Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  “Look here, Master Kalas! Kalas?—Oh! Sorry about that! But here, where the object was still buried: more symbols—and this!”

  Kalas coughed, spat out a mouthful of grit, and scrambled up the fresh talus toward the old man. He followed the end of his staff as he swished from mark to mark, hovering over an unremarkable divot in the thing’s side.

  “What? It’s just a hole in—Oh!”

  “What are you two looking at?” Zhalera asked, now standing between them. “A…hole?!”

  “It’s more than a hole—has to be! See, look right here,” instructed Kalas as he pointed first toward the small depression, then traced a vaguely circular shape tangential to it.

  Zhalera stared, let her eyes dart from Kalas to the half-moon scoop a few times, but in the end, shook her head and admitted, “I don’t see—wait! Yes, right there!”

  When her eyes shifted focus, Kalas knew she saw it, too—the almost imperceptible thread of black that spread out from either end of the “cup,” suggesting an ellipsoid path. He followed her eyes as she looked up, to the left; then back to the cup and down and to the left again.

  “It’s incomplete,” Tzharak nodded. “Or, more likely, it’s still inside the cliff.”

  “This can’t be natural,” insisted Kalas as he let his finger touch the artifact and traced away the thin film of dust that had already settled. At that moment, the thin line shimmered, glowed a dull blue as some of the newly revealed markings caught light, blinking in various hues. An inaudible low frequency wave they could feel in their teeth made the ground hum, the loose rocks slide, and as the three of them each fought for balance, Kalas clutched at the cup until he could regain his feet: only then did he feel the higher frequency buzz thrumming in his bones. A mark just above the cup flashed a bright green and sent out pulses just beneath the object’s skin that traced myriad, razor-fine paths, many of which converged at or near enough the edge of the hole.

  “Again?” muttered Zhalera, and Kalas understood her despite her chattering jaw.

  “This is great!” exclaimed Tzharak as he followed as many filaments as he could, stepping back to acquire a greater field of view.

  “You think so?!” shouted Zhalera as she backed up, too.

  The green mark pulsed again, yellow this time, and a low, rhythmic beep-beep-beep grabbed Kalas’ attention. Some of the other marks—ones they’d unearthed days ago—took up the pattern, or perhaps some slight variation.

  He reached out toward the symbols.

  Touched one. Then another. And another. Let the palm of his hand linger on the last glyph for a moment.

  The mark blinked one last time—a vibrant blue—then went dark, although the artifact’s filaments continued to glow a moment longer. The beeping noise ceased. So did the hum.

  The outline Tzharak had discovered faded to its original black.

  No one spoke. No one moved.

  “Is that—” the old man began: he was interrupted by a hiss as reeking sheets of compressed air jetted from the contours of the outline. Half an oval sank into the side of the artifact about a foot. Thick red light bloomed out of the darkness, revealing an immense network of interconnected rods and fibers within. The still-buried half tried to do the same, but quit with an ear-splitting grinding noise and a shower of multicolored sparks. When the first half ceased its backward motion, some internal mechanism pulled it sideways—in the early morning half-light, the red aura looked like fire inside the canyon wall. The semielliptical shape reached the end of its travel, but something within it continued to pull: with a loud pop, it quit, surrendered in a cloud of thick, blue-white smoke that poured from invisible fissures across its shell. The deep red light blinked out, too; then, the entire exterior seemed to shimmer, fluctuate between its usual rock-like appearance and something wholly alien to the three of them. A moment later, aside from the gaping hole where impenetrable “rock” once stood, everything looked the same.

  “It’s a door!” coughed Zhalera. “But how did it do that? Was that magic?”

  “It…changed,” noted Tzharak with peculiar coolness.

  Kalas had staggered back and stumbled as its contours had transformed; now, righted, he climbed toward the edge of the opening and peered inside.

  Chapter IX.

  Inside a Darkened Home

  J

  ust what do you think you’re doing?!” Zhalera demanded as Kalas thrust a leg over the threshold. “There’s no way you’re going in there! No way!”

