Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  Iridescent fire tumbled within the clouds, snaked just beneath their surfaces. Soundless, the burgeoning force tore the sky to ribbons, split itself into tongues of varying hue that slashed the darkness and consumed the wolves, one at a time, flashing from within them and leaving nothing but skeletal shapes of ash that soon scattered in the rising wind. One of the tongues seemed to pause, to hover for a moment before it turned toward Kalas. Above him, in the cloudless wasteland of the sky, something fearsome roared with a voice like thunder, and Kalas felt his heart melt. The fire bore down on him. He raised his hands against a deafening hollow rush as heat and light surrounded him, and he was in his room, his bed sheets soaked with sweat.

  It was late in the day. The suns had almost set, and Màla had placed a lighted candle in the sconce for him. In its quivering light, Kalas saw the motionless outline of a figure robed in peculiar garments and seated at the foot of his bed. His breath caught in his lungs. After a long, tense moment, he exhaled, and his visitor turned: where its face should have been there was only light. The shape swelled and unraveled in a whirlwind of sparks. Indecipherable words poured like storms from its nonexistent mouth and pressed against Kalas with the force of a hailstorm. One phrase took shape—fan kali nir! The music from days past intruded upon his thoughts, then shifted key, now dark and foreboding. Behind a nonexistent plane of sound, the wash of light dimmed, decayed, peeled away like old paint. Something waited within that exposed darkness. Kalas felt something immense and wrong reach for him. He screamed and raised his arms and he was in his room, his bed sheets soaked with sweat.

  5.

  “Kalas?” said Màla, softly. “Kalas? Are you awake?”

  “Mother?” he said as she shook his head in an attempt to clear away the mental ambiguity that plagued his thoughts. “Mother, were you…was someone in here?”

  “I heard you cry out. I brought another of the cleric’s vials.”

  “No, Mother, I’m fine. Just a bad dream. That last vial still seems to be working, because I really do feel fine.”

  “Why don’t you get some more rest then while I prepare our meal.”

  “Can I help with anything?”

  “No.”

  “What about the water? Have you been to the well this afternoon?”

  “Kalas, rest. It won’t take me that long to draw the water.”

  “Mother, will you please let me do this one thing? The well is in town, with plenty of people nearby, and I’m two Sevens now!”

  Màla wanted to protest, but instead, sighed.

  “All right then, child, if you’re so insistent, fetch the water. Go straight there and come straight back. You might be two Sevens, but you’re still my only son. And don’t forget to put out that light!”

  “I won’t! And I will! I promise!” said Kalas with a quick puff at the sconce.

  Though he was in much better condition than when he’d first arrived home, the fact that the pain in his chest had all but disappeared seemed to amplify the aching soreness in the rest of his body. After a few rough minutes, however, the stiffness in his muscles disappeared. Soon, he reached the well, where Rül, one of his friends, was also drawing water.

  “Hi, Rül,” said Kalas as he lowered his empty buckets. “Something wrong with the water at the farm?”

  Rül, a few years older than Kalas and built like an ox, looked up and smiled, amazed.

  “Kalas! Ëhath hashrafi—paro lushà nir! I heard—everyone heard—about what happened! Out on the farm, sometimes we’ll hear rudzhínme—little wolves—in the fields at night, but they’ve always kept their distance. We’ve never seen one as big as the one Zhalera told us about! What was it like?”

  An image raced across Kalas’ thoughts, collided with the remembered impact of a small knife digging into bone, and in his mind’s eye, the wolf was on him until a blast of white light consumed the entirety of his existence—and the image was gone.

  “It was…terrible.”

  “Oh, right,” said Rül, wincing at Kalas’ pained expression. “Uh, they say Dzharëth’s still missing. So is his mother. You were one of the last people—maybe the last—to see him. What do you think happened to him?”

  “He’s missing? But I…no, that was five days ago, wasn’t it?” said Kalas, somewhat shocked. “Hwena, too?”

