Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  The others agreed, though Falthwën suggested with a wink that she return to the valley in the spring or early summer for an even more impressive spectacle. Kalas looked around, hoping to glimpse some sign of Shosafin, to feel some prickle along the periphery of his senses, but he wasn’t surprised when he neither saw nor sensed a thing. From the front of the cart, Rül and Pava laughed at some shared story as the road unwound behind them.

  Within a league or so, the angle of the valley’s slope decreased and the switchbacks disappeared as the road flattened out. As they entered the lowlands, they witnessed signs of recent harvests in the fields on either side of the Highway. Soon, they noticed sickle-wielding figures cutting wheat or performing other, similar tasks. Rül waved at each person they drove past: some returned cautious approximations of the gesture, but most simply stared, jaws slack, as though they weren’t quite sure what to make of this curious collection of travelers.

  “What’s with the looks? Rül wondered, somewhat frustrated. “You’d think we salted their fields or something!”

  “We’ve reached the outskirts of Thosha, which isn’t much larger than Lohwàlar. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone. How would you as Lohwàlarrinme react should a stranger show up in town?”

  He smiled, and Kalas blushed. It seemed like so long ago when the then-unknown cleric had first arrived in Lohwàlar.

  “Not only are we strangers,” he continued, “but we’re coming down from the West—a realm of sand and waste by their reckoning. You must understand: from their perspective, nothing comes down from the West—nothing good, at least!

  “Still, the Thosharinme tend to be friendlier than most. So long as we present ourselves with the appropriate decorum, we should be welcome…Master Rül, follow the road for another two leagues or so, if you please.”

  Each field they passed seemed smaller than the last, and before long, what had been a random assortment of farm houses assumed a denser, more ordered configuration. Within a league, they reached a crossroads. One corner displayed an empty steel cage, about the size of a man. Though filthy and speckled with rust, it looked otherwise sound. It hung from a wooden boom and swayed—just a little—with the wind. Rül had stopped the cart at the intersection: before he signaled his horses to continue, a mob of people—commoners like themselves, from their looks— thronged into the streets, cursing at an older man, smirking and bound in irons, and pelting him with what reeked like rotting vegetables. The sheer number of angry shouts made it difficult to discern the substance of their complaint against the figure.

  With wide eyes, one of the mob noticed the cart and stormed toward the company. Kalas bristled, wrapped his fingers around his borrowed sword. Zhalera must have felt him tense: she gripped his arm and held him where they sat.

  “Lushà vam, sàyahal,” said Falthwën with a cheerful voice. Nodding at the spectacle, he continued: “Though not such a good day for him, no? What was his crime?”

  Something in the cleric’s tone, perhaps, gave the woman coming toward them pause. She cocked her head, squinted her eyes as though ransacking her memory for an answer. After a moment, she nodded and, with a jerk in the direction of the commotion, said, “Theft! That’s what it is! Nïmrïk, the old thragad! Up to his old tricks! But none of you is from around here, are you? No, there’s something off about the lot of you, there is! No matter: keep the peace, and you won’t end up gibbeted like ol’ Nïmrïk!”

  “I assure you, shâu, we harbor no mischievous intent toward Thosha’s people! You’re right: we’re not from around here…If I might trouble you further, perhaps you could recommend a lodging place in town?”

  The woman, aged perhaps five or six Sevens, with pale green eyes and light brown hair tied back in braids, regarded them with suspicion for another moment or two. Kalas shifted his position, causing the setting suns’ light to flash from the gilded hilt of Shosafin’s sword.

  Her eyes darted toward the source of the gleam and widened again: her tone turned almost deferential as she said, “Go straight. Past the wall, look for Mbirin’s Place. She’ll take good care of you. Tell her Rashab sent you!”

  “Mbirin?” said Falthwën with mild surprise, as though the name conjured up some long-forgotten memory. Kalas thought he glimpsed a faint smile bend the corners of the cleric’s mouth.

  With a smile and an odd curtsy, she let herself be swallowed by the glut of incensed villagers as they continued to rail against “ol’ Nïmrïk.” Rül gave his reins an urgent flick. Dancer and Runner seemed only too happy to comply.

