Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “What did you say?!” she demanded, her tone a mix of disbelief and rage.

  “Marugan.”

  “I see…” she said, slowly removing the sword from his neck. “You will tell me everything Shosafin told you about Marugan.”

  Kalas relayed as much of the old soldier’s story as he could remember (though he said nothing about Shosafin’s observations regarding the queen-regent’s demeanor as a child).

  “We ran into Marugan in the woods, on our way here from Lohwàlar, in the West. He and his warriors tried to kill us! Shosafin saved our lives. He left after that, but we found him some time later with his…Marugan had attacked him, almost killed him. Not long after that, he gave me that sword and disappeared. That’s the truth.”

  “Marugan was one of my father’s most trusted lords. When Shosafin returned from that ill-fated hunting trip as its sole survivor, I knew he was responsible for my father’s death. For all of their deaths! For long years I’ve regretted my decision to let him live: he was Ilfadan-pïn-Elïgarme! Neglecter-of-Kings! His life was supposed to be a portrait of abject shame; his days were supposed to be filled with exquisite humiliation until, at the end, he’d finally summon the last shreds of his dignity and fall upon his sword!

  “Your story rings true, young Kalas—true in the sense that I believe that’s what Shosafin-Ilfadan told you.”

  Kalas wanted to rebut her smug certainty, but some strange compulsion—almost whispers within his thoughts—convinced him to hold his tongue.

  “Here’s what I know: Shosafin, son of a lowly rasak weaver, tricked my father into promoting him well above his station. Such insolence might have been forgiven, but my father, still grieving the loss of his bride—my mother—deigned to invite him along on a hunt with his most trusted kindume—lords and nobles. Finding an opportunity, he slaughtered every last one of them!

  “I’ve since learned that he sought to prove his worth to the empire of Tsobarut, to bring Emperor Kematu my father’s head as the price of his Potsobarut nobility! However, with his dying breaths, my father escaped Shosafin’s plot, and the murderer never recovered his body. Without his prize, Kematu—ibi âsru fîe id màr—would have nothing to do with him, and so he returned to Ïsriba with his pitiful tale about monster wolves.”

  Stunned, Kalas wasn’t sure what to say. While the queen-regent’s story held the most tenuous air of plausibility, he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—believe it.

  “Why would he return to Ïsriba if he’d just killed King Rufàran?” Kalas blurted. In his peripheral vision, he saw Nashmur’s head droop. “Surely word of the king’s death would’ve reached Tsobarut after a time: why not just wait a while, then make his case before Emperor Kematu? And how could you know all this: the particulars of his plan? what happened to your father? I can’t imagine he’d be stupid enough to advertise his failed intentions back at the barracks—if your version of things is correct. And with all due respect, your majesty—”

  “Kalas, don’t!” Zhalera hissed.

  “—I don’t believe it is.”

  Queen-regent Ësfàyami stared at him with her hard, cold eyes for what felt like ages but must have been only moments. Kalas felt—heard—his heartbeat in every limb, every extremity, and sensed (or so he thought) some kind of triumphant peal coming from a nonspecific place.

  She laughed. A mellifluous sound that had a music about it. Had Kalas heard her laughter without understanding its circumstance, he would have thought it most beautiful; instead, it registered as wholly mirthless, almost maniacal.

  “You’re bold, young Kalas. Unrefined. Uncultured. Simple, perhaps, but bold, nonetheless. I almost like that, and so I’ll respond to some of your objections.

  “Shosafin may have believed he’d killed everyone in the hunting party, but one member survived—”

  “Marugan.”

  “Do NOT interrupt me!” she boomed, her voice and authority echoing across the throne room.

  “Marugan,” she continued, as though Kalas had never interrupted nor had she responded in kind. “His wounds were grievous. It’s no wonder a substandard soldier like Shosafin might have believed him to be dead. His attempt, however, left more than its physical mark on Marugan: his injuries were most cruel. Years passed. Sevens, even, before his memory returned—before he was able to return to Ïsriba.

  “He’d been wandering the forests, the lesser villages to the north, and relying on the alms of those few kind-hearted kelâme willing to return him to health. Perhaps a little more than a month ago, he approached Ïsriba’s gates, again in full control of his faculties.

