Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  “Zhalera, hwer!” he shouted, never taking his eyes away from the thing in front of him.

  It panted, thick gobbets of red saliva dripping from its fangs and matting its fur. Its yellow eyes bored into Kalas, sized him up, and with practiced intent, it circled him. Kalas matched its movements, unsure of what to do. It appeared to be some kind of wolf. Kalas had never seen one, but his father had told him about them: none of his tales had made them out to be so big, so hungry. With its ears folded back against its skull and its teeth bared and glistening, it coiled itself like a spring and unwound with a growl. Again, Kalas hit dirt, rocks and roots digging into his spine as the wolf-thing snarled and snapped.

  “Get away from him!” Zhalera yelled. She hit the monster with a rock, then another and another, none with any effect.

  “Go!” Kalas repeated, and he cried out as the wolf ’s claws opened up his chest.

  “I said get away from him!” sobbed Zhalera, her voice cracking. She stepped forward and hurled the largest rock she could. It smacked the side of the wolf ’s head, which whipped around as the beast finally seemed to notice her. It growled again, the sound a fearful blend of rage, hurt, and hate that almost sounded like words, and it stepped toward Zhalera. She stepped back, tripped over something. As she fell, the wolf advanced.

  No, thought Kalas.

  NO.

  And unbidden, the music, the force that had been locked within him since the rising of the suns, found an outlet. The darkness shriveled, split like a scrap of old black paper as Kalas’ flesh erupted in a blaze of power, a philharmonic conducted in energy and light.

  He shouted something—words he’d never heard before—and held up a hand, and the wolf howled as something arced across the air gap between its hide and Kalas’ outstretched palm. It skittered as though physically struck. The creature hesitated for a moment—only a moment—then went for Kalas.

  The moment was enough. Kalas withdrew Zhalera’s birthday present from his belt and in one fluid motion plunged it into the wolf ’s chest, hitting bone, and stepped—almost danced—to the side. It howled again, more in fury than in pain, and wrenched the knife from Kalas’ hand. He could sense its desire to come at him yet again, but with its life leaking onto the ground, it limped into the night, which had begun to knit itself whole. The light that had consumed him receded, the music ended, and Kalas fell to his knees. Blood poured from his wounds, and his vision swam as hot pain groped at his body with greedy fingers. Something made a sound, not unlike his name shouted through a bowl of oil. He thought he heard the rush of footsteps fast approaching.

  “Kalas!” Zhalera screamed again.

  “srufin?” he said, just before the entirety of his existence snapped black.

  Chapter III.

  After a Deep Sleep

  A

  shape shifted at the edge of his perception, like someone or something moving subtly through a not-quite lightless room. He called out to the sound of voices whispering all around him, and immediately, they ceased, their conversation unresolved, the substance of their discussion lost. A flash of silver stabbed him in the mind, and suddenly, a wash of muted, swirling colors rose up from unknown depths. He called out again—a name culled from some distant…dream? memory?—and the colors seemed to pause before coalescing into another vaguely familiar shape: a shape of curves and lines, flecked with topaz; a shape that blinked away as a strand of singular notes percolated through his senses. A pinprick of light appeared at the center of the darkness, hovered for a moment, then, with impossible speed, rushed upon him and—

  Kalas closed his eyes, only to realize that they had been closed as they opened in the ivory warmth of suns-light splashed across his face. He sat upright, or tried to, at least: he cried out at the fire in his chest.

  “Kalas!” gasped Màla, and she rushed to his bedside, her look of worry replaced with one of joy.

  “Mother?” he said, his throat scratchy. He cleared it, winced at its dryness, and tried again: “Mother, what’s going on?”

  “I thought you were…we didn’t know if you’d…”

  “Mother? Mother, what’s going on? Where am I?”

  “You’re at the Sanctuary. You were hurt: a wolf, Zhalera said, when she dragged you home.”

  “A wolf?!” His memories, he discovered, had jagged edges that felt like shards of glass as he tried to sort them, tried to make sense of how he ended up in the Sanctuary.

  “She said it attacked you, that she yelled for it to leave you alone, that she threw rocks at it until it turned on her. She said she fell down, hit her head, and when she woke up, the wolf had run off and you were bleeding.”

