Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  “As you suspected,” he continued with a nod toward Kalas. “It’s a shame we weren’t able to ask him any questions, but given our straits, I suppose there’s not much we could’ve done differently. A few things we’ve learned, however: the queen does, in fact, want Ilbardhën dead; those she’s enlisted have studied Ilbardhën, it would seem; and, she’s unaware of his current status. Perhaps such information will prove to be to our advantage.”

  “Another thing,” added Kalas: “we know her spies—this one, anyway—can recognize Shosafin’s sword. His scabbard, at least. Shosafin told me it might be helpful, and he was most definitely right about that, but it marks us, too. Maybe he didn’t realize how recognizable it is?”

  “Or maybe he knew exactly who would recognize it,” countered Zhalera after a moment’s consideration. “Maybe that was his goal in giving it to you—one of them, at least: get the queen’s spies to follow you, leaving him a little extra breathing room.”

  “‘Pragmatism,’ indeed,” said Kalas, mostly to himself. “Well, it seems his strategy is working—at least, I hope it is: maybe one of us will figure something out!”

  “At least one of us will, I believe. That said, we should be leaving now,” said Falthwën as he bundled what few items had been carried up to the room. “Kalas, tie our guest to one of the beds—nice and tight!—and let’s go. Rül and Pava will be waiting for us. I’d hoped to avoid traveling at night, but we’ve little choice.”

  When they reached the coach, it appeared as though no one had touched it. Yet. Neither Rül nor Pava were anywhere in sight, and Kalas feared the worst until he heard the farm boy’s coarse whisper.

  “Hey guys! Over here!” he hissed as he and Pava emerged from the shadows. “I don’t think anyone followed us or saw us leave, but I don’t know for sure. I could be wrong.”

  Pava nodded, maintained a firm grip on her weapon’s shaft.

  “Very good,” said Falthwën as he made a quick survey of their surroundings. “It seems we’re all right for now, but it won’t be long before our visitor is discovered or escapes. When that happens, he’ll undoubtedly come straight for the coach house. Probably with friends.”

  “Runner and Dancer are still in the stables. Didn’t look like anyone had messed with them. I’ll get them harnessed,” said Rül as he dashed toward the horses. Pava followed, looked from side to side just in case—

  “Rül!” she shouted as she hurled her tëvët toward a man who’d separated from the shadows. He’d raised a club and had been about to strike when the ilmukritdas weapon struck his side just beneath the armpit. The assailant cried out—a weak, thready sound—as his last breath escaped his punctured lungs. Pava rushed forward and pulled her pike from the body, spun around and prepared for more attackers.

  “Hurry!” demanded Kalas as he drew Shosafin’s sword.

  “I am! I am!” the farm boy insisted as he and Pava raced from the building.

  Moments later, they returned with the horses, both of whom seemed to have picked up on their driver’s sense of urgency. Rül tacked them up in short order while the others climbed into the coach. Falthwën leapt into the footman’s rumble as the party tore through the carriage house, knocked a couple of men to the ground as they burst through its doors and into the torchlit gloaming. Somewhere in the distance, someone shrilled a few blasts from a horn—an alarm, probably. Despite the racket and skull-jarring vibrations from rushing over the cobblestone avenue, Kalas thought he could hear the hoofbeats of fast-approaching horses as ivambar’s shops and side streets whipped past in a blur of gray.

  3.

  “What do they want?!” asked Kalas of no one in particular as he and Zhalera bounced around inside the coach. “Why is Shosafin so important to them?”

  Rül raced across the city as Falthwën shouted directions: “Left! Right! Right! Left!” It seemed as though every sudden change in direction threatened to tear the coach apart. The last bump launched Kalas from his seat and dropped him on the floor. He risked opening the door for a peek outside—ducked just in time to avoid clipping his head on a low-hanging shingle, then looked again.

  Aside from an occasional pedestrian, the streets ahead of them seemed clear: behind them, however, two—no, three—riders bore down on them. Two looked like common townsfolk, clothed in nondescript garments and driving unremarkable horses. The third, however, bringing up the rear astride a sturdier mount and closing fast, wore Poyïsriba livery. Though hard to discern through the shadows, every street light illuminated his intense features. He appeared to be shouting something at them: something unpleasant, judging from his expression.

  “Another mile!” the cleric shouted as he relayed additional instruction to Rül. He’d turned his head toward the front of the coach, noticed Kalas as he turned back toward their pursuers and flashed an unexpected grin. He whispered something the wind whipped away from his mouth and aimed his staff like a lance: soft green light blossomed along its length, traveled from heel to hand and collected in a ball at the tip; from there, it rushed toward the earth, collided with the ground just in front of the men chasing them and spit rocks, dirt, and tongues of fire into the air.