  “I’ll tell you what, Kalas: not too long ago, maybe a few weeks back, Dzharëth and his father were out at the farm, and Dzharëth was acting…well, weird, I guess. I mean, sure, he’s always been a little bleak about things, pretty dark sometimes, but this time he was more intense, more…I don’t know, just off. And jumpy. Almost like he was scared of something. Everything.”

  “He was acting that way when we…when Father and I found Ëlbodh, too. I thought he was just in shock. But you said this was a few weeks ago?”

  “Yeah, they’d come all the way out to buy a few goats. I didn’t know why they didn’t just wait a day or two until market like everyone else. I didn’t know what they needed three goats for, either, but Father was just happy for the sales, you know?”

  “Three goats! That must’ve been expensive. Wait—you said Hwena’s missing, too?”

  “Yeah, everyone says she disappeared the night after Ëlbodh died. No trace. And now Father’s acting all weird about it—he’s even more paranoid than usual! That’s why I came into town for water: I just needed a break from his ranting…”

  “What’s going on in this town?” mused Kalas, mostly to himself. “These things just don’t happen in Lohwàlar!”

  “No idea, sàyahal. No idea. But hey, strange as Father’s acting, I do need to get home, and I have a longer walk than you! Good to see you up and about!”

  First, Ëlbodh; then, the wolf. The strange new cleric. The attack. Dzharëth. Hwena, thought Kalas as he looped his buckets over the staff across his shoulders and started home. Strange things are—

  He’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t seen Tzharak until after he’d bumped into him, sloshing some of his water onto the old man’s cloak.

  “Oh! Aswanthalu! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there!”

  Tzharak was Lohwàlar’s oldest inhabitant, or so the rest of its populace claimed. Most people said he wasn’t quite right in the head, that his uncounted years had taken an unkind toll. Here, however, staring into his knowing, ochre eyes, Kalas saw a keenness and clarity of purpose rarely matched.

  The old man returned Kalas’ gaze and…smiled.

  “Master Kalas! You’re looking quite well, given all that’s happened in the last few days!”

  Fine wisps of his suns-bleached hair stirred in the rising evening wind. The suns would set soon, and the changing temperatures usually brought subtle breezes. Tzharak removed his damp outer garment in order to wring it dry. His bare arms, though indisputably those of an older man, seemed impossibly taut with muscles that shifted smoothly over one another as he squeezed his cloak. Atop his right hand, almost lost between the folds in its wrinkled skin, Kalas saw what appeared to be a series of irregularly sized circles. At first, he thought they were merely age spots, but the closer he looked, the more they resembled tattoos.

  “Those marks on your hand,” said Kalas.

  “Ah, you can see those, can you?” said Tzharak as he stopped. There was a touch of surprise in his voice. Or maybe it wasn’t surprise, but something else. “Most people…don’t seem to notice them.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Nothing to be sorry for, my boy!” he chuckled as he looked toward the remaining sun as it sought its companion, Miryan—Ilmazhasahwu, the Beloved Sun—beneath the horizon.

  Kalas looked, too, and as it disappeared, Tzharak hummed a tune that Kalas had heard before, a tune that reminded him of Falthwën’s song. A tune he realized Tzharak wasn’t actually humming: as he listened, he realized the music originated from within his own mind. He reached up, touched the skin beneath his nose and found himself surprised that there was no blood. Nor headache.


  “Were you—?”

  He looked to Tzharak, whom he now realized had been watching him as though anticipating his reaction. The spots on his hand, greenish-black moments ago, now seemed to shimmer as the last rays of Nalënahwu faded from view.

  Tzharak smiled as he raised his right hand, examined the markings across its back as if seeing something new in them, then turned it over and absentmindedly massaged the old tattoo.

  “A word of advice, Master Kalas,” said Tzharak as the mirth in his smile shifted toward severity. “Be wary. The world is…gilded. Particularly here in Lohwàlar, it would seem.

  “Seem! That’s it, exactly! Things here—things the world over, under, and above—aren’t always as they seem. Do well, and remember that.”

