Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “When I finally did return, I couldn’t escape a sense of responsibility for her daughters and her daughter’s daughters. I kept a low profile—well, sort of. I guess you could say I developed a knack for skylarking. It passed the time, kept most townsfolk entertained—kept me close—while I waited. For what, I wasn’t sure: not until I saw the lot of you from the gibbet at the crossroads.

  “You weren’t the same, Sharuyan. Not entirely, but somehow, I recognized you. Strange as this’ll sound, I recognized the boy, too. With all the change taking place across the world, I wasn’t about to lose sight of you again. I watched as Nashmur’s men tried to ambush you from the coach house in ivambar. Followed as they chased you down along the Highway. When I saw those blasts of eruseranà…

  “Even from the dungeon, I sensed Marugan’s shosayedhume. Rampant wrongness, at least. I didn’t know they were his at the time—I didn’t realize Marugan was ekunàm until he kaliswàra through those passageways where I found you.”

  “That’s quite a tale, egu,” said Yayan, intrigued but guarded.

  “Your song…it almost fit within The Song,” Kalas commented.

  Nïmrïk’s weary eyes filled with tears. He ignored them as they swelled atop their lids before spilling onto the borrowed rasak garment he now wore.

  “That, lad, is how it’s been ever since I realized—too late—the magnitude of my transgression. I catch bits and pieces of it from time to time—parts performed by others—but I don’t know if my music will ever harmonize with The Song again…”

  “You want to become an elu again, don’t you?” deduced Sifuran. “You hope to regain your first estate!”

  Nïmrïk said nothing, simply bowed his head.

  “Is such a thing possible?” posed Heshradan. None was sure.

  “Even if it is, would the elume accept him?” Peradan added.

  “Probably not. Don’t know that I would,” scoffed Sifuran. “Assuming anything he’s told us is true in the first place!”

  Falthwën listened, his eyes and following the flow of the discussion.

  “You took an arrow intended for one of us. Why?” he said, extending a hand and helping the injured figure to his feet. “How’s the wound, by the way?”

  “It hurts, but not like it did. Thank you. I guess I thought if Marugan’s arrow hit me, the worst thing that could happen was I’d lose my skin for a time. Moments? Months? Millennia? Small penance. For one of your friends, however…I wasn’t willing to let that happen.”

  “Convincing,” allowed Yayan as she gave the man a closer look.

  “You might have helped us, but you’re egunàm!” Zhalera began. “You—one of your kind—killed my father! Kalas’ parents! You act like you want to help us, but what makes you think we’ll trust you?”

  “You’ve no reason to, although I’ll say this: when the ruffians in ivambar accosted you in the Black Falcon, did you come to mistrust the entirety of humankind?”

  “I—no! That’s different!” she insisted, her bronze cheeks reddening in the Vault’s soft light.

  “If you say so,” nodded Nïmrïk. “I won’t argue with you.”

  “The girl raises a fair point,” conceded Peradan as he walked in a slow circle around the pitiable figure. “Perhaps it’s unfair, but consider that not a single egu has sought reconciliation with the elume from time immemorial. Why you? Why now? Perhaps there’s some unseen trickery underlying your motives? You said yourself you’d taken to…what was it? ‘Skylarking?’”

  “I won’t attempt to excuse the choices made by others in whose sin I’ve partaken! If the lot of you would prefer I leave, I’ll leave—with no ill-will toward anyone: what purpose would that serve?

  “Before I go, however, I’ll tell you this: my travels over the Sevens have carried me through numerous places. Numerous kingdoms. Ïsriba is not the only one with a ‘Marugan’ twisting the ears of those in power. Egunàm and ekunàm alike have conspired to thrust the entire world into a singular war until edhunàm—humanity—destroys itself.

  3.

  At Nïmrïk’s revelation, the assembled stars shared anxious murmurs with one another. The humans watched. Listened. Tried to understand as best they could.

  “Wait, egu—Nïmrïk,” said Sifuran as he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We know this. We’ve suspected, at least, but your story supports our worst suspicions.”

