Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  “It pleases me to learn you received my—our—message,” she said.

  “Your message?”

  Refocus!

  “That was you?! But how—? I mean, I thought you didn’t know—”

  “Sharuyan spoke of you after I freed him from the ekumedas snare. I sensed your presence when you were brought into the dungeons. I couldn’t be sure it was you, but The Song told me to watch over you—all of you.”

  “It…told you?”

  “Not in words. In…more like a strong suggestion woven within its notes. A compulsion, perhaps. You’ve a strong constitution, from what I’m told. You very well might have endured the shadow lily’s powers on your own.”

  “Well, thank you!” said Kalas with a slight bow.

  “Of course! Now, Sharuyan tells me you discovered something in the canyon near your home?” the amethyst star continued. Her dark-bronze skin, the color of coffee with just a touch too much cream, seemed to glow in the chamber’s peculiar light. Unlike Falthwën’s, hers bore almost no lines or wrinkles, the exceptions emanating from the corners of her dark blue eyes. Lavender-tinted tresses, kinked and twisted blonde ropes, fell just above her waist. She smiled as she spoke, reached inside her simple gown and withdrew a leaf of something, which she held out to Kalas.

  “The not-paper!” he shouted. “Where did you get this?!”

  “From your coach, of course!”

  “The horses!” Rül interjected. “Did you see them? Are they all right?”

  “They’re fine,” whispered Falthwën. “We’ll be reunited with them soon.”

  Kalas turned the item over in his hands. It looked the same as it had on the day they left Lohwàlar. Struck with a thought, he held it up, hoping to view it through stronger light before he realized the room’s illumination had no apparent source.

  “Falthwën, does that mean it’s all right to talk about…that thing?”

  “Here, none can uncover our discussions. Within these walls, anything we say remains with us.”

  Kalas’ mind replayed a brief scene as the cleric spoke. In it, Tzharak, his back turned away from the others, held up a small item that bore all the hallmarks of the artifact at the bottom of the Empty Sea.

  “About that,” he began, searching for a way to explain himself. With a shrug and a sigh, he kept going: “before we left Lohwàlar, Tzharak showed me a…something. I don’t know what it was. He didn’t, either, but it looked like it might have been from the object under the cliff. I think it was made from the same material, and it had similar symbols—others, too. About the size of a small brick, but almost egg-shaped: a mix of curves and flat parts. Said he’d had it in his collection for a really long time. Maybe we—maybe I should have said something then, but I wasn’t sure…Tzharak said he’d keep it safe, and I thought that was enough.”

  He recoiled as something flickered within the old man’s eyes, remembered his impressions of Falthwën’s anger when he’d first arrived at the artifact. The cleric turned toward Loradan as Kalas said, “I’m sorry.”

  Falthwën whispered something, turned toward Kalas again with a rueful smile and said, “That object buried beneath thousands of years of rock is…not unique, my child, though it is the most complete instance I’ve ever seen.”

  Kalas, stunned, allowed himself a long moment to parse what he’d just heard.

  Things the world over…aren’t always as they seem.

  “There…are more of those things?! How many more?! What are they?! Where do they come from?!”

  Loradan answered: “In our humanness, we erume have imperfect access to our vast stores of celestial memory; from time to time, however, something will…connect one memory to another, perhaps another, and…you understand? Sharuyan has told you some of this, hish?

  “We know we roam the detritus of a broken world. Most remnants have been washed away, erased by flood and fire; or, as in this case, buried beneath the earth’s surface. We know, on occasion, sometimes those remnants ‘bubble up’ into the present. It’s rare—even rarer for someone to encounter such vàsume—artifacts. Most are harmless: nothing more than peculiarities even to us. Those we come across, we unmake when we can, conceal when we must. Usually. Not always.

  “Some, however, are dangerous. Deadly. Things that helped crack the world in the first place. From Sharuyan’s description, your vàsu is one of the most dangerous. One of the most deadly.”

  “It made my father sick,” Kalas said, his thoughts at the bottom of the canyon. “Made us sick, too. Tzharak, Zhalera, and me, when we went back for a closer look.”