  The winds, gentle before, had gained intensity, scooped up fragments of dust and gravel and whipped them through the air.

  “‘Gilded?’ I don’t understand!” said Kalas as he tried to shield his face from the bolstering gusts.

  “When this gilt, these coverings, are stripped away, will what’s revealed be for our good? or for our doom?” the old man wondered aloud.

  With one final push, the winds, spent, descended toward their former, gentler selves.

  Tzharak had disappeared.

  5.

  “Kalas! Your father’s home!” Tàran stood beside Kalas’ mother, his face lined with worry. And pride.

  “How are you feeling, boy?” he asked as he helped Kalas with the water buckets. “I see not even wolves can keep you down for long!”

  “I’m fine, Father. It still hurts, but not like it did before.”

  “Good! That’s good!” he smiled. “I knew you’d be all right: you’re a tough one, I’ll give you that!”

  “So what was wrong with the Pump?” Kalas asked. He sat, tried to hide his fatigue and winced as the wounds along his chest reminded him of their presence.

  “Broken gear,” Tàran said. “Me and Azhëk—that’s right, Halbën’s uncle—spent almost a whole day trying to find out exactly what was going on. Finally found this gear in a filtering sub-assembly: off-axis, missing a few teeth, and banging around. We disengaged the assembly and brought the gear to Gandhan. Something about it seemed familiar, so I looked through your grandfather’s old books and found what looked like instructions. A manual. Brought that to Gandhan, too. He built us a new gear—I looked in on you while he worked, but I didn’t want to wake you. The next day—yesterday—we hooked everything back up. Pump sounded almost perfect. That whole assembly probably hadn’t been touched in a heavy handful of Sevens.

  “Azhëk found some kind of door when we had the gear off. Said it looked like it’d been built into the earth. Of course he wanted to see what was behind it—just like you would, I reckon. I told him to leave it alone, said we were in the middle of fixing the Pump: the manual didn’t mention any door, and I didn’t want him breaking something else! He didn’t listen. Banged on the door a few times, said it was hot to the touch, but gave up when he couldn’t get it open.

  “Anyway, took us nearly a week just to get the Pump working again. I’m glad to be home tonight, boy. Glad to see you’re all right.”

  Kalas listened, rapt, while Tàran told his story. His father seemed to read his thoughts and added, “Door wouldn’t open, remember? Locked or rusted shut.” Kalas opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and nodded, resigned.

  “That all sounds terribly interesting,” smirked Màla, “but I think I’ll wait for our guests in the great room.” Tàran laughed and followed her, motioning for Kalas to do the same.

  Gandhan and Zhalera arrived not much later. With one coarse, meaty hand, the huge smith thrust a gleaming new shovel, freshly oiled, toward Kalas; with the other, he slapped the boy across his shoulder and apologized again as Kalas recoiled. Zhalera just hugged him (gently, this time), her warmth and fragrance lingering in his thoughts.

  “I didn’t mean to squeeze so tightly before! It’s just…I mean…It’s so good to see you up and around,” she explained, and Kalas realized she was still holding his hands.

  “And none too soon,” rumbled Gandhan, “after what happened to Ëlbodh and all! To think that a wild animal could just sneak right into the Sanctuary, slice a man to bits, and get out before anyone could do anything? And now his boy is missing, and it’s—”

  “What do you mean?” Kalas asked, puzzled. Gandhan blanched as he glanced at Màla, who stood looking at the ground. “I thought it was the rainfire that, well, you know…”

  “It was more than that, boy, but never mind right now,” said Tàran. To Màla, he suggested, “Follirínahal, why don’t we stay out of your way and let you finish up in the kitchen?” She agreed and parted company.

  “I thought he knew,” Gandhan mumbled, his voice small.

  “It’s a small town. No secret lasts forever.”

  “What happened to Dzharëth?” Kalas wondered aloud.

  “Seems you’re the last person who saw him,” Tàran sighed. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of him since Ëlbodh was attacked.”