  “What was that about? I thought you said Thosharinme were friendly!” Kalas asked once they’d gained enough distance from the crossroads.

  “Friendlier—not necessarily friendly,” Falthwën clarified. “It seems we’ve come to this part of the world in uncertain times…”

  Kalas spared a cautious glance at the crested pommel of his borrowed weapon. “Sh—uh, our friend, I mean—said to be wary in Thosha…”

  “Something to keep in mind,” conceded the cleric with a look over his shoulder. “Most definitely something to keep in mind.”

  Chapter XV.

  Within Sight of the Capital

  F

  althwën claimed Thosha was similar to Lohwàlar in size, but from Kalas’ perspective, size was the sole similarity shared between the two towns: Lohwàlar had no wall—none that had survived into the present age, at least—whereas roughly twelve feet of wood and stone encircled Thosha’s oldest structures. A pair of disinterested guards (whose uniforms bore Thosha’s crest—not Ïsriba’s) leaned against the wall on either side of a large, opened gate. As Rül drew up and slowed the cart to a stop, one of the guards gave him a curious glance. He mumbled something to his partner—who laughed and shook his head—then waved them through.

  “Though Thosha is a Poyïsriba protectorate—same as Lohwàlar, really—it considers itself an all but sovereign state, hence the sentries’ livery. In truth, because it’s reasonably close to the capital, because its resources are unremarkable, no greater entity has given it a second thought,” said the cleric when Kalas asked about the emblem on the guards’ uniforms. “Centuries ago—in simpler times—Ïsriba maintained a garrison in Lohwàlar, too, as you know, just as it does in all its properties. Most of them, at least!”

  “That’s where Valderïk and his men stayed,” Kalas confirmed. “I don’t think anyone had really used the place in Sevens before that.”

  The homes and buildings outside of Thosha’s wall had maintained some measure of distance between one another; inside, however, everything seemed too cramped, almost like things had been constructed right on top of one another without much forethought. The streets narrowed, and in some places Rül wondered if he’d be able to squeeze through.

  “When you said it was about the same size as Lohwàlar, I thought you meant horizontally! Not like this!” Zhalera said as she looked around.

  “Your town doesn’t look like this?” said Pava, curious. “In a way, it reminds me of home, with places above and below each other.”

  “And you don’t feel…I don’t know, like everything’s packed too close together?”

  “I guess it’s what I know,” the ilmukrit shrugged. “Never seemed all that ‘packed’ to me.”

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Zhalera allowed after a moment’s consideration. “Like you said, it’s what you know: I’d probably be just as uncomfortable in the Áthradholarme as you were sleeping outside!”

  “So, uh, we’re past the wall…do you think we keep going straight?” said Rül as he steered his team along the road. A few children pointed grubby fingers and shouted for their parents as he passed: “Ildozhatme, Mother! Bar, Father! Ildozhatme!” Much to such parents’ displeasure, Falthwën smiled and waved, which sent most of the children scurrying for their mothers’ skirts.

  “Nice kids,” Pava smirked. Zhalera chuckled.

  “Follow the road, my boy,” the cleric suggested with a sweeping gesture and a
grin. “Thosha’s not so big we’ll remain lost for any length of time!”

  After they passed a few more side streets—all of which looked the same, Kalas thought—Rül reined in the horses. With a sideways nod, he indicated a large sign hung above a well-worn door. Despite their apparent age, both the sign and the door seemed sturdy, a testament to their construction and upkeep. Carved into a bright, pale yellow field, faded dark red letters and flaked gilding spelled out the establishment’s name:

  “‘Mbirindas Diru.’ That has to be it, right?” said Rül.

  “How many places do you think this Mbirin has?” Kalas smirked as he jumped onto the street. Its flagstone pavement felt strange to his legs, like it was too hard, somehow. “I’ll go in and check—”

  “Permit me, young sir,” Falthwën insisted as he alighted from his seat. Though his tone was amiable enough, Kalas had learned to interpret its subtleties with more aplomb. He stopped, looked around and felt the invisible pressure of unnumbered eyes upon him. At that moment, the walls of the surrounding buildings seemed to lean in, to press him down and remind him just how small he truly was. He shivered in the late autumn air, wrapped his arms around himself and felt the press of his sword’s hilt against his ribs.

