Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  She held his panicked gaze for just a moment, then gave him a conspiratorial wink as her lips widened to a grin and replaced her severe expression. Kalas finally realized she’d only been teasing him.

  “I don’t know what…Falthwën’s told you, but this place wouldn’t be what it is today had not he and his—”

  The cleric cleared his throat. Kalas and the others turned their heads to ensure he was all right. He was. He gave them all a smile and nodded at their hostess.

  “My family owes him a great debt.”

  Addressing the cleric, she continued: “My grandmothers would be jealous to learn that you’ve returned to Thosha on my watch!”

  She offered Falthwën another wink, pointed out where they’d be staying, and returned to her duties behind her bar.

  Yëlisha had provided the cleric with three keys, but he suggested they all share the largest room: though their hostess seemed trustworthy, Falthwën was reluctant to place similar faith in any of her guests. With a self-deprecating laugh, he confessed he hadn’t quite abandoned the late-remembered lessons learned through his prior experiences with its history. Inside the best of the three rooms, Falthwën closed his eyes for a moment, hummed something almost inaudible before relaxing.

  “Very good,” he said with a curt nod. Pava gasped when he blew subtle breaths of pale green fire from the tip of his staff into each lantern. She reached for Rül, who stifled a laugh as he reassured her with a squeeze of her shoulder.

  “Oh, right!” he said. “I’m sure I had that same expression the first time I saw him do that, too!”

  “Do all of you have…powers? gifts? abilities as well?” she wondered.

  “Afraid I’m just a farm boy,” he smiled. “No ‘powers’ to speak of.”

  “Same,” added Zhalera. “I mean, I was apprenticing to be a blacksmith, like my father, but—”

  Kalas drew his knife, tested its balance, and tossed it at the floor between Pava’s dusty leather boots where it stuck fast without so much as a wobble.

  “She’s too modest,” he insisted, gestured for the ilmukrit girl to pull the blade from the boards. “Made that for my birthday. Go on, pick it up, tell me—tell her!—what you think!”

  “Kalas!” Zhalera began, but Pava was already holding it in her hands, examining it in the lanterns’ idle light.

  “You made this? It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed as she traced its lines, felt its edge with a fingertip. “Kalas is right: you definitely have a gift!”

  “It’s…it’s just a knife,” Zhalera demurred. Without much enthusiasm, Kalas noted.

  Maybe she’s learning what I’ve known all along, he thought. He hoped.

  Pava handed the knife back to Kalas, who aimed a smile at Zhalera as he sheathed the weapon. The lanterns, though dim, cast light enough to reveal fresh pink circles blooming in her cheeks—and her own attenuated smile.

  Though their room gave off a utilitarian air, its minimalistic furnishings gleamed with fresh polish and the bed linens smelled like the outdoors. Four beds, two to a wall, formed a path toward a large chest of drawers against the back of the room. On the chest stood a ceramic pitcher filled with water, a wash basin, and a collection of towels.

  “Hey, Falthwën, there are only four beds,” said Zhalera as she wiped her face and the back of her neck with one of the towels.

  “Those are for each of you,” he insisted. “Don’t worry about me: I have a few things to discuss with Yëlisha anyway.”

  Before she could protest, he flashed a quick, reassuring grin and stepped into the hallway. Kalas heard him mutter something, somehow sensed the movement of the old cleric’s staff as he scribed his symbols in the air. Faint green radiance pooled at the edges of the door as Falthwën’s steps faded into the evening.

  The room’s stone walls must have seemed more familiar to Pava: she fell asleep within minutes. Rül, too, climbed into a bed—fell on top of one, at least: faint snores accented his breathing, deep and slow.

  “Driving that cart for weeks on end must take a lot out of him,” Kalas remarked as he sat on one of the remaining beds. Zhalera nodded, sat down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. She said nothing. Neither did he, and they sat like that for a while.

  Soon, she fell asleep as well. Taking pains not to wake her, Kalas eased her into the bed’s warmth. As he covered her with the bedclothes, something in her features held his gaze: fatigue, yes; sadness and frustration, too. He whispered a remembered phrase from the Song, leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Straightening, he watched as some of the tension in her eyebrows dissolved, as the downward bend in her lips flattened out before curving into a smile.