  “Zhalera! Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine, dear, she’s fine: the clerics released her after a day.”

  “A day? Wait—what is today? How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Four days, child.”

  Kalas let the shock roll over him. Màla tugged on a cord beside his bed, and soon, as the tinkle of chimes diminished, the cleric—Vàyana, he remembered—appeared beside his mother.

  “You’re awake!” she beamed. She gave Màla’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She checked his vitals, nodding now and again, arching an eyebrow every once in a while.

  “Tell me, young man: what’s the last thing you remember?”

  Kalas started to speak, then frowned.

  “The storm. Ëlbodh. A cleric I’d never met—Falthwën, I think. I remember Zhalera’s gift and going for a walk. We saw a falling star—red and really bright. We were on our way home, and then, well…that’s about it.”

  At the mention of Ëlbodh’s name, Vàyana and his mother exchanged a glance. Kalas wanted to ask if Dzharëth’s father was going to be all right, but the cleric spoke before he could: “Very good, then. If you’ll excuse me, I believe Falthwën would like to have a word.” He watched her go and seemed to notice for the first time that he was in a large chamber, open to the sky in a few places but mostly shielded from the suns by loosely woven sails.

  “Mother, is Ëlbodh going to be all right?”

  “Your father came to see you, just a day ago, back in town on an errand! He’ll be—”

  “Mother?”

  Màla didn’t say anything for a moment, and Kalas had his answer.

  “I’m sorry, son. I know he was your friend’s father.” She patted his hand. The caustic fire at the edges of his wounds had leached into the surrounding tissue as an ache that throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

  “How is Dzharëth?” Kalas asked. At that moment, Falthwën entered the room.

  “Young Kalas! Shâu Màla,” he grinned. “It’s good to see you awake! I’ll tell the truth: I was worried—all of us were worried—for a while, but here you are! You have a formidable constitution, child!” He smiled as he spoke, but there was a subtext Kalas couldn’t quite decode.

  “I know you’ve spoken with Vàyana, but, if you’ll humor an old man: please, tell me what happened the night of your second Seven.”

  Kalas recounted the experience as best he could. Falthwën listened, his focus intense. The deep green in his eyes flashed in the afternoon suns when Kalas mentioned the wolf.

  “I didn’t think they were that big,” Kalas said when prompted.

  “Most aren’t,” Falthwën agreed. “And most don’t attack people. Not without provocation, and not without the rest of their pack. Please: go on.”

  Kalas finished his story. The cleric nodded, said his thanks. After a silent moment, he removed the dressing from Kalas’ chest and examined the lacerations. He poked. He prodded. Kalas winced. Falthwën pulled from his robe a small pouch filled with leaves or petals of some kind of plant or flower that had a fragrance that tickled at Kalas’ memory. He poured them into a small bowl filled with clear oil. As he stirred the ingredients with his silver implement, the fragrance intensified. He hummed, softly, and Kalas thought for a moment that he knew the melody. The cleric reached out to spread the mixture over the you
ng man’s injuries, and Kalas noticed he wore a matte gray ring of hammered metal that he’d overlooked the day—no, the four days—before. It was large, almost gaudy, and set with a number of different gemstones. Then the crisp shock of ointment hit his skin and he sucked in a breath as his eyes widened. The ache dissolved into numbness, and Kalas exhaled, suddenly very tired.

  “Rest now,” whispered Falthwën, who turned to speak with Màla as Kalas closed his heavy eyes.

  “I’ll be leaving Lohwàlar tomorrow. Vàyana, I’m sorry for the short notice. I have…some errands I need to run. Shâu Màla, should anything—anything—about Kalas’ condition raise concerns during that time, by all means, return with him to the Sanctuary. But I’m confident he’s on the mend.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Kalas. “Your hometown?”

  Falthwën smiled. “Not so far as that…” He paused, then continued: “You’re an inquisitive young man—I like that—and I’d like to ask a favor of you: while I’m away, would you train that curious mind of yours on anything…odd you might notice?”

  “‘Odd?’ I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but sure, of course. What should I do if I see something?”