  “At first, he was loath to speak ill of his would-be-murderer—such a generous man!—but at last, realizing the ills the kingdom had endured, he revealed to me the depth of Shosafin’s malign intent.”

  “What makes Marugan’s story more believable than Shosafin’s?” Kalas prodded. “All you’ve presented is hearsay: one man’s word against another’s!”

  “Simple,” Ësfàyami repeated as she shook her head, apparently embarrassed for the boy.

  “Years ago, Marugan showed up within the Áthradholarme, making claims that he was our prophesied ilosar,” Pava began. “He called himself something else, but even as recently as a few weeks ago, he was there. And you say he’s been here for more than a month?”

  “You forget your place, child!” Nashmur whispered, but the queen-regent simply laughed that beautiful, disconcerting laugh.

  “You are mistaken, cave-child,” she scoffed.

  “He’s not human,” Rül added, having found the same store of confidence from which the others drew. “He’s eku. Ilnàfël, if you like. Shosafin slit his throat in front of us: just a few minutes later, the wound closed up and he disappeared! He was leading a pack of shosayedhume. Former shagabme, from the looks of things.”

  “With your own tongues you condemn your friend!” exclaimed the queen-regent. “Shosafin believed this unfortunate person to be Marugan—an impossibility!—and he attempted to kill him a second time?! Oh! The lot of you have crafted a most marvelous fiction!”

  The faintest twinge of fire flickered within her eyes as she continued: “Shosafin murdered my father! And even if he didn’t, he had the gall to survive when my father did not!”

  “Your majesty, we’ve lost our parents too, Zhalera and I,” said Kalas. “Slain by zhàrudzhme that attacked our village—that’s what we came all this way to talk to you about. I even wondered if there might be some way to bring them back, but—”

  “—there isn’t,” Ësfàyami finished, her belligerence muted for the moment, as though, once, she’d entertained the same thoughts.

  “My Queen,” said a voice from deep within the shadows. Kalas felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand straight as a figure emerged from the darkness. He knew who the voice belonged to before its owner’s scarred face pierced the veil of light.

  “Perhaps I can help free these people from Ilbardhën’s enchantment,” offered Marugan.

  4.

  “Ímbâ ilosar!” Pava rasped. “Pretender!”

  “Come now! Name-calling isn’t necessary! Though it seems Ilbardhën’s done quite a number on your minds.”

  Beneath the skylights, despite the harsh shadows cast by the waxing suns nearing their zenith, Marugan’s neck bore the faintest trace of a scar, almost hidden beneath a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard. His face, however, was a mask of wrecked flesh. Ragged, parallel lines—from rudzhegu claws, no doubt—stretched from above his forehead almost to his chin, each with yellowed edges that looked like they’d never properly healed. Close-cropped hair seemed to make his scars more pronounced, and his eyes—gray and indifferent—surveyed the vast chamber from beneath arched eyebrows. Though clothed with court dress, something on his back jingled as he walked, and Kalas noticed he still carried the bow with which he’d attempted to murder Falthwën not too long ago.

  “Rather, it’s you who’ve ‘done a number’ on the queen’s mind,” said Falthwën with
just the slightest touch of steel in his voice. “Perhaps she remains unaware of your true, traitorous nature: we are not so ill-informed.”

  “Cleric! Kalas! The rest of you! Please!” begged Nashmur.

  “No, Commander,” countered Marugan. “Let these enemies of the crown state their treachery plainly! It’s clear to me—as it should be to you—that Ilbardhën’s lies have corrupted their judgment!”

  “You’re afraid of him,” said Zhalera. “You’re afraid of us!”

  “Nonsense! I’ve never met you before this moment!” Marugan insisted.

  “That man we bumped into on our way up here: he was one of your shosayedhume, wasn’t he?!” accused Kalas. “Watching us and reporting back to you?”

  “‘Spirit-men?’ I have no idea what you’re talking about!” he deflected.

  “Kaliswàr!” said Rül, seemingly from nowhere. “That’s how you moved between the Áthradho and Ïsriba! And the forest!”