  “Theshahal ëth shir nitsara, srufin,” he breathed. “Ëth seyit, al mazhëthu, hish? Sarad al sofer al shir, á sarad al seyit al nirest…”

  4.

  When morning came, Pava, Zhalera, and Kalas left Rül, still sleeping, and headed downstairs. Falthwën was already at the bar, listening to some story of Yëlisha’s. Kalas couldn’t make out the words, but her expression shifted through myriad emotions as she and the cleric shared their tales.

  “Good morning!” she beamed with a wink when she took notice of them. She gave Falthwën a look, touched his forearm before turning toward the newcomers. “Lose someone?”

  “Still asleep,” Pava volunteered.

  “From what Falthwën’s told me, he has every reason to be tired! As do the rest of you! Come now, let’s get some breakfast in your bellies!”

  As she addressed them, her gaze seemed to linger a moment longer on Kalas than the others. He thought about saying something, but she’d disappeared into the kitchen before he could open his mouth. At the same time, someone entered through the heavy door at the front, shuffled toward a table and collapsed into a chair. His head hit the table with an echoing thud; soon, his snores shook the fixtures overhead.

  “Rough night?” whispered Pava. Kalas thought there was something familiar about the man, considered him for a moment longer, then dismissed the idea when Yëlisha returned with trays filled with bowls of spiced oatmeal and plates of sizzling sausages. As she arrayed them around her guests, she looked up at the newcomer—looked again when she realized who he was.

  “Nïmrïk!” she muttered with a bemused grin. “Haven’t seen him in…what? a week or two? Which is odd, because he’s in here all the time! I thought they tossed him in the gibbet yesterday?”

  “That’s why he looked familiar!” Kalas exclaimed. Nïmrïk stirred, smacked his lips, then resumed his snoring.

  “When he’s not here, he’s usually up there,” Yëlisha said. “Always escapes somehow.”

  “A woman—Rashab, I think?—said he was a thief?” Zhalera coaxed.

  “Thief? Hmm…he’s really more of a trickster…” she allowed. “I think most folks just get tired of his never-ending mischief: that’s probably what gets him tossed in the gibbet—and why no one’s too upset when he turns up again a day or two later.”

  Yëlisha thought for a moment, laughed to herself, and added: “In fact, I’m pretty sure his last misadventure involved Rashab’s…property. It’s a shame, really: none of his antics are mean-spirited. Just…misunderstood, maybe…”

  “I guess when Rül wakes up we’ll have to find some place to get the cart fixed?” Zhalera wondered as she sawed through a sausage link.

  “No need!” Yëlisha interrupted with a dismissive wave. “Falthwën told me about…your trip. Seems you, ah, ran into some trouble, hish? As it turns out, I happen to own a few coaches…I’d like to have a discussion with your friend Rül.”

  “With me?” said Rül, still groggy, as he shambled down the stairs and toward the bar. “What’s—oh! Aswanthalu!”

  He banged his leg on Nïmrïk’s table as he passed by, but the codger only raised his head, looked around for a moment, then, with an airy flick of his hand, resumed his nap.

  “There he is!” laughed Yëlisha as she set a plate next to Pava’s.

&n
bsp; She pays attention, Kalas noted.

  “I was telling your friends…your cart: how attached to it are you?”

  “What? Not very. I mean, it’s a cart. Needs a new axle, which I was hoping—”

  “Rül, my dear! You’re not much of a salesman, are you?” she said with a gleam in her eye. “I’ll tell you what I’d started telling them: I have a coach or two. All right, maybe more, but the point is that I’d be willing to trade one of them for your cart—and I think I know just the one! Its suspension might not be the greatest —rides a little too soft sometimes, but its bones are solid.”

  “You’d…trade a coach…for a farm cart?” puzzled Rül, still not quite awake. “Why would you—?”

  “Make the trade!” Kalas hissed.

  “I—yeah? Okay, sure,” said Rül, still unsure of what was happening.

  “Excellent!” Yëlisha exclaimed as she took his hand, gave it two enthusiastic pumps. “Now, have a seat; eat; and afterward, I’ll show you to your acquisition!”