  “The wolf?” said Kalas.

  “The wolf,” nodded Tàran. “Given recent events, that seems most likely. I’m sorry, boy.”

  “And what about Hwena?” Kalas added. “I talked to Rül at the well, and he said she’s missing, too?”

  Silence.

  After a moment, Tàran said, “She’s…not missing anymore.”

  Kalas understood his tone. After another moment, he whispered, “What happened?”

  Tàran hesitated, gathered his thoughts and, at last, said, “The night after that rudzhún attacked you and Zhalera, someone heard Ëlbodh scream. When she got there, he’d been torn apart and the room stank of rotting meat. Apparently another cleric said a huge beast was running through the halls, like it was searching for something—or someone. Some of the braver people there—or the dumber—armed themselves with whatever they could find—staves, surgical instruments, anything—and worked their way through the Sanctuary. There was a small shock wave, and soon after, the creature ran past them before they could react and got away.

  “A few of them headed for Ëlbodh’s house to give Hwena the news, but when they got there, the door had been ripped from its hinges, the inside was a mess, and that familiar stink was still in the air. There was no trace of Hwena or her boy.

  “The townsfolk set up a perimeter, had groups here and there keeping an eye on things, but as far as anyone knows, they haven’t been seen since then. Until tonight when they found Hwena’s body somewhere near the Southwest Cracks.”

  Though horrified, Kalas couldn’t help wondering: “In the canyon, near the Pump, when we found Ëlbodh, Dzharëth didn’t seem like himself. I thought he was just scared, but when I talked to Rül earlier, he said a few weeks ago, he’d been acting strange then, too. Said Ëlbodh bought three goats. Couldn’t wait until market.

  “What if Ëlbodh knew something was after him, after his family? Something like a rudzhún? That might explain Dzharëth’s behavior. Might explain why Ëlbodh bought three goats, too…”

  Tàran risked a glance over his shoulder and into the kitchen where Màla, Kalas noted, pretended not to be listening.

  “I reckon that makes sense,” said Tàran as he shifted his gaze toward the floor.

  “But why not tell someone?” posed Gandhan. “Why go it alone? Surely he knows that any number of townsfolk would have been more than happy to help!”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to be a burden,” offered Tàran, and Kalas sensed he didn’t really believe his own suggestion.

  “I don’t recall Ëlbodh ever being too shy to ask for help,” scoffed Gandhan.

  “Well, looks like now we’ll never know,” Tàran dismissed.

  “Did they find Dzharëth?” asked Kalas.

  Tàran shook his head.

  “The Southwest Cracks, you said?”

  Tàran nodded.

  “Something on your mind, boy?”

  “I�
��no, I was just curious,” he finished, recalling Tzharak’s odd words.

  The four figures in the great room remained silent a while longer, lost in thought, until Kalas’ father said, “Gandhan, I have an idea I’d like to talk to you about. Oh—boy, Zhalera: I reckon you’ll be so kind as to stay indoors tonight?” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, Father,” Kalas answered. He shivered as the small flames heating the room flickered.

  Tàran and Gandhan disappeared into a small study filled with musty codices and scrolls—artifacts bequeathed to him by Tàran’s father, Wodram—and Kalas and Zhalera were alone.

  “Dzharëth. Gone,” murmured Kalas. “He was acting strange, but after what had just happened to his father, I thought it was just shock. I should have gone after him, but I…”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Kalas,” soothed Zhalera as she took his arm and led him to a well-worn couch where they both sat. “If you hadn’t come straight to town, Ëlbodh might have never made it back to the Sanctuary.”

  “A lot of good it did him.”

  “At least Hwena had a chance to say good-bye. A chance you gave her.”

  “And now she’s gone, too,” he said.

  “You were unconscious, doing your very best not to die, Kalas! It’s tragic, but it’s not your fault!” she chided.

  He fell silent, stared into the great room’s hearth, but Zhalera felt the tension in the arm she still held melt away.