  It…will be a bane to me…

  “I mean, yeah, all right, that sounds good,” he finished. He made a show of stretching his arms and legs—taking pains to keep the old soldier’s weapon concealed—before climbing back into the cart.

  Perhaps it’ll be a boon to you.

  The ancient cleric held Kalas’ gaze for a weighty moment, then nodded and tried the door. Hung on well-oiled hinges, it opened without effort, spilled candle light onto the road. The laughter and conversation taking place within Mbirindas Diru seemed to die when exposed to the darker edge of twilight.

  “Lushà rist, sàmeyahal!” Falthwën boomed as the heavy wooden door swung shut.

  2.

  “What do you think’s going on?” Pava wondered with a nervous undertone in her voice. It had only been a few minutes since the cleric had entered Mbirin’s Place, but Kalas thought it felt much longer. He climbed into Falthwën’s place in the front and kept a hand on his sword hilt. Just in case.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” the boy insisted. He looked back at Zhalera, who nodded with just a touch too much emphasis.

  “I’ll bet he’s just making arrangements,” Rül smiled, attempted to convince himself as much as the others. “Y’know, asking where to find things in this town? A cartwright, maybe?”

  None of them had ever been away from home before, from Lohwàlar’s well-known confines and its relative safety: before the wolves, Kalas couldn’t remember a time when anything bad had happened. Now that they were leagues and leagues distant from everything familiar, the world at large seemed suspect. With nothing else to do, they waited.

  A minute or so later, Falthwën exited Mbirin’s Place, once again replete with the sounds of revelry inside. With him was a thick, middle-aged woman who had her arm around his waist. Clothed in a taut, dark red gown overlaid with a drink-stained apron, her gold-colored eyes danced in the scattered torchlight as she took in the cleric’s companions. From the way she carried herself, the way her muscles shifted beneath the skin of her glittering dress, Kalas could tell she was no one to mess with. Catching his stare, she smiled, released her grip on Falthwën, and strode toward the cart with purpose. Something in Kalas’ harried expression must have amused her. When she reached the cart, she pressed her considerable bust against its frame, held Kalas’ eyes for a moment. She laughed, spilled kinked, pumpkin-colored curls from the pile pinned atop her head, and introduced herself.

  “Master Kalas, yes? Call me Yëlisha! Welcome to Thosha!”

  “Uh, hi, Shâu Yëlisha,” he stammered. Helpless, he risked a glance at Falthwën—he didn’t dare look to the right or to the left.

  “Um…I…sushoyëthu pirathas al nir…”

  “And I you!” she returned. Despite her build and bearing, her voice had an almost childlike quality about it, and even though she spoke at a conversational volume, it had a presence about it, too.

  “Let’s see: Rül, Pava, and Zhalera, hish? Come, come! I’ll have rooms prepared for you by the time you’ve tended to your horses! Falthwën: the stable’s where it’s always been!”

  Before she turned to re-enter the tavern, she spared another look at Kalas—at all of them—winked, and whispered something to the cleric as she squeezed his shoulder. With a swish of her hourglass hips, she disappeared into the raucous din.

  “I’ll just say it: who was that?!” said Rül, just as bewildered as the rest.

  “I thought we were looking for someone named Mbirin?” Pava added as she looked to the others.

  “Mbirin was Yëlisha’s great-great-grandmother. It’s been Sevens since I’ve heard that name. To my shame, I’d almost forgotten!” Falthwën informed them as he chuckled to himself: some private memory, perhaps, that he opted not to share. “In those days, this place was…less than safe: that’s why I didn’t want a child—forgive the term—to be the first to go inside. Mbirin…acquired the establishment from her father (a foul creature) with a little help. We—I wasn’t able to remain in town long enough to see what she’d been able to make of this place: I wasn’t sure if it still retained its old…opprobrium.”