  “This is way nicer than the old cart!” Rül whispered to Falthwën as Yëlisha showed them around the small carriage house attached to her tavern. The coach she’d elected to exchange sat higher than the cart from Lohwàlar, but its pole was positioned in about the same place. A cursory examination of its polished axles revealed sturdy straps of oiled leather suspending the cabin above the frame. The cabin itself boasted dark red upholstery the color of Yëlisha’s dress from the night before and had seating for four. The boot was big enough to hold some (not all) of their gear; the imperial was sturdy enough to hold the rest. The box seat boasted plush cushions fringed with gold: Rül seemed to sink into it, grinned from ear to ear once he’d climbed into position.

  “Shâu, are you sure—?” he began before Yëlisha cut him off.

  “We had a deal, young man! There’s no backing out! We shook on it!” she winked. “I assume it’s safe to say this coach—your coach!—will satisfy your needs?”

  Rül nodded.

  When they returned to Mbirin’s Place, Nïmrïk was gone, though several other customers occupied tables in his stead. One of her employees caught her eye, beckoned for her attention. Before Yëlisha investigated, she invited Falthwën and his company to stay as long as they liked, informed him that their horses had been massaged, brushed, and fed and would be ready to go when they were. She’d also taken the liberty of laundering their clothes and replenishing their foodstuffs.

  “Yëlisha, this is too much,” Falthwën began, but their hostess would hear none of it.

  “Don’t you start in, too! You and—you might have left before my grandmothers undid all the wrong my great-great-grandfather wrought, but they never would have been able to accomplish so much had you not been here at just the right time. No, you and anyone you deem worthy companions are always welcome here Consider it a down-payment on a debt neither I nor my grandmothers could ever hope to repay in full.”

  “Mbirin owes me nothing. I thought I’d made as much clear when I’d left. Perhaps she forgot to tell you?”

  “Oh, she passed down what you said. That doesn’t mean I can’t express our gratitude in some small way!

  “Yëlisha,” Falthwën acquiesced with a sigh, “you sound just like her, you know?”

  “A compliment!” she grinned. Her expression turned dour as she continued: “But I must tell you: things at the capital aren’t…well, you probably know better than I do: rumors of war, of the queen’s lust for power…You’ve come at a curious time, âu cleric!

  “Now, if I’m not available to send you on your way, promise me you’ll stop in again on your way back to…Lohwàlar, was it?”

  Falthwën inclined his head and, with her signature wink, she resumed her responsibilities.

  Shosafin’s tales, his warnings, resonated within Kalas’ thoughts.

  “All right, urínme,” he said when Yëlisha vanished into her kitchen, “You heard the woman! The cart—the coach!—is packed and ready to go! Let’s collect our things from the room and get back on the road: we’re still a few days out from ivambar—and the end of our journey!”

  5.

  Runner and Dancer weren’t quite sure what to make of the new coach, but after a few easy miles, they seemed to enjoy its smoother ride. Yëlisha’s stable hands had worked wonders on the horses’ wearied muscles and tender hooves. While most everyone had been sleeping, she’d also had someone reshoe both horses: judging by the team’s almost playful gait despite their load, it seemed her farrier plied his trade with admirable skill.

  “Almost as good as Gandhan’s work,” said Rül over his shoulder with a plaintive tone. “Almost.”

  A small sliding window, now open, separated the coach’s interior from the box where Rül and Pava sat. Zhalera smiled as her eyes moistened. Kalas took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. Falthwën, who’d joined them in the cabin, said nothing. They’d invited Pava to ride with them as well, suggested the enclosed space might be more like her caves, but for some reason, she’d opted to ride up front with Rül.

  “It’s not like I never went outside!” she insisted. “We only have a few more days before we reach Ïsriba and there’s so much more to see from up here!”

  Kalas and Zhalera shared a smirk when she rationalized her choice, but both had to admit the scenery through these more settled realms was breathtaking. Well-dressed flagstones topped the surface of the roads which cut through rock-walled meadows; traveled over sturdy stone bridges; and curved through towering forests, thinning with the chill of autumn. The Highway inclined as they distanced themselves from Thosha: its increasing elevation provided gorgeous views from their ever-changing perspective.