  “That’s why I buried it,” admitted Falthwën. “I would have preferred to unmake it, but without knowing the extent of what the ekume had done to me, I couldn’t chance such a flagrant display of privilege: I had to hope all those tons of rock would suffice.

  “If Tzharak’s object is, indeed, of the same origin as that craft, for now we’ll have to hope it’s less potent. You said he’s had it for some time, yes? Then it’s probably nothing to worry about: still, I’ll ask him to show it to me when we return to Lohwàlar.”

  “Wait—‘craft?’ Like a boat or something?” said Kalas, catching Falthwën’s word.

  The cleric smiled. “Like a boat…or something.”

  “Right. It was at the bottom of what used to be an ocean,” Kalas convinced himself.

  The erume who’d shimmered out of the Vault—out of time and space for all Kalas knew—returned, resolved in the same manner as had Loradan when she procured a robe for Nïmrïk. Yayan, hefting a double-bladed bearded axe made from some ruby-like material, arrived first, followed by Heshradan, Sifuran, and, perhaps a minute later, Peradan.

  “I encountered an eku,” Yayan affirmed as she secured her weapon. “Fought him for two days before I managed to unmake his physical presence.”

  “Two days?” said Rül, somewhat bewildered; then, remembering what the egu had told them, added: “ah, right!”

  Neither Heshradan nor Sifuran had encountered any resistance: Peradan needed a moment to catch his breath before he admitted, “Another singularity trap! I recognized this one, though, before it was too late. Three, maybe four ekume. I’m not sure. Lost my sword while making my escape. I don’t think any of them figured out where I was headed, but at this point I can’t be sure…Maybe now is not the time to get started.”

  “Get…started?” Zhalera ventured. The others shared similar expressions of uncertainty.

  “I thought you’d be finishing up…whatever it is you’ve been doing for the last few hours!” lamented Rül. At that instant, his stomach growled again.

  “Oh! My apologies!” laughed Heshradan as he disappeared; when he reappeared moments later, he held a tray of smoking sausages, a wheel of cheese, and a couple of water skins. “Sometimes I forget edhume need to eat!”

  “Get started,” repeated Sifuran with a grim nod. “I disagree with Peradan: I think we must get started! There’s never been a moment like this in all of history—including from before the cracking of the world. It’s true: we’re rushing into unknown realms with our hands bound and eyes blinded, but what better choice is there? Why, today could be the day when prophecy is fulfilled in our presence!”

  “It could also be the day when everything comes undone and our every hope is lost!” Peradan countered.

  Sifuran took a deep breath, held it for a weighty moment before he exhaled. “One way or another, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Chapter XX.

  At the Center of the Seven-Sided Room

  P

  eradan’s not wrong: what we’re about to attempt could—no, will—have dire consequences,” the sapphire eru elaborated as he beheld Zhalera’s still-perplexed gaze. “But there’s another prophecy, another aspect to the original, maybe, handed down before creation came undone…We’ve discussed this from time to time across innumerable Sevens, but the…call it a balance of components: it’s never been…I’ll say stable. Once, we thought all the pieces w
ere in place, but we were too…scared—there’s no other word for it—to follow through. That’s when Ilun cracked the world in his wrath and sorrow.”

  “Who gave these prophecies?” muttered Kalas to no one in particular.

  None of the erume answered him; indeed, all seemed to have some place else to look until Peradan admitted, “No one knows.”

  “No one knows?!” scoffed Pava. “I can’t—I won’t—believe that!”

  “Most think it was one of the chief elume, not long after Ilnëshras pit his will against the Creator’s,” said Yayan as she ran a length of diamond-gritted stone along the edges of her axe. “He had a different name then, Ilnëshras. None remembers what it was. By all accounts, the elu who gave the prophecy…met his end at the hands of Ilnëshras’ chief lieutenant, a former elu named Tsathrâuda. It’s ironic that the prophet’s name would disappear within the spool of time while his murderer’s would not.