  “‘With a little help,’ you say?” Zhalera said, intrigued. The others shared her interest.

  “It’s late urínme, and the horses need care…”

  “No! Tell the story!” insisted Kalas. “I mean: please?”

  Falthwën laughed, shook his head, and said, “I’ll say this: Mbirin was a spirited young woman, a hard worker with a big heart. She…made a request—something small, really—and it was within my power to grant it. This place had a different name back then, and under Mbirin’s father’s control, its well-deserved infamy was also well-known…I was a part of putting such things to an end…

  “Yëlisha’s the spitting image of her great-great-grandmother—even more so in her character, her attitude, than in her form. I’d bet it’s been Sevens since Mbirin’s last customers walked the earth, but her portrait still hangs on the wall, and the resemblance is astounding. It’s easy to see why Yëlisha’s customers have taken to calling her by Mbirin’s name.

  “Again: it’s late! Come, children! I can’t speak for all of you, but I’m looking forward to something other than stale bread and strips of cured meat: after we’ve tended to Dancer and Runner, we’ll see if Yëlisha’s kitchen is anything like her great-great-grandmother’s!”

  3.

  Though he hadn’t been sure just what to expect, once inside Mbirin’s Place, Kalas realized everything seemed just the way it should. Intricate woven-metal constructs bearing oil lamps hung above a number of stout wooden tables laden with plates and tankards belonging to a substantial assortment of patrons. The walls, mostly stone, looked like they’d been whitewashed, once, though now they were covered with a warm yellow patina. Numerous beams supported by stone columns spanned the ceiling. On one side of the main room, an immense fireplace filled with crackling logs spat an occasional ember into the air and spilled warmth into the already comfortable environment; on the other, a broad staircase lead to a second level and a balconied hallway lined with doors. A varied array of figures ate and drank, danced and laughed while a string trio played a jaunty tune from a small stage. At the back, on the far side of a maze of chairs surrounding an open space close to the stage, Yëlisha filled someone’s cup from behind her bar. Above and behind her hung Mbirin’s portrait. Yëlisha’s resemblance to her great-great-grandmother was irrefutable; indeed, Kalas found it hard to believe Yëlisha herself hadn’t been the artist’s subject.

  Once finished, she beckoned for them as she stepped through a small gate and approached. On the floor with the rest of them, she looked almost a foot shorter than Rül and a few inches taller than Pava. Maybe Zhalera’s height. She wiped her hands on her apron, barked an or
der to an employee, and led the party to an empty table somewhat cloistered away from the rest of the tavern’s activity. When all were seated, she motioned for a tray loaded with steaming meats and vegetables and set it before them.

  “Eat! Enjoy!” she ordered as she also provided each person a mug filled with some warm, sweet-smelling liquid. “Your rooms are at the top of the stairs, down the hall, and to the left. I’ll show you when you’re finished: just come find me!”

  Before they’d come inside, Zhalera had asked Falthwën what to do with her sword. He’d suggested she keep it close, so she’d slung it across her back. The cleric had said so long as it remained sheathed—and wrapped—no one would think twice about it. Kalas had threaded his belt through Shosafin’s scabbard, the tip of which reached just below his knee. Its hilt and pommel he kept shielded within his tunic. Though the woman at the crossroads—Rashad? Rashab?—had expressed a curious interest in it, he calculated there was no wisdom in advertising his possession of someone else’s Poyïsriba weaponry. The rest of their things they’d left with the cart and to the care of the stable hands who were tending the horses. Rül had watched them for a few minutes until he was satisfied his team was in capable hands.

  When they’d finished eating and drinking as much as their stomachs could handle, the cleric waved for their host, whom they followed up the stairs and toward their rooms.

  “Uh, Falthwën,” Kalas hissed: “how are we going to pay for all of this?”

  Before he could answer, Yëlisha turned, regarded the boy with a stern look.

  “I’ll thank you not to mention such nonsense in my house again, young man! Understood?”

  “What? I just…uh, I mean…yes, al mekâëthu, Shâu Yëlisha!”