  The two men reared their horses, spun around and fled toward the direction from which they’d come: the Poyïsriba soldier vaulted over the still-smoking crater and drew his sword, smacked the flanks of his horse with its flat as he whipped his reins.

  That fire! Kalas allowed himself a moment to consider: It looks just like the fire that stopped the wolves! But—

  “Kalas! Ahead!”

  The young man tore his eyes from the frothing beast at their tail and looked at the road in front of them. All seemed clear until, at the cleric’s command, Rül turned hard to the right: a few hundred feet up the road another band of adversaries blocked their escape.

  “More of them!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “I can’t avoid them!” warned Rül.

  The Song! Falthwën shouted from within Kalas’ mind: The Song, my child! Call upon its power!

  I don’t know what to do!

  Kalas focused on the fast-approaching guards now just tens of feet in front of them. He turned all his attention toward his surroundings, his spatial and temporal location, and struggled against his present reality, attempted to bend it to his will. He closed his eyes and conjured what fragments of the Song he could remember, held them in his mind…

  He felt the outside world fade away as the Song swelled and wrapped around his thoughts. The coach came to an abrupt stop…

  “Did it—?” he began. He stopped when he realized the “unknown force” was, in fact, Rül pulling up his reins. Soldiers with drawn swords stood mere inches from the coach: the one who’d been behind them closed the remaining distance and barked orders to the others.

  “Why—?” he wondered until rough men pulled him from the cabin.

  “Careful! The Queen wants them alive and unharmed!” insisted the soldier who appeared to be in charge.

  “And untouched!” he added with disgust when he noticed the lascivious grins on his subordinates’ faces as they groped at Pava and Zhalera with greedy hands.

  Kalas looked to Falthwën, but the cleric didn’t notice: he’d already stepped down from the rumble and placed his staff upon the ground. He held his empty hands in front of him, a gesture of peaceable surrender.

  There is no reason to be afraid, my child, Kalas sensed from the old man. With a self-recriminating sigh, he stepped onto the street as well and held up his own hands.

  4.

  “The Queen’s been looking for you,” said their captor with an odd, bemused quality to his voice. Rougher- and older-looking than his prior exertions indicated, he regarded them with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. “Not you, per se, but that sword—it’s owner, that is. She’s obtained new information from a new source and—well, never mind! The fact remains: the lot of you are to be remanded to Ïsriba!”

  Above them, several ivambarrinme peeked through their w
indows to get a glimpse of the spectacle unfolding in the street.

  “Very good!” said Falthwën with an exuberant smile. His handlers, caught off guard, flinched, released him for a moment before they recovered and tightened their grasp on his arms. The cleric never moved. “I should thank you, friend! We were on our way to the capital: this martial escort should speed things along!”

  The solider, still a formidable-looking man despite his apparent years, allowed himself a moment to process Falthwën’s confidence before he burst into genuine laughter.

  “You’ve got moxie, I’ll give you that,” admitted the soldier. “I’ll be honest: I’m not sure why the Queen is so interested in Ilbardhën’s sword—yes, of course I recognized it!—but she is, and it’s my honor to obey…Call me Nashmur. Commander Nashmur.”

  “Do—did you know him?” asked Kalas. “Did you know Shosafin?”

  “I did,” the commander admitted, though he declined to elaborate. He raised an arm as though he intended to gesture to his men, to bind him and the others, Kalas thought, but a second idea intercepted the first before he gave the command. He dismissed the too-eager townsfolk: when they’d sulked into the shadows, he said: “Tell you what, friends—there’s no reason we can’t be friends, right? You’re on your way to Ïsriba, where, as I’d imagine you’ve guessed, you’ll spend some time in the Queen’s dungeons…

  “I’ve been tasked with ensuring you get there…I have no particular instructions regarding how you get there, and you’ve been cooperative—more so than I’d anticipated…Give me your word that you’ll cooperate, and I and my soldiers will…escort you to the capital. You’re free to drive your own horses, ride in your own coach—that’s a nice coach, by the way! Just surrender your weapons and—”

  “No,” interrupted Kalas. Nashmur looked stunned. “I’m sorry, Commander: I mean no disrespect, but Shosafin—Ilbardhën—asked me to look after his sword. I can’t…I can’t give it to you.”

  Gasps from the shadowed figures overhead filtered through the shadows and the feeble street lights.

  “Oh?” said Nashmur, this time gesturing for his men to stand down as they tensed at the boy’s impertinence. He reached for the hilt of his own sword—similar to Shosafin’s, Kalas noted, but distinct. “What if I…insist?”

  Kalas sighed, looked at the ground and shook his head before returning the commander’s gaze with as much severity as he could muster. He hoped it was enough.

  “Then…I’ll fight you.”

