All right, what’s going on?” he demanded as he rubbed his jaw.

  “That man could have killed you,” she said with a glare.

  “But he didn’t!” insisted Kalas, still puzzled. “And he’s the one who was in the wrong! There’s no way I was going to—”

  “You still don’t understand, do you? You’re my—you’re the only family I have left! The only family that matters! What if…?”

  He softened, took her hands and held them tight for a moment. “Don’t forget: you’re my only family, too, Zhalera. And…you’re right. As usual, it seems! I know you’re more than capable of fighting your own battles. You’re better at picking them, too, I’d say. Still…”

  “I will admit,” she conceded, “you handled your sword quite well! Enough to convince a tavern full of people that you’re a Poyïsriba soldier!”

  “Shosafin’s sword,” he said with a smile. “I’m just glad we got out of there when we did: that sword gets heavy! I was running out of things to say! C’mon, let’s head back upstairs with the others.”

  They started for the room when Zhalera paused, looked over her shoulder at the door through which they’d come, where they’d had their somewhat heated discussion.

  “Did the door just move?” she whispered.

  Kalas stopped, looked over his shoulder as well. He considered the way Falthwën always seemed to close his eyes whenever they entered someplace new. He tried the same and concentrated, not sure what to expect. Other than a sense of foreboding associated with the door, nothing happened. He placed a finger against his lips, gestured for Zhalera to continue toward the room while making heavy footsteps. He drew his sword without a sound and tiptoed toward the door. As Zhalera’s footsteps receded, the door opened: just a crack at first before the same figure crept into the hallway.

  “Can I help you?” demanded Kalas.

  “Ah! I…uh…I’m sorry! I’m just…uh…”

  The man turned toward the main hall one more time, but before he could escape, Kalas brought the pommel of his sword down—hard—against the nape of the wiry, weaselly man’s neck. He collapsed without ceremony.

  Nëshrime! he cursed. Now what?!

  2.

  “What are we gonna do with him?” huffed Rül as he slung the still-unconscious figure onto one of the beds: he’d heard Kalas and Zhalera dragging him up the stairs and had offered his assistance.

  “He was eavesdropping: I’m pretty sure he knows I’m not a real soldier,” Kalas panted as he tied a length of cord around the stunned man’s hands and feet. “I don’t know what that means for us, but I can’t imagine it’s a good thing. Shosafin told me ivambar was full of Ësfàyami’s spies: I wonder if this guy’s one of them…”

  “He went into the other room before he came back and you smacked him,” Zhalera added. “What if he told others what he was up to?”

  “The horses!” Rül exclaimed. “What if this guy’s friends do something to Runner and Dancer? to our coach?�
��

  “Right now, any ‘friends’ he may or may not have don’t know that we’ve…detained their companion. And we don’t know for sure that he is one of the queen-regent’s assets—though it’s probably safest to assume that yes, he is.

  “Rül, go to the horses. Be discreet. Keep watch. Just in case. One of us—or, depending on circumstance, all of us!—will come for you once we’ve learned more.”

  “Let me come with you!” insisted Pava as she retrieved her tëvët and followed him into the hallway.

  “He’s waking up!” Zhalera noted with a tug on Kalas’ arm. Rül and Pava had only been gone a few minutes: the three of them had been discussing what their next steps should be when their captive started struggling against his bonds. When he realized he was being watched, he stopped. A sinister smile twisted his lips as he regarded his captors for a moment.

  “You have Ilbardhën’s sword,” he stated with a matter-of-fact tone. “At first, I’d hoped you’d somehow relieved him of it. Permanently. But after I saw how you handled Irudh, I knew I’d hoped for too much: it’s clear you learned swordplay from him! I don’t suppose you’d tell me where he is, would you?”

  None of them said a word. The figure struggled to sit up, prompting Kalas to place a hand on his hilt.

  “Easy! Easy! These knots are tight! I’m just trying to get comfortable!”

  When he continued to fidget, Zhalera balled up a fist and punched him in the jaw: his head spun around with a satisfying crack as he lost consciousness once again.

  “Zhalera?” said Kalas, his sword now in hand.

  She reached behind the man, ran her fingers along the hem of his trousers, and removed a small knife.

  “He’d almost cut through these ropes!” she said as she discovered two additional weapons attached to his person. “There was something too rhythmic about his movements: I figured he was up to something!”