  Kalas grinned, sheepish. He grabbed onto the door’s sill and pulled himself over its threshold.

  “It’s all right!” he insisted before she could object. “The floor’s all tilted, so be careful, but there’s another door a few feet in. Here, come take a look!”

  She reached up, took his hand, and joined him while Tzharak continued to survey the exterior: with a tentative touch he played his fingers along the now-exposed curve; when nothing happened, he explored each symbol, one by one. It seemed whatever energy had possessed them moments ago had dissipated.

  “This looks nothing like the outside,” said Zhalera. “This isn’t metal—not all of it, at least. This part right here: touch it. Feels squishy, like raw meat. I don’t know, maybe it’s some new kind of metal—but it can’t be, because it’s been here for ages, right? I’ll bet Father would have known.”

  She coughed, stirred the air, and something vile caught in Kalas’ nostrils.

  “Hey, I think we should keep our faces covered while we’re up here,” he said as he pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose. Zhalera did the same. Tzharak, who’d plucked a brand from the fire and a torch from his pack, clambered into the small room. Opposite his light’s strange shadows they saw what Zhalera had described as “squishy:” thick ropes of some glistening, iridescent construct connected here and there to various apparatuses, including some embedded in the “door.” Those particular cables had ruptured when the door opened—too much pressure, perhaps?—and viscous, dark-green goo oozed from their ruined membranes. Tzharak dipped the end of his torch in a small puddle of the stuff and, with his free hand, wafted its scent.

  “Oh! That is unpleasant!” he exclaimed, his eyes tearing up.

  “Is that what the smell is from?” asked Kalas after a brief series of coughs.

  “Only partially, I think: there’s something…older underneath it. I don’t like it—and not simply because it stinks.”

  I don’t trust it, Tàran had said: The world is gilded, Tzharak himself had said.

  “Maybe we should leave?” suggested Zhalera.

  “There’s still another door back here!” Kalas reminded her. “We’ve come this far: let’s see if we can get it open.”

  In Tzharak’s dim torchlight, the trio examined the second door, its frame, the surrounding surfaces for some means to open it. After a few fruitless minutes, the old man passed the torch to Kalas and hopped down onto the fallen rocks outside.

  “I think Zhalera has the right idea,” he said. “Here, dear one: I’ll help you down.”

  He offered his gnarled hands to her and guided her to the ground. Kalas gave everything another quick appraisal: seeing nothing new, he sighed and turned toward the exit and slipped on a thin film of slime. Because of the floor’s angle, he fell backward, dropped the torch and, arms flailing, tumbled onto the interior door.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered in response to Zhalera’s giggled question as to his well-being.

  He grabbed onto one of the shredded, dangling “muscles” and hauled himself to his feet. Tried to, at least: with a wet snap, the thing tore away from its anchor, gushed more of that nasty-smelling green stuff. Kalas was facing the exit again, but the small chamber suddenly filled with cool, bright light. It took him a moment to realize its source was behind him. He whirled. Part of the inner door had become transparent. He took a step toward it, and as he looked through the new window to whatever lay beyond, the light vanished in a fresh shower of sparks: in the fetid dark, he screamed.r />
  2.

  “Kalas!” shouted Zhalera, sincere this time, as the young man, still slippery, bolted from the artifact’s interior. “Kalas! That light? What happened? What’s wrong?!”

  He panted, his eyes wide. He held up a hand, signaled for a moment to collect himself.

  “Dead!” he said, his voice distant. “Dead!”

  “Dead?” probed Tzharak.

  “On the other side of that second door! I slipped, must have activated something. I turned around when I saw the light coming from behind me. I could see through the door—not a lot, but enough—and just before the light went out, I saw bodies!”

  He paused, willed himself to revisit the moment, then shuddered and continued: “Almost skeletons with skin—”

  “Mummies?” offered Tzharak.

  “No, not mummies: just skin-wearing skeletons…well, maybe: they had some kind of weird clothes. Wrappings? Like nothing I’ve ever seen! I don’t know how to describe it, but their faces! The one I remember, at least: it looked like it was terrified of something!”