  More gasps.

  “Kalas!” someone shouted. Zhalera, probably.

  “You’ll win,” he admitted, “but he asked me to keep it safe…”

  Nashmur released his grip on his own sword and closed the short distance between him and Kalas.

  “I think I’ve got an idea about what Ilbardhën saw in you,” said the commander as he knelt, studied Kalas’ features: “I can see why he entrusted you with his sword.”

  Having considered him for a moment longer, Nashmur stood, placed a heavy hand on Kalas’ shoulder and said, “Hold on to your friend’s sword. For as long as you can.”

  The commander’s men looked at each other with confused expressions. One appeared on the verge of saying something, but opted to keep quiet.

  “They’ll take it from you before you’re permitted to enter the Queen’s presence, of course,” he continued. “There’s nothing to be done about that: her personal guardsmen will kill you without a thought the instant she makes such a request. Still, we’ve got at least a day between then and now…

  “So what do you say? Do I have your word that you’ll…maintain your bearing while under our…protection?”

  Answering for all of them, Kalas said, “You have it.” No one contradicted him. He thought he felt rather than saw Falthwën’s smile, hidden as it must have been beneath his beard.

  “Excellent!” said Nashmur as he dismissed his soldiers with a wave. “There are more than a few hours before the suns rise. I suggest you return to your room at the Falcon until morning. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  As the onlookers disappeared into their apartments, the commander helped Rül get his team turned around, then galloped into the darkness. Alone in the shadows, no one spoke for what seemed like a long, long time.

  “What…what do we do?” said Rül, uncertain.

  “We go back to the Falcon,” said Kalas before Falthwën could say anything—assuming he’d had anything to say at all. Kalas had a sense something intangible was…shifting, maybe, though he couldn’t otherwise describe it.

  “We gave our word,” he added, his tone making it clear there was no room for discussion.

  As if waiting for Falthwën to contravene the youth’s direction, Rül remained still, spared a glance at the cleric. Runner and Dancer gave light snorts as they flicked their tails but made no other movements: they, too, appeared to be waiting.

  “Well?” said Falthwën with some slight roguish quality in his voice. “You heard the boy! To the Falcon! Today’s been an adventure, to be sure, and I think all of us could use those few hours of sleep!”

  5.

  Before the suns had risen, Falthwën gave Kalas’ shoulder a gentle nudge, waking him from fitful sleep. The boy sat up, allowed himself a moment to remember and reflect on the prior night’s events, then stood and splashed his face with water from the wash basin. No one said much of anything as they collected their things.

  When they were ready, the cleric pulled Zhalera aside and whispered something to her. She nodded, and the two of them turned away from the others for a moment. Kalas thought it odd, but only for a moment: he remained focused on the unpleasant truth: despite the apparent kindness afforded them by Nashmur, they were now prisoners of the queen. With a sigh, he shifted Shosafin’s sword, again strapped across his back.

  If only I better understood The Song! Kalas chided himself. If I really knew how it worked, maybe I could have kept us from these soldiers…

  “And maybe there’s purpose—however inscrutable—in our present circumstances,” said Falthwën, as though he’d been listening to Kalas’ thoughts.

  To no one’s surprise, two of Commander Nashmur’s men occupied the hallway. Neither said a word as the cleric led the party through the isolated stairwell toward the street. Outside in the damp air, Rül’s coach waited for them. Nashmur himself sat atop the box seat.

  “Good morning, friends!” he beamed with too much enthusiasm. “Master…Rül, was it? Your horses are remarkable! Just as good as any from Ïsriba, I’m not ashamed to say!

  Rül’s expression must have triggered something within the commander. His smile—large but somehow genuine, Kalas thought—broadened as he explained himself.

  “Oh, there’s nothing to worry about! While your property is in my keep, I figured I’d give these two an opportunity to stretch their legs without all that weight behind them! Forgive my saying so, but I think they rather enjoyed the exercise! Especially this darker fellow!”

  “That’s Runner,” said Rül, not quite sure how to respond. “Takes Dancer a while to get into the swing of things when he’s on his own. Uh, please, sir: I know it’s not my place to ask, but please take good care of the horses!”

  “You have my word, young man!” the commander nodded. “Now, please: load your things—ah, there it is! Good to see you still have your—that is, Ilbardhën’s sword with you! I’ll confess: I stationed a few men around the Falcon last night—just in case your word wasn’t what I believed it to be. You have no idea how…rare it is to meet someone who keeps his word—especially when the cost is so high. There’s a nobility about you, Master Kalas!”

  That’s what Shosafin said, Kalas remembered. He gave Nashmur a look, but the commander had already stepped down from the coach, turned to address his men.

  “It’ll take us most of the day to reach Ïsriba, though we