  “I can’t say that I’m convinced,” chided Peradan as he clucked his tongue. “It seems a little convenient, don’t you think? On the precipice of exclusion, he conjures up this gem of intelligence?”

  “Be that as it may, he didn’t know we knew,” nodded Loradan. “His bond with The Song is broken—there’s no way for him to share our thoughts. That he uncovered this conspiracy and chose to share it with us is worth something, in my estimation.”

  “He claims it’s broken,” noted Heshradan.

  “It’s true,” insisted Kalas as he locked eyes with the unappreciated egu. “In the dungeon, something woke me. It was a song. Nïmrïk’s song. It sounded—it was so close to becoming a part of The Song! Nïmrïk! Maybe if you…sing? That’s not the right word, is it? Maybe if you…sing to them, they’ll understand!”

  Fresh tears—a peculiar mixture of sorrow and relief—formed anew in the wearied man’s pale blue eyes.

  “Master Kalas, I have tried! For thousands of Sevens, I’ve tried! Those attuned to Zhi Helimi can’t seem to perceive the fruit of my imperfect labors. You have no idea how surprised I am that you can hear it!”

  The boy looked to Falthwën, who offered him an apologetic shrug: Sorry, my child. He’s right…

  “How can that be?!” said Kalas, amazed and skeptical. “I can hear it, but none of you can? Falthwën, I thought you said others —I thought you meant egume and ekume—heard the Song, too?”

  “It’s true,” interrupted Sifuran. “They still hear parts of it, at least…Perhaps there is more to…Nïmrïk, right? Perhaps there is more to Nïmrïk than we’ve guessed.”

  “Look, I didn’t tell you those things to try to buy your confidence!” he insisted. “I’ve had a long time to learn that people either believe me…or they don’t. Maybe I’ll never attain to elunàm again. My curse is just, and I will suffer under it throughout eternity if it pleases the Creator. That said, I remain a part of his handiwork, and I’m unwilling to do nothing while Ilnëshras’ servants attempt to unmake it again!”

  As Nïmrïk spoke, his eyes acquired the faintest glow of yellow from within. Most—not all—took a step back at the sight.

  “There’s fire in your soul, there’s no denying that!” marveled Heshradan as he turned toward the others. “And…I believe him. I do. u Nïmrïk, I don’t know whether such a thing is possible, but should your curse ever come undone, I look forward to hearing your voice returned to The Song!”

  Stunned, Nïmrïk said nothing. He held Heshradan’s gaze for a moment, then collapsed upon the remaining fragments of his old skin in a paroxysm of wracking sobs. Heshradan knelt, placed an arm around his heaving shoulder.

  “You’ve no idea—no idea!—how I’ve longed to hear such words!” Nïmrïk managed between his tears. “I…Thank you, fr—no! I won’t assume too much! Just…thank you!”

  As Heshradan helped Nïmrïk to his feet again, Peradan ceased his pacing and said, “Yes, very good, but we’re still no closer to a plan for disrupting the Accursèd One’s presumed intent. Unless, of course, any of you have devised new stratagems since our last gathering?”

  None of the other erume said anything, but at Peradan’s query, all eyes turned as one toward Kalas. Aware of their weighted gazes, he looked around, cocked his head as he tried to understand why.

  Prophecy!

  “Me?!” he gasped, perplexed and more than a little uncertain. “I’m just a boy! Barely attained two Sevens! I…I’m from the hinterlands, a place of no importance to the kingdom! Or the world! Zhalera, you heard Valderïk: that the queen-regent wouldn’t even take our cl
aims seriously! How…what do all of you expect from me?!”

  “You know the prophecy—” said Yayan, arms folded across her sturdy chest.

  “I don’t!” Kalas insisted. “No one’s told me what it is! All I’ve heard are vague suggestions—the first of those from the rudzhegu who killed my father!”