  He coughed, felt something in his throat and spat blood into his hand. Zhalera raised an eyebrow.

  “I—must have hid my head harder than I thought,” he said.

  “No, my boy, I think it’s this atmosphere: just being near this place made Tàran ill, you said? Hmm. Must have been more sensitive to its humors than the rest of us. Come now, let’s pack up and head back to town: perhaps Falthwën is back, and we can ask him about—”

  “No need,” said a familiar voice.

  “Falthwën?!” all three exclaimed as one.

  “But how—where did you, I mean—?!” stammered Kalas.

  “A friend,” intoned the mysterious arrival. He made a quick survey of each of them, his gaze more than a mere visual assessment, as though somehow he saw inside of them as well.

  “Come on out, Ilbardhën,” Falthwën said.

  “I should have known,” muttered Tzharak as the deft soldier seemed to materialize from the thin woods surrounding them.

  “I must be getting rusty,” he half-smiled as he padded into the site. Acknowledging Tzharak’s unspoken accusation, he continued: “I returned to Lohwàlar with Vàyana, as you requested. She insisted on returning to work at the Sanctuary—the state of the town and all. That’s where we ran into Falthwën.”

  “Shâu Vàyana told me what you’d uncovered,” Falthwën took over, “so I set out at once. Your friend Shosafin followed me!”

  He gave the Ïsribarin a kind smile; shifting his attention to the object behind Kalas, Zhalera, and Tzharak, however, his features turned severe.

  “This is your…artifact?” he asked Kalas without looking away from it. There was…ice? steel? something cold in his tone. The way he articulated the word artifact belied his distaste for the thing protruding from the canyon wall.

  “You’ve…opened it, I see,” he added. He held his staff in front of him, tapped his fingers against one another, against his unattractive ring, and closed his eyes for a moment. Though the suns were well above the horizon, not yet touching, Kalas sensed the Song welling up—just above the threshold of perception.

  Any other time, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed, he allowed Its melody no longer sounded hopeful: it sounded angry, and as that perception registered, the young boy flinched.

  If Tzharak felt it, too, he gave no indication. Kalas looked skyward, double-checking the suns’ positions, then back at Falthwën, who’d since opened his eyes and softened his expression.

  “No, not quite,” the cleric said, almost inaudible. “Almost, but not quite,” he repeated, louder.

  No one else moved or spoke. Something in Falthwën’s manner seemed to immobilize them in thought, word, and deed. When he relaxed, so did the “spell,” and Kalas spoke first.

  “I’m sorry, Falthwën, I—after Dzharëth attacked, I forgot about this. When I remembered, you were gone, and so I told Vàyana. And Tzharak. Then you came back, but that was after…And—”

  “My child, you misunderstand!” the old cleric said with a wave of his hand. “You sense anger, I know, but it’s not mine—not wholly. And none of it is directed toward you.

  “But I have a favor to ask of you—another—perhaps not so easily granted as the last. Will you forget about this place? this… artifact? Will you all?”

  “Yes,” insisted Kalas without hesitation.

  “Thank you,” he nodded. “Now, let’s get away from this place, back to Lohwàlar. Some of us still have preparations to make: we should be ready to depart for Ïsriba two days hence.”

  Falthwën and Shosafin helped the others break down the tents and pack up. The cleric lingered when they started for the trail.

  “Falthwën, are you coming?” Kalas asked. He turned, and from over his shoulder, he watched the ancient cleric bow his head and trace a line—a circle?—in the earth; retrieve a dull, unremarkable stone from its center; and heft it a time or two. Falthwën nodded and hurled the missile some distance above the fresh wound in the cliff. Maybe it caught the suns-light just right, but Kalas thought it sparkled as it sailed through the air. The others turned toward the noise, looked up as it struck the larger rock face somewhere overhead, bounced from place to place until it disappeared beneath the rubble.

