Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “You’ve been there?” she asked with skeptic tones, though softer than her prior outburst.”

  “Many times. Though it’s been a while. I can still picture your…what’s it called: that huge, crystalline construct suspended above the chasm? the Kathin Iltith? It’s a marvel, to be sure!”

  “Oh…Yes. Yes, it is,” she agreed as she seemed to relax.

  They followed Nashmur through Ïsriba’s unlit streets for almost an hour, Kalas guessed, as he led them toward the base of an immense and forbidding construct flecked with regular squares of light. It appeared to be cut from the mountain just like the city’s walls, though its primary entrances would have been perhaps a hundred feet higher.

  When they came to what appeared to be nothing more than a solid wall, blank and unremarkable, the commander stopped, looked from side to side and cleared his throat as he raised his sword. At his signal, portions of the wall slid into the mountain with a reluctant shriek as grinding gears dragged them across tracks bolted to the floor. Dim torches bobbed into view, carried by the soldiers who emerged from the secret doorway. Nashmur dismounted as they approached.

  “ume: ensure the Queen’s guests are…protected until morning, hish?”

  “By your word, Commander Nashmur,” they replied in unison

  Turning toward the party, he added: “When the Queen’s Captain of the Guard learns of your presence, he’s sure to send his preferred soldiers to…keep watch over you. Until then, I’ve stationed trustworthy men and women outside your…quarters.”

  “Cells, you mean,” Zhalera corrected him.

  “You say your soldiers are trustworthy: what about the others? You sound like you don’t tr—”

  “Master, Kalas,” interrupted Falthwën as his thoughts seemed to return to the present. His tone had a cautionary quality to it as he glanced at the boy before smiling at Nashmur. “I’m sure the commander has work to do: processing…‘guests,’ as he likes to refer to us and all. Am I wrong, Commander?”

  “No, you’re quite right. Quite right…This way, friends.”

  Why is Falthwën letting him off so easily?

  Rather than ask the cleric aloud, he held on to his frustration as the party made its way along the packed dirt floors bordered by rough brick walls. Something unpleasant seemed to hang in the air, a fetor that suggested decomposition and mildew. They passed numerous cells—most empty—before reaching theirs, and Kalas had the distinct impression that they’d traveled in circles once or twice. Separated from the rest by a series of twists and turns, the stench was much less noticeable here and, recently, the floor had been covered with fresh straw.

  Nashmur pointed toward a block of cells. “Each of you pick one. Cots and commodes, and I instructed my men to provide blankets and basins as well. I’ll send someone with a meal as soon as I can.”

  Falthwën offered their jailer a nod and chose the farthest cell. As he stepped inside, the door closed of its own accord and the lock’s tumblers slid into place without a key. The commander shook his head and rubbed his eyes before testing the door himself.

  “Must’ve been a longer day than I thought,” he muttered as the cleric began whistling bits of the Song.

  Still unsure of what Falthwën might be up to, Kalas took a cell next to his—but not before Nashmur relieved him of his knife as well.

  “This knife…it’s more important to me than that sword. I need it back!”

  “You’ll have it. On my word.”

  He heard the others choose their respective chambers, followed by Nashmur closing and locking their doors.

  “I’ll return for you in the morning,” he told the collective. No one spoke as he turned and walked away, his footsteps growing ever fainter until the only sound throughout the dungeon was Falthwën’s haphazard whistling.

  “Why do you sound so…so cheerful?” Zhalera demanded of the cleric.

  3.

  Supper, while not the worst meal any of them had endured, wasn’t much: especially when compared with the feast Yëlisha had prepared for them not so long ago. Though the bread was almost warm, the water clear, and the meat somewhat edible (none of them knew what kind of creature might have provided it), the uncertainty they’d face in the morning blunted their appetites.