  “The prophecy is a vast work—a book in its own right, really,” said Falthwën, “but the part that I—that others, too—believe relates to you, my child, is this:

  Isre zhi alasdrame nimdâethi nira,

  Isre zhi erume nath nira,

  Kathin kelësh al para

  Tzheth zhi theshedhume vâlit:

  Zhi kali duro

  Hir aóroyimu;

  Zhi vam duro

  Hir zhi nàfël veluro:

  Dhëm ri pïn dzhâra,

  Tsa tabîi firitha;

  Pïn hwag Kelme ádhem

  Ohi valom pïn bàrifu:

  I virnàfël nombàyaru

  Hir yev vam tànadharu nâ?

  Ib sulum zhi thesh gâfut

  Hir tsa revehwa sàvesharu nâ?

  Kathin kelësh al para

  Dëni theshedhume ádhan

  Isre zhi alasdrame nimdâethi nira,

  Isre zhi erume nath nira.

  While the heavens were silent,

  While the stars were black,

  I saw a great power

  Fall upon the realm of men:

  To bring the light

  Or to banish it;

  To bring the day

  Or embrace the dark:

  A child out of time,

  Confronted with a choice;

  A youth of two Sevens

  At the crux of consequence:

  Surrender us to darkness

  Or hasten us toward day?

  Bind the world in shadow

  Or cover us with glory?

  I saw a great power

  Ascend from the realm of men

  While the heavens were silent,

  While the stars were black.

  “I’ve heard that before!” said Pava with a tug on Rül’s sleeve. “Part of it, at least! That’s—zhi kali duro—that’s where the ilmukritnàm legend of an ilosar comes from! Kalas, it is you!”

  “No! I…that prophecy doesn’t even make sense!” he insisted. “The heavens aren’t silent! We—all right, I—hear The Song every day! Falthwën, Heshradan: you don’t really think—?! Is this why Dzharëth killed my father? Over something as…over nonsense like this?!”

  “None of us knows the future, my child. And as I said, these couplets and quatrains only represent a fragment of the whole,” said the cleric.

  “I would not have…placed you with Màla and Tàran were I not convinced that the time had come,” added the diamond eru.

  “‘A child out of time?’ What’s that even mean?!” Kalas wondered. Heshradan said nothing. “And what’s this ‘great power?’ that’s supposed to ‘fall upon the realm of men?’”

  4.

  Seated with his back wedged in a corner between two facets, Kalas watched, waited as the erume discussed their present circumstances. He thought he heard his name a time or two, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter anyway, he thought:

  They think I’m something I’m not.

  Nashmur leaned against the wall beside him, eased himself onto the cold stone floor and sighed. He nodded toward the luminescent figures congregated near the center of the Vault and said, “So…erume, are they? Just imagine the look on my cousin’s face if he could be here now!”

  “Why didn’t you tell us Shosafin was your cousin?” Zhalera demanded from Kalas’ other side.

  “Ah, that,” he nodded again. With a wry smile, he explained: “His mother was nobility, but married for love: a common rasak weaver. Infuriated her parents when she ignored their designs.

  “They fled the capital for a time; when they returned, they’d had a son. Her parents, naturally, refused to acknowledge the child. Refused to acknowledge their rebellious daughter.

  “His mother’s sister, however, had no qualms about following her parents’ instructions. So I’m told: she died before I’d attained a single year. My father—I really don’t remember him. Is that sad?—was crushed when she passed away: they’d struggled for almost two Sevens to conceive, and they’d come to love each other after all they’d been through, but I think he was relieved when the King sent him away on some mission or another. I don’t know. He deposited me with his estranged in-laws and I never saw him again. For all I know he never returned to Ïsriba. If he did, he’s never looked for me .

  “He did do one thing for me before he left: he made sure my records were in order: with my name on the registrars’ books, his station would elevate my own, when the day came.

  “All I know about my parents I learned from Shosafin’s: despite the ill treatment they’d received from his mother’s family, they cared for me like I was their own son. Shosafin was more like an older brother than a cousin. Enlisting was his only real option: under other circumstances, perhaps he might have joined a guild, but his grandparents manipulated the necessary societal levers to make sure he never sullied their good name in public. I learned a lot from him, growing up …

  “I guess I don’t have to pretend anymore: I never believed he killed King Rufàran! I…lacked the clarity of purpose he possessed: he truly is his mother’s son! Just as I am mine…

  “So yes: Shosafin is my cousin. Perhaps now you understand why I was so interested in his sword? After Ësfàyami assumed the throne, though, he changed. Turned hard. Indifferent. I’d hoped to hear that he’d regained at least a measure of his former character. Doesn’t sound like he has, though.”