  “Shall we?” Falthwën gestured toward the path. Before Kalas turned away, the old man offered him a secret smile.

  Watch, he whispered—no, thought—as he passed by the observant youth.

  “Coming, Master Kalas?” he said aloud.

  “What? I—yes, sir!”

  A couple of minutes later, a sound like thunder pounded the air and rocked the ground beneath their feet. Heat and pressure pushed them to the point of stumbling. Kalas reached out for something—anything—to keep from falling and grabbed at Falthwën’s outstretched staff.

  “What was that?!” shouted Zhalera as she stood, helped Tzharak to his feet.

  After coughing away the sudden cloud of dust, Kalas turned toward the source of the explosion: it had come from behind them, from the artifact site. He retraced his steps: the others followed.

  “It’s gone!” he said, kicking at the remains of Gandhan’s fire pit, wrecked by the blast.

  The spot where the object rested was now buried beneath an immense wall of rock—hundreds of feet tall and half as many thick—that had separated from the larger cliff. Smaller boulders and debris had filled in any gaps: none would ever suspect anything untoward had ever existed here beside the River.

  “What are the odds?” said Shosafin, his tone flat, his eyes on Falthwën.

  “Astronomical, I’d say,” the cleric grinned. “I suppose it’s a good thing it didn’t happen a moment sooner! Now then, let’s make haste: we still have much to do, all of us.”

  3.

  Nothing much happened as the party continued its trek back to Lohwàlar. When they passed by the place where the deer had died, Tzharak whispered something to Falthwën, who nodded, his expression grim. Kalas saw the exchange, but couldn’t make out the words. Each sun had passed its zenith and begun its descent by the time everyone reached the foot of the trail that led up from the canyon. Shosafin was somewhere ahead of them—or behind, or perhaps on either side: he reminded Kalas of one of Rül’s farm dogs that considered an established path a mere suggestion. Zhalera had again stacked her hair in twin buns in preparation for the climb, and one after another, they began their ascent, the relative silence punctuated with occasional stabs of conversation.

  Kalas slowed his pace, allowed others to get ahead of him and Falthwën. When it was just the two of them bringing up the rear, in conspiratorial tones, the young man asked: “That shape you drew in the dirt: that circle…That rock you threw at the cliff: it flashed like the lightning from the other night right before it hit the rocks, and a couple minutes later…Magic?”

  “Some people call it that,” Falthwën said with a bemused expression, “but I’d say it’s more like…exercising a privilege,
if you will.”

  “A privilege?” said Kalas as snatches of civics lessons flashed across his thoughts, “So someone—or something?—gave you the…ability to do magic?”

  “In a sense,” he said, the crows’ feet at his eyes crinkling.

  “Who? Can they—it?—give…others the ability?”

  “Master Kalas, let’s suppose for the moment that you discovered you could, in fact, ‘do magic.’ What’s the first thing you’d do?”

  “Mother and Father,” he said without having to think about it. “I’d bring them back to life—Gandhan, too. And Fërin, Zhalera’s mother—”

  “I thought as much,” Falthwën sighed. Kalas, caught off guard by his tone, looked up at the cleric’s fading smile, his saddened eyes.

  “Fortunately for the created order—though, I’ll admit, most unfortunately, from your perspective—the ‘privilege’ does not—cannot—work that way.”

  “So you can’t just do whatever you want?”

  “I’m afforded a certain latitude, but no, I can’t exercise my privilege solely as I see fit: there are expectations, limitations, restrictions…and I’m thankful for them.”

  “You’re thankful for them?!”

  “Consider this hypothetical situation: Tragedy befalls a little child, bereaving him of his mother, his father, and everything he knows and loves. Time passes, and many Sevens later, another child’s father dies before his very eyes: this second child is furious and, without thinking, chooses then and there to avenge his father’s death, not considering that such a choice will result in his death as well—not considering the effect his death might have on the world. However, the first child, now a man, just happens to be right there, and he prevents the second from acting out his laudable—yet foolish—decision. This second child, though his world is shattered, forever changed, lives.”