  “Just take mental notes.” He glanced at Màla, whose expression had hardened at Falthwën’s suggestion, and added, “That’s it. Should anything unusual crop up in Lohwàlar, remember, but be wary. I want to see you when I return—shouldn’t be more than a few days, at the most, and you can tell me about anything untoward. Is that…acceptable?”

  He looked at Kalas as he spoke, but his tone, his body language made it clear he was addressing Màla, soliciting her permission. Kalas understood and shifted his own gaze toward his mother.

  “I…you’ll just observe? Yes, that’s acceptable.”

  “Excellent! Thank you. Both of you. Now, however, I must pack. Vàyana, walk with me: a word, please…”

  2.

  A day later, the Sanctuary released Kalas. Vàyana was most impressed with how quickly the wolf ’s claw marks, wide maroon canyons when he’d arrived, had narrowed and turned a vibrant pink.

  “Falthwën believes this kind of wolf has poisoned claws, so even though things are looking good on the outside, it might be another day or two before it’s wise to return to work. Here, he left these vials for Kalas: their contents should help with any pain,” she said as she discharged him.

  As Màla walked him home, Kalas asked if they might stop by

  Gandhan’s smithy.

  “I…I need a new shovel, Mother. The rainfire destroyed the other, and, well…”

  “A new shovel? Anything else?” Màla smirked. Kalas cheeks, though still pale, grew flushed.

  “It’s not so far out of our way, and I’m sure…Gandhan would like to see you’re all right. And sell you a shovel, of course.”

  “Gandhan? I—yeah, I mean, of course.”

  When they reached the smithy, turbulent waves of heat rolled from its open doors. The sound of bellows breathing and hammers clanging echoed through the street.

  “Mister Gandhan?” Kalas shouted into the dim interior. “u Gandhan?”

  “Master Kalas! I’m so glad you’re awake!” roared Gandhan, stepping onto the sidewalk and blinking as his eyes adjusted. He brushed the sweat away from his brow and continued: “I’m not ashamed to admit I was as worried for you as I would have been for my own son! Zhalera told me what she remembered, right up until she—Oho! But you’re not here to see me, are you?” Gandhan winked, and with one of his callused paws he slapped Kalas on the shoulder. The young man tried not to wince, but Gandhan noticed all the same.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, my boy! I just—hey, wait here one moment, let me get Zhalera! Zhalera!” he bellowed as he disappeared into the back rooms.

  “Oh? I thought we were just buying a shovel?” Màla feigned bewilderment. “Yet you didn’t say anything about Gandhan’s wares.”

  “I…uh…I mean, he didn’t even let me speak! I was just about to ask him. I was! I’ll—Mister Gandhan, I need to buy a shovel!”

  Gandhan had reappeared at the doorway, once again wiping his brow. He paused as if he didn’t understand Kalas’ statement, then laughed until tears streamed down his ruddy cheeks.

  “You don’t need to buy a shovel, my boy!”

  “What? Yes, I do: the rainfire ate through my—”

  “Let me rephrase: You cannot buy a shovel because I will not sell you a shovel. I will give you a shovel. I’ll give you seven shovels! All the shovels in the world! I can never repay you for saving the life of my only daughter.”

  Kalas didn’t know what to say, though he felt the subtle fire in his cheeks intensify through no fault of the furnaces nearby.

  “Father, I finished—Oh! Hello, Kalas!”

  “Hi, Zhalera! I wanted to—uh, I wanted to buy a shovel from your father! But I really—also—wanted to see how you were doing. I remember you fell, and the wolf thing turned toward you…”

  Without looking at Màla or her father—who exchanged knowing glances, Zhalera wrapped her arms around Kalas and squeezed. His wounds screamed, but he didn’t care.

  “I’m doing great!” she said as she relaxed her embrace, and against his will, he gasped, his face contorting with pain.

  “Kalas? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine, I—Ahhh!”

  “You’re not fine, child!” corrected Màla. “You just got—I need to get you home. Here, drink this.” She fished one of the vials from her pocket, uncapped it, and pressed it into Kalas’ hand. He accepted without protest and downed its contents. Almost instantly, his singing injury, once an anthem, became a lullaby. His eyes felt heavy, too.

  “That’s…okay, Mother, that sounds like a good idea.”

  “Gandhan, Zhalera,” she nodded as she ducked beneath Kalas’ arm and struggled to support him.