  “No matter: Sifuran is right. We missed our opportunity millennia ago. None but the Creator can say what might have been had we been more bold: today, I, for one, will not be undone by fear!”

  Yayan returned her glittering weapon to its sheath, offered the other erume a curt, solemn bow, and walked toward the ruby-encrusted emblem carved into the Vault’s polished granite floor.

  “I don’t understand why Ilun doesn’t just unmake Ilnëshras and be done with it,” grumbled Rül. “I mean: millennia? Why let the world fall apart—why crack it in the first place? He could hold it together if he wanted to, couldn’t he?”

  “He could,” insisted Heshradan, “and if he considered his creation naught but a motley collection of programmable automatons, that’s just what he might have done. However, we’re more—so much more!—than mere puppets to him! Elume, erume, edhume—even our fallen brothers and sisters—retain the gift of choice. Choice implies, at a minimum, bifurcation—however subtle—along the paths of our existence: each split brings us closer to or drives us further from his purpose for us. It’s well within the Creator’s power to treat us as his playthings, but he chooses otherwise, and while it’s true we make our own choices, it’s also—necessarily—true that we endure the consequences of such choices.”

  “You sound like Falthwën,” said Rül, his eyes glassy.

  Heshradan smiled. “High praise, indeed!” With a nod, the slightest bow of his own, he followed Yayan toward the markings on the floor and stood above the diamond-studded symbol. Loradan offered Sharuyan a kiss before she, too, took her respective place within the Vault.

  “C’mon, Peradan! Let’s make history!” insisted Sifuran. He clapped a hand on the reluctant spessartine erudas shoulder and steered him toward his emblem.

  Before Falthwën joined the others, he removed his ring and held it up to the curious light. In its sourceless glow, each gem sparkled as he turned it over a time or two. With a smile, he reached for one of Pava’s hands. She held it out to him, and the eru placed his ugly ring on her right index finger.

  “Úrukilmukritnàm have stories about this ring. No doubt that’s why it seems familiar to you. Each stone represents a member of the Great Swath: indeed, each stone has been imbued with a measure of…call it magic from each of us. I return it to the caverns where its power might preserve the blessing of the suns’ light against the rising shadows.”

  Pava stared at the ring, unsure of what to say, what to do. After a dazed moment, she said, “This belongs to the eru who made our iltithme-kali! The nalën ilosar who taught us how to use them!”

  “It did, once,” said Falthwën, his expression somber. “Now, it belongs to you. To your people. It’s no coincidence that you ended up in our cart, my child!”

  “What happened to him?” wondered Pava as she examined every facet of every shining jewel. When Falthwën didn’t answer, she looked up, recognized pained sadness in his features and said, “No, never mind. I…thank you! On behalf of all of us who dwell beneath the Áthradho, thank you!”

  The cleric offered her a bright smile that only subtly touched his eyes. He turned toward the center of the Vault as Pava asked: “Wait! Why are you giving this to me? Won’t you need it? If it has magic—if it has power—won’t the Swath know how to use it best?”

  Falthwën—Sharuyan now—offered no response as he stopped when he reached his emerald-covered crest.

  2.

  The six erume looked from one to another, looked at Valaran’s empty place, her unobscured topaz emblem.

  “Will this even work without her?” Peradan wondered.

  “It has to,” insisted Sifuran. “We have to be enough. Surely the Creator wouldn’t have allowed as much to happen if our endeavor was fated to end in failure?!”

  “Perhaps it would have worked when Valaran was still beside us, but now? Are you certain?”

  “Certain?! Of course I’m not certain!” he retorted, his eyes awash with harsh blue light. “But we’ve no other options! No good ones, at least! Come what may, let it never be said that I lacked the faith to follow through!”

  “I’m not questioning your faith, brother: I’m questioning the wisdom in attempting something that requires the seven of us when only six of us remain!”

  “None of us could ever hope to replace her, to assume her duties, but I think we have to try,” said Loradan. “Perhaps the six of us, buoyed by our love for our fallen sister will be sufficient.”

  “Well said!” Yayan agreed with a vigorous nod. “So what’ll it be? Are we gonna hem and haw for thousands of Sevens again? Or are we gonna make something happen?!”