  “It’s the not knowing that’s the worst,” insisted Zhalera between perfunctory mouthfuls. “Thrown in jail because of what? Some sword? Kalas, can’t you…you know…?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Didn’t work in ivambar, but even if it could work here…I don’t know…”

  “These cells aren’t so bad,” suggested Pava, attempting to lighten the conversation. “I mean, they’re nowhere near as nice as the passageways and caverns back home, but at least we’re out of that smell we passed on the way back here! What do you think that was? Smelled like something died!”

  “Or someone,” added Rül. “No, I mean: it’s a dungeon, right? I’ve heard stories—from Grandfather…not sure where he heard them from…Anyway, people sometimes die down here. In dungeons.”

  “Far be it from me to malign your grandfather, Master Rül, but whatever the source of that odor, I’m confident Commander Nashmur won’t allow us to end up like the poor kelâme in your grandfather’s tales.”

  “I really hope you’re right,” said Rül, still not convinced.

  Kalas wished he could see everyone’s faces, read their body language, but the small, barred opening set into his cell door only faced an indifferent wall of brick and stone.

  “Why, though, are you so confident in this guy? Do you know him from somewhere? Or did you know his great-great—whatever—grandparents?” Rül continued. From her cell, Zhalera grunted her approval.

  “I’m asking a lot, I know, but Master Rül, if you’ll allow events to play out over the next…day or two, at most, you’ll see. And if you don’t see, then I’ll beg for your forgiveness and confess my poor judgment all the way to the gallows.”

  “The what?!”

  “Please: trust me. For a day or two,” the cleric laughed, much to Zhalera’s consternation and Rül’s confusion.

  “What was that song you were whistling?” Pava said, again attempting to steer the conversation toward lighter themes. “It almost sounds like something I’ve heard before.”

  “Oh?” said Kalas, his interest piqued.

  “Yeah! The crystals—the collectors: sometimes, when the suns are right, they make a sound. I think. Maybe it’s nothing. Most ilmukritme look at me like I’m crazy when I ask them about it, but Falthwën’s whistling reminded me of it. Do you know it, too?”

  “I…yeah, in a way, I guess,” Kalas allowed. He went on: “Do your people know about Zhi Helimi?”

  “‘The Song?’ We have songs, sure, but the song? I don’t know. Doesn’t sound familiar. Is that what you were whistling, Falthwën?”

  “In part, my child,” he confirmed as he ceased his subtle warbling. “And it comes as no surprise that its strains would resonate through the crystals in your collectors…”

  “Well, it’s beautiful,” she concluded.

  “That it is, I’ll admit,” said Zhalera without the prior hostility in her voice. “I’d love to hear more of it. Someday. Somehow.”

  “Same here!” Pava agreed.

  Kalas thought Falthwën was about to say something else when the clamor of annoyed soldiers—and someone else—interrupted him.

  “Where’d he come from?” one soldier asked another.

  “No idea. The other guys say one minute, no one’s there: the next, this drunkard’s stumbling along the streets of the restricted route,” replied a second.

  “What was that all about, anyway? Has there ever been a time when whole sections of the city were just blocked off like that?”

  “Not that I—Knock it off!” began the second: he raised his voice as he backhanded their prisoner for some unknown infraction. (That’s what it sounded like, thought Kalas.) With their charge compliant once more, he continued: “I’ve n
ever heard of it before. I got the impression no one—not even the old-timers—had, either.”

  “Weird.”

  “No argument there. C’mon, let’s get this guy locked up and get out of here: this place stinks!”

  Once they’d left, Kalas asked: “Hey! Pava! You’re closest to the corridor: did you see anything? What’s he look like?”

  “Couldn’t tell. Smells like a beer, though.”

  Moments later, their fellow prisoner’s snores threatened to rattle the bars from their doors.

  “Maybe more than a beer,” Pava corrected herself.

  “Why’s his snoring sound…familiar?” Rül wondered aloud.

  4.

  “Falthwën, I have a question for you,” said Zhalera after the snores from the dungeon’s recent arrival had subsided to some degree. “Why is it that only some people can hear the Song? If it’s the—I think you called it the cord of the Creator’s intent? If that’s what it is, wouldn’t he want everyone to hear it?”