  “Of course! Eku can—how did Shosafin put it? ‘Warp time?’” agreed Kalas. “Your majesty, Shosafin—”

  “Enough!” roared the queen-regent, her hand outstretched, a single shaking finger mere inches from Kalas’ face. “Shosafin is a liar and a traitor! Soon, however, it won’t matter! He sought Ïsriba’s destruction for the glory of Tsobarut; however, it is Tsobarut that will fall to the glory of Ïsriba!”

  “Well said, my Queen!” exulted Marugan.

  Falthwën shook his head. “Then the rumors are true…”

  “I’ve waited too long. Too long!” Ësfàyami elaborated. “I had to ascertain my enemy’s weaknesses, discover how to best exploit them! I had hoped to extract such details from Shosafin-Ilfadan before sending his severed head to Emperor Kematu: now, it doesn’t matter! My armies stand at peak strength! When the first snows of the season fall, it will be upon the smoking ruins of Tsobarut!

  “Ralothova won’t abide such reckless expansionism,” Falthwën warned. “Nor the neighboring kingdoms…”

  “Of course not!” crowed the queen-regent. “That’s why I’ve prepared additional armies in secret, dedicated to the destruction of Ralothova, Gambarad, and beyond! I will break the teeth of all who stand in my way: within a Seven, this entire continent will be united beneath the unyielding talons of Ïsriba!”

  Though he said nothing, Kalas noticed Commander Nashmur wince with the queen-regent’s every manic pronouncement.

  “My queen, you’ve lost perspective,” soothed the cleric. “King Rufàran would have never wanted this!”

  “King Rufàran is dead! Ilfadan-pïn-Elïgarme saw to that! None can—”

  “Shosafin believes King—he believes your father is still alive!” insisted Kalas.

  Stunned, Ësfàyami’s eyes widened, and in their depths he glimpsed what looked like hope. Feeble, but hope nonetheless.

  “LIES!” raged Marugan as he raised his bow, nocked an arrow, and fired.

  Kalas thought time had stopped: a moment stretched into minutes, or so it seemed, and in that expanded, timelike event—

  Time has done this to me before…or did I do this to time?

  —he raised his hand, and, from its razor-sharp broadhead to its fletched shaft, the missile disintegrated into a cascade of harmless, unhurried sparks as it collided with his blazing, upturned palm.

  “Nalëndas!” Marugan cried, unable to disguise his fear.

  “Ilbarshme!” shouted the queen-regent, summoning the shadowed guards. With a rough shove, she returned Shosafin’s sword to Nashmur. “Commander: return these prisoners to their cells! I want—”

  “Please, your majesty! Kill them here! Now! I beg you!” Marugan implored.

  “You forget your place, kindu!”

  “I only mean—you said yourself you wished you’d executed Ilbardhën when you had the chance!”

  “Shosafin, yes, but this one? This one has power. I will understand it. I will own it!”

  The soldiers—every one a  menacing-looking hulk—grabbed Kalas and the others and escorted them from the throne room.

  5.

  No one spoke as Nashmur and the queen-regent’s guards descended with the party through the castle’s many levels. Along the way, a few of Marugan’s shosayedhume revealed their presence, their cold, dead eyes watching the procession with methodical indifference.

  “What are they looking at?” said Pava, unnerved.

  “Marugan’s afraid of Shosafin—and us,” Zhalera insisted again. “Kalas, at least. He called you Nalëndas…Falthwën, what’s that mean?”

  “It’s part of a legend that hearkens back to a time before the world was cracked, when the world was an island in the midst of an endless sea. Nalën means ‘first,’ as you know: it’s also the ‘name,’ if you will, for Zhi Milël pïni Ilundas Ilunas—The Jewel of Ilun’s Creation. She sought to protect edhunàm from Ilnëshras’ cancerous corruption. She failed. Her sacrifice, however, precipitated the advent of the prophecy that concerns you.”

  “Why are you just now telling me this?!” Kalas demanded.

  “I…didn’t remember until now, until just now,” the cleric apologized. “As I’ve told you: my memory’s not what it used to be! By design, I think. Certain events, certain conversations, pull back the shroud a little, from time to time…”

  “Dzharëth said I was one of hers, Kalas said, recalling the words of the wolfish remnants of his friend. “Is that what he meant? Is that what Marugan meant by Nalëndas?”