  Nothing untoward interrupted their travel over the next few days, save for an occasional passing cart or coach, and Kalas found himself surprised at the unadulterated normalcy of it all: being on the road for nearly a month had become familiar to him. An occasional thrash of undergrowth, a distant nocturnal howl: such incidents were the only intimations that anything unusual was taking place around them. Kalas kept an eye, an ear open for some sign of Shosafin, but the old soldier remained elsewhere.

  “What do you think Yëlisha meant?” he asked one night over a crackling fire. “‘Rumors of war?’” He stabbed at the coals with a pine branch: in seconds it snapped and popped as the fire consumed its tip.

  “Yëlisha assumes I’m better informed than I really am,” Falthwën admitted. “If I had to guess—and I am guessing here—I’d assume she meant the kingdom of Ralothova, in the distant east. Or perhaps Tsobarut, toward the south. I suppose it could be any number of realms: those two are the closest. Kësharan would have been a distant third, but, as you know, it hasn’t been a kingdom for almost a thousand years.”

  “Kësharan?” said Pava, her interest piqued. “I’ve heard that name before!”

  “That’s no surprise,” said the cleric: “Thousands of years ago, Kësharan was the capital of a powerful kingdom—Lohwàlar would have been well within its borders. Anyway, if memory serves, I believe Kësharan traded with the ilmukritme for mineral crystals—”

  “Father and I saw pieces of crystal there,” Kalas interjected. “Part of a huge, broken window, I think.”

  Falthwën nodded, “Those pieces could have very well come from Áthradholar. Probably did, in fact. I know the window you’re describing: even the Hàf pïn Vâlafi Zhàme—Night of Falling Skies—hadn’t wrecked it wholly. I suppose almost nine hundred years of wind and rain and ilâegsali exacted a heavy toll…”

  “Why would Ësfàyami want to go to war?” said Kalas as he steered the conversation back to his original question.

  “I’m guessing Yëlisha answered that for us: her lust for power, she said. Without a better understanding of the geopolitical landscape, that’s the best I can come up with at present: my attentions have tended…elsewhere. If we’re observant—if we’re careful, we’ll probably learn more in ivambar—and, of course, Ïsriba.”

  Three days out from
Thosha—Dancer and Runner had made great time—they reached the gate to ivambar. High and imposing, separated from the surrounding terrain by a deep gorge and protected with a sturdy-looking portcullis, even the walls of the city suggested nobility. As Kalas unstrapped his sword from his thigh and secreted it beneath his seat, he suggested Zhalera do likewise with hers. Shosafin’s admonition pealed in his thoughts—

  A bane to me…a boon to you…

  —and he still wasn’t quite ready to test the old soldier’s theory.

  Rül drove them over a wide stone bridge and stopped just shy of the pointed iron teeth dangling in the air above them. A pair of guards approached from opposite directions, and Kalas sensed rather than saw others waiting on the ramparts. One of them knocked on the coach’s door, tried to open it before anyone inside had opportunity to respond. Falthwën raised an eyebrow, undid the latch, and suggested the guard try again.

  “Good day, friend!” said the cleric as the soldier opened the door. He said nothing as he poked his head inside and looked around. When he finished examining the interior, he left the door open. Falthwën kept his smile in place the whole time: Kalas and Zhalera, taking his cue, had adopted similar deferential expressions.

  “Point of origin, destination, and intent?” growled the other guard as he kept an eye on Rül and Pava. Whether appreciating her exotic paleness or her striking form—or both—even from within the cabin Kalas noticed Rül bristle at the guard’s unsubtle leer.

  “Uh, Lohwàlar, sir. We’ve come from Lohwàlar. We’re headed to the capital—to Ïsriba—to talk to the queen.”

  The guard erupted with laughter: cruel, belittling laughter intended to assert his superiority over such lowborn folk.

  “Is that so?” he dripped. “Lohwàlar, you say? Seems I’ve heard of such a place. Recently, too. And you’re on your way to see the Queen, you say?”

  He glanced toward the bow slits in the tower above the gate; at his fellow sentry, who nodded after looking toward the Highway, as though he’d seen or heard something behind them. With a dismissive huff, the soldier waved them through.