  “You’re assuming I know the mind of the Creator!” the cleric laughed. “And maybe, once, I could have answered you with authority, but now…my memory’s not what it used to be, as I’ve shared with Master Kalas. Still, what I do know is this: the Creator bestows his gifts on whom he chooses, for purposes only he can fathom. Sometimes, he permits us a glimpse of his intentions; others, he provides opportunities to prove our faith—not to him: he already knows the extent of our conviction—but to ourselves.”

  She remained silent for a minute or two, considering Falthwën’s words, Kalas assumed, when Rül, of all people, spoke up.

  “Mister cleric, have you ever known of someone who doesn’t hear this Song when they’re younger…maybe hearing it when they’re older?”

  “I have not, though your question reminds me of a different event that took place long, long ago: before any child of man ever experienced its melodies.”

  “Seriously?” said Kalas when Falthwën didn’t elaborate right away. “You’re going to say that and nothing more?”

  “It’s an unpleasant story. Unpleasant, really, is too kind a word. I’ll leave you with this, though: at a time when the ears of edhunàm heard nothing but their own discordance, a woman, having suffered an incalculable cost, took her place among the stars. She not only heard The Song but became a part of it.”

  “What?!” Kalas exclaimed. “You’re telling us someone…became an eru? How could that even happen?!”

  “You’re still assuming I know the mind of the Creator!”

  “You’ve told us a lot of weird, crazy-sounding stuff over the last month or so, but this? It’s almost too much!”

  “It’s true, though,” said an unfamiliar voice from the cell next to Pava.

  “Oh? Who’s that? How would you know?” insisted Rül.

  “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’ve, uh, I’ve heard the same story the old guy’s telling. It’s true. Pretty sure it’s true, anyway!”

  “How would you know? You’re drunk!” accused Pava.

  “Am I? Probably…Still, your cleric’s got his story straight, as far as I remember. Don’t believe me? Ask me again in the morning. I’ll be sober by then. Probably…”

  “Then I suppose you could tell us the rest of this story, right?” Kalas wondered, but the voice’s invisible owner had resumed his snoring.

  5.

  Kalas woke with a start, sat up on his cot and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. They never did. Every torch had burned itself out, and the dungeon was so far removed from suns and stars that nothing penetrated its environs. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but he figured it must’ve been the middle of the night. Rül’s snores had supplanted those of their unseen acquaintance, but other than the relaxed rhythm of his breathing, there were no other—

  There it was again! Kalas hadn’t realized until now that he wasn’t hearing with his ears: he was hearing with his mind. An unadorned melody that conjured thoughts of contrition, as though its “singer” sought a means of giving voice to unimaginable regret. Phrases in its whispered strains would have fit like puzzle pieces with the Song, he thought. He couldn’t escape the sense of penitence in its notes. It sounded like a variation of the Song that almost—but not quite—harmonized with the whole. Perhaps with a few tweaks, here and there…

  Falthwën? he thought as quietly as he knew how. Falthwën? he sent again when the cleric offered no reply.

  “Oh, you’re awake?” said the stranger.

  How did—?!

  “I—yeah, I guess I am,” he allowed in hushed tones. “Thought I heard something. Music.”

  “Music? Down here? Wouldn’t that be something?” the voice suggested.

  “Yeah, I guess it would be.”

  For a minute or two, his companion said nothing, but Kalas could sense his presence, could tell that he hadn’t fallen back to sleep. He was about to ask him a question when the prisoner asked him first: “So, child—no, not a child. Not anymore…Anyway, what brings you to these finer parts of Ïsriba?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Oh, right! I…actually, I don’t know! Nashmur never—”

  “Innocent, are you?” he laughed for a moment before his tone turned somber. “Not me. Not for a long time now. Maybe too long…”

  “Oh? What did you do?”