  “Firebird, mind the smithy until I return!” said Gandhan as he lifted Kalas effortlessly to his feet and gestured for Màla to lead them. “Won’t be gone long!”

  3.

  “And here we are,” huffed the blacksmith as he lowered Kalas onto the bed. The boy had drifted in and out of wakefulness while Gandhan carried him the remainder of the way home.

  “Thank you, Gandhan,” said Màla.

  “Until he’s well, and until Tàran returns from his shift, should you need anything, I insist you let me and Zhalera know.”

  “I’m well now,” mumbled Kalas, who hadn’t quite fallen asleep. Whatever the cleric’s medicine contained, it had worked wonders, and in spite of wisps of mental fog, Kalas felt much, much better. Well enough to attempt to stand. He probably would have reached his feet—if only for a moment—had Gandhan not restrained him.

  The large man laughed, gently, as Màla said, “No, you’re not, no matter how insistent you are.”

  “Really, Mother, I’m fine! And I’ve been in bed almost a week!”

  “So what’s one more afternoon?” she countered.

  “But what about Father? He’s at the Pump, right? I’ll bet he needs my help. I’ll bet he—”

  “You might be looking better, maybe even feeling better,” Màla interrupted, “but Vàyana told us the wolf ’s claws were poisonous. No, I didn’t think they had poisonous claws, either, but I’m no cleric.”

  “Listen to your mother,” advised Gandhan as he released Kalas.

  “Màla, I should be getting back. Tàran finishes his shift tonight, yes?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.” She looked at Kalas, who really did look better, and added, “And please, if your plans allow, we’d like you and your daughter to return for supper this evening. Celebrate some good news.”

  “Of course!”

  Gandhan took his leave. When he was gone, Kalas attempted to stand again, but Màla held him with her gaze.

  “Mother, what if Father needs my help? What if…what if that wolf is still out there?”

  “Kalas, please. Rest. Your father will be home soon. And maybe tonight, no one will ge
t caught in a rainfire storm or mauled by poison-clawed wolves or—”

  She stopped, closed her eyes, and in a gentler tone continued, “Please, Kalas. Your father’s been tending the Pump on and off since even Gandhan was a child. He knows how to take care of himself. It would mean a lot to me to know you’re safe.

  “And,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper, “Tàran told me. About your…nosebleeds.” She looked down.

  Kalas cocked his head (which suddenly felt curiously unbalanced) and the room swam; reflexively, he touched his upper lip.

  “My…what? Nosebleeds?”

  “Never mind, son. He’ll be home before long. So will Gandhan and Zhalera. You could use—no, you need the rest.”

  Kalas wanted to argue, but nausea bubbled up from somewhere in his gut. Instead, he agreed. Màla stood to leave and closed the curtain behind her.

  I’ll just wait a few minutes, then —

  He fell asleep before he could even finish the thought.

  And he dreamed.

  4.

  He saw the Empty Sea, no longer empty, and for an instant he thought he knew its name. It was dark, the moon a glistening, purple boil on the skin of night. Its glow stained the water like blood; its cratered reflection twisted in the subtle motion of the waves. A figure, silhouetted in the moon’s lurid aura, rose from the sea. Kalas thought it was a man at first, until it crouched and opened its sickly yellow eyes. It growled, and in the dream the sound was speech, though he didn’t understand the words. The wolf stood, towered above him on its haunches, and several similar creatures climbed from the blood-like waters. Its pack, Kalas realized. Each seemed to stare through him, their jaundiced gazes focused on something behind him. Nothing moved except the waves.

  As one, the pack howled and sprang forward. Kalas braced himself, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited for the impact that never came. When he opened his eyes, he was alone, standing in a lush, green field dotted with a vast array of wildflowers. A solitary sun beamed bright and clear from above a crystal sky. He lowered his arms and looked around. Nothing looked familiar. Without preface, thick black clouds rolled across the sky like boulders and blotted out the sun. With a violet crack, the wolves appeared in mid-leap, and in spite of himself, Kalas marveled at their grace. Ropes of muscle concealed beneath taut black coats propelled them across the landscape, their paws chewing through the grasses that wilted in their polluted wake.