  Peradan reacted with a heavy sigh, acquiesced to the others’ insistence.

  With a deep bow toward the unadorned symbol at the center of the Vault, the other erume waited until Heshradan bowed his head; when he did, the others followed suit.

  He must be their…leader? Does the Great Swath even have a leader? Kalas wondered as he observed the ritual—rite? ceremony? whatever it was—commence.

  The diamond eru voiced a solemn prayer; soon, the remaining stars added their unified voices to his, and the prayer became a song. Slow, reverent, and, Kalas sensed, somewhat timid, the singular melody split into six distinct parts as the erume found their courage and opened up their hearts and throats. Minute variations assumed greater departures from Heshradan’s main theme as the song progressed. Kalas tried to listen to each part, to hear the prayer, as it were, of each erudas spirit, only to discover that while his ears heard six separate voices, his heart—his kelâ—heard just the one. No words, no sounds approximating known language: just music unlike any he and all the others had ever heard.

  Nïmrïk excepted.

  As the harmonies swept over, under, and around and through one another, Kalas noticed unchecked tears in the old man’s eyes as he tried his best not to give way to the sobs skating along the cusp of expression. The egu caught Kalas’ stare, offered him an unapologetic smile as he wiped at his cheeks.

  “Is this…is this The Song?” Zhalera whispered. Nïmrïk nodded before Kalas could.

  “It’s a part of it,” said the boy. “I think. I’ve never heard these particular melodies, but I recognize some of the themes.”

  “And you hear this…all the time?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll admit it: I’m jealous!”

  The stars’ music swelled with the walls of the Vault, acquired a life all its own as it danced and tumbled over each faceted boundary and rebounded, its energy doubled, trebled, and more. Each varicolored wall seemed to pulse in time to the Song the erume sang; soon, what everyone had heard with their ears transcended human perception: not because of its shifting frequencies; rather, it moved from the purely material to the immaterial.

  ‘Spiritual vibrations,’ Falthwën called them.

  At the same time, the erume began to glow, to luminesce as some aspect of their shared anthem reified each’s aura and summoned shafts of light from their respective symbols.

  Nïmrïk and the others scanned the room as the mus
ic eclipsed their ability to perceive it. Each regarded another with the same sense of loss as the Song’s energy dissipated from their shared perspective.

  In Kalas’ mind, however, as the music’s power—its soul, perhaps— gained strength, the Song became unstable, the Vault’s walls shook with unsteady violence. He cried out, cupped his ears and tried to drown out the noise.

  “Kalas! What’s wrong?!” said Zhalera. When he didn’t seem to hear, she shouted.

  “The Song! It’s…I think it’s broken! I can’t—!”

  A jet of blood spurted from each nostril as his eyes rolled toward the back of his head. He screamed again. Lost consciousness. As he fell, as his hands dropped to his sides, Zhalera saw they, too, boasted bloodstains from thin streams seeping from his ears.

  “What do I do?!” she shouted. At Kalas. At Falthwën. At the other erume. None heard her.

  She caught him as he slumped, dropped to her knees and scraped the tip of her scabbard along the floor when a thought struck her:

  “My sword!” she shouted as she pulled it from its sheath. “Sifuran said Valaran’s essence is within it! Maybe it’s enough?!”

  At first, no one answered, and the girl hesitated. Nïmrïk came alongside her, knelt beside Kalas and said, “Only one way to know, lass! If it helps, it helps, but the boy can’t go on like this!”

  Her face grim, Zhalera hastened toward the empty space where Valaran should have stood. As she closed the distance, the invisible force of the erumedas Song made each successive step that much more difficult, as though she were wrestling against a wall of thick, viscous mud. She reached out her sword: just a few more inches and its point would touch the outermost strand of topaz. Though she struggled with every shred of strength she could muster, it wasn’t—nor would it be—enough.

  “Help! Help me!” she howled within the silent Vault.

  Pava rushed toward Zhalera, tried to plant her feet and push, but the polished floor provided no purchase.