  “I think we’ll see him again,” encouraged Kalas. “I don’t think he would have asked me to hold on to his sword if he didn’t intend to retrieve it. It didn’t sound like that, at least.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” Nashmur said as he dug within a hidden pocket. “Here you go! As promised!”

  He held out Kalas’ birthday present, hilt first. With a thankful nod, the boy took it, ran his hands along its familiar contours. He tried to tuck it within his belt before he realized he was still wearing his borrowed robe.

  “Bad as they smelled, I kinda want my old clothes back!” he confessed. “At least they had pockets!”

  “Yeah, these robes are terrible!” Zhalera giggled. Turning serious, she added: “The horses! The coach!”

  Kalas ran a quick mental inventory of their possessions. While Runner and Dancer were two of the finest horses he’d ever known, there were other horses. Other carts or coaches as well. Replacing them wouldn’t be easy—nor pleasant—but it would be possible. While he didn’t know the contents of either Zhalera’s or Rül’s packs, he drew a sharp breath when he considered what had been inside his own:

  “The book!” he gasped. “The…not-paper!”

  “The what?” said Nashmur, eyebrow raised.

  “Uh, just some things we left in the cart. The book was from my father’s collection. My grandfather’s, really. The other thing was something I…another piece from the same collection.”

  The commander nodded, “Irreplaceable, I’m sure…I think your things—all of them—will be all right. I assigned my most trusted lieutenants to guard them…to go through them, really: just in case my cousin left something with you.” He offered them a sheepish, somewhat embarrassed half-smile.

  “Shosafin kept mostly to himself. Had his own horse: another one of Rül’s.”

  “How long do you think they’ll be?” said Rül, having heard his name, as he jerked his head toward the erume. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but that slop we had for breakfast has pretty much run its course. I’m starving!”

  “Erume can talk and talk,” offered Nïmrïk, who’d plopped himself down not too far away from the others. He raised himself up, winced a little and massaged the place where Marugan’s arrow had pierced him.

  “Are you all right?�
� Pava wondered.

  “I’ll be fine. Fine as I can be, at least. That eku must’ve done something to his arrowheads. Nimnàfël seranà, probably. In time, your cleric’s magic should undo the worst of it. I hope. Guess I’ll find out.

  “Anyway, from our perspective, that lot has probably been conversing for days. Weeks maybe. Time—and space—are more fluid for them.”

  “What about for egume?” Kalas asked, curious.

  “Elume—and egume—are spirit-beings. Our relationship with the temporal and the spatial is…arbitrary; that is, we’re exempted from its physical laws, though most of us, when we take physical form, find it simplest to obey them all the same. For the most part. Our power—our privilege—is, perhaps, greater than that permitted the erume, but I don’t consider it relevant. I used to, once, but that was thousands of Sevens ago.”

  “‘Privilege?’ You sound like Falthwën,” noted Kalas.

  Nïmrïk returned a wry smile. “That privilege—its scope and exercise—has been a point of contention between the elume and the erume, but it doesn’t have to be—”

  “I kind of got that idea from one of the Swath,” said Rül as he attempted to ignore his rumbling stomach.

  “Ilun fashioned each of us according to his will, according to his purpose. When people—elu, eru, or edhu—forget—or, perhaps more accurately, ignore—that truth, things tend to fall apart. I know. I’ve seen it. Lived it. My point is when we exercise our privilege in accordance with the Creator’s will, his purpose for us, things…hold together, if I might extend the metaphor.”

  His purpose for us, Kalas thought with a wry smile of his own. Wouldn’t it be great to know what that was?

  5.

  “I think they’re done!” shushed Zhalera. The others ceased conversing as the loose circle of erume broke apart. Falthwën and Loradan approached while the other four shimmered, then disappeared.