  A long silence, then: “I’m a traitor. Simple as that.”

  Kalas wasn’t sure how to respond, though he heard himself say something about Ïsriba. His counterpart laughed. Not a mirthful sound: its polar opposite, perhaps.

  “Were I merely a traitor to the queen-pretender up there, it wouldn’t—ah, but no, friend, my treason is against another, better kingdom.”

  “Ralothova?” Kalas guessed.

  “Better! Better than all the kingdoms of the earth. I—but no, none of that’s why I’m here…Anyway, you never did tell me why they tossed you and your friends into this hole.”

  “I guess it’s because I tried to keep a promise to a friend,” Kalas mused.

  “A man who keeps his word! Astounding! Yes, that’ll often get you in trouble—no, I’m not mocking you! It’s the truth. However regrettable it might be!”

  The boy nodded and let the silence lengthen. Almost as an afterthought, he asked: “Earlier: that wasn’t you, was it? Singing, I mean?”

  The stranger said nothing, and Kalas supposed he’d returned to his slumber.

  That’s what I should do, he observed as he lay back down and stared into the blackness overhead. As he closed his eyes, he thought he heard that same heart-rending tune as before, just as plaintive and just as beautiful.

  Though it seemed like only minutes since his shared conversation with the unknown figure, Kalas knew morning had arrived as he sat up and massaged his temples. Someone had placed fresh torches throughout the block: the heavy, almost medicinal fragrance of their fuel as well as their light permeated their surroundings. Near the door to his cell, someone—perhaps the same someone who’d brought the torches—had slid a tray of watery oatmeal beneath a small flap along its lower edge. He stumbled from his cot, took a few steps to loosen the kinks in his limbs, and retrieved the meal. Kalas tasted it, wondered if there were any way to prepare a blander breakfast, but neither he nor his gurgling stomach entertained the thought for more than a few seconds as he gulped it all down.

  “Zhalera?” he called between mouthfuls. “Falthwën? Rül? Pava?”

  “Still here,” said Zhalera in between bites of her own breakfast.

  The others followed suit.

  “What time is it?”

  “No idea,” Zhalera answered.

  “The first sun rose maybe an hour ago,” said Rül.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I don’t know, I just…well, it feels like the first sun rose not too long ago. On the farm, I’d just be finishing mucking out the stalls about now. Makes me wonder how Mother’s doing. I hope the town’s getting p
ut back together.”

  “Lohwàlarrinme are a hardy breed,” said Falthwën. “I’m sure they’ve made wise use of the last several weeks!”

  “Where do you think Nashmur—” Pava began when the clank of booted footsteps echoed through the corridor.

  “I’m not surprised you’re all awake,” said the commander without inflection as he rounded the corner. Kalas almost didn’t recognize him without his armor; instead, he wore a pale gray doublet beneath a jerkin cut from green-tanned leather. His dark-gray breeches disappeared within high, black riding boots. Two swords hung at his side: one his, the other Shosafin’s. Two serious-looking soldiers sporting light armor flanked him, blotted out most of the torchlight.

  The queen’s men, Kalas assumed.

  “Come, let’s get you cleaned up before your…audience with the Queen.”

  He undid the locks, starting from the rear with Falthwën’s cell and finishing with Pava’s. With a nod, he beckoned everyone to follow him toward their next destination. No one said a word as they formed a line and started moving. As they exited the block, Kalas craned his neck for a glimpse at the stranger; catching sight of him, he gasped. Seated atop his cot with his back against the wall, the haggard-looking man offered Kalas an unsurprised smile.

  “Nïmrïk?!”

  Chapter XVIII.

  Before the Queen of the Kingdom’s Throne

  N

  one of the others seemed to have noticed Nïmrïk, and Kalas wondered if perhaps he’d only imagined the stranger was the Thosharin from the crossroads and Mbirin’s Place. He’d tried to get a closer look, but one of the larger guards had slapped his hinder parts with the shaft of his spear and growled for him to keep moving.