  “I don’t know, my child. I’m sorry. Perhaps.”

  “This prophecy,” said Nashmur after a silence. “What’s it all about?”

  “This world is not what it was intended to be,” Falthwën began. “Nor will it remain ever thus. For good or ill remains to be seen.”

  For our good? or for our doom? Tzharak had said, Kalas remembered.

  “And Kalas has something to do with this prophecy, you said?”

  Falthwën said nothing, but Kalas felt a peculiar tension rise up all around them. With a sigh, the commander muttered, “I hope you’re right…” before drawing Shosafin’s sword: with a quick twist and a flash of torchlight, he separated the nearest guard’s head from his shoulders, then tossed the sword to Kalas. With another lightning-like move, he produced his own sword and ran it through the next guard.

  Kalas caught the sword by the hilt, adjusted his stance, and raised it just in time to block one of the remaining two guards from bringing his halberd down upon his neck. He hadn’t quite found his footing, and the blow sent him reeling. Another guard raised his weapon against Rül, but the farm boy turned and shoved him against the wall.

  “Commander, what are you doing?! Why are you doing this?!” Kalas wheezed as he stood. He parried another blow, maintained his balance this time.

  “The Queen’s lost her way—maybe her mind,” he grunted between his strikes. “Nothing good will come of war for war’s sake. With Tsobarut, or Ralothova, or Gambarad, or any other nation…I hope you’re right, cleric: the world could use a change.”

  With a subtle shimmer, Falthwën’s ill-fitting garment from the steam room became his regular robes; he reached within its folds and retrieved the black sword Hàfilrifar. One of the guards regained his feet, lunged for Pava with his polearm raised: Zhalera intercepted him, kicked at his nethers with her bare foot and caused him to tumble onto Nashmur’s waiting blade. A few fast hacks ended him. The surviving soldier—the one Rül had pushed—assessed his altered circumstances. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned and fled. Kalas, his blood hot, took a few hasty steps in the man’s direction when the commander called him back.

  “Let him go! Even if you stopped him, it won’t be long before the Queen figures out what’s going on. We need to focus on finding a way out of here!”

  Refocus!

  “What?” he added, his head cocked.

  “You all heard that, right?” said Kalas as the others nodded.

  “All right, let me think,” said the commander, his eyes closed as he contemplated
various scenarios. “These dungeons are like mazes, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Intended to keep people lost should anyone ever escape his cell. No single guard knows its entire layout: probably for reasons just like this.

  “Still, I know these parts. I think. Years ago I was stationed here, but it has been a while…C’mon! This way!”

  For the next few minutes, Nashmur led everyone through the dungeon’s numerous corridors and pungent reek, doubling back now and again as he tried to remember—or stumble upon, really—some means of escape. The tromp of armored boots and the shouts of angry soldiers flitted through the passages: one moment it would sound as though they were right around the corner; the next, some distance away.

  “All right…over here! I think we’ll come to—” the commander started: as he rounded what turned out to be a dead-end corner, Marugan, bow raised, stood waiting.

  “How did—?!” Nashmur began.

  “Kaliswàr,” said Rül. “He’s an eku. An ilnàfël—a dark one. We were telling the truth.”

  “It’s true,” sneered Marugan, his gray eyes alive with fear and hatred. “Doesn’t matter though! None of you is leaving this place! I don’t care what the Queen says!”

  He loosed his arrow, but Falthwën flicked it away with the flat of his curved, black sword. Before the eku could ready another, Nashmur was upon him, sword pressed against the flat pink line of scar tissue that stretched across his neck from ear to ear. Marugan laughed: the gravel in its tone sent shivers down Kalas’ spine.

  “Your cousin tried something like this not too long ago,” he teased. “Ask your friends how well that worked out for him!”

  “Wait—your cousin?!” said Kalas.

  “What’s your endgame, fiend?” the commander demanded. “I know the stories…”

  “Oh? And how do those usually end?!”

  A band of shambling shosayedhume separated from the shadows, surrounded everyone and hauled Nashmur away from Marugan’s throat.

  “Yes, this seems about right,” he jeered. “Shagabme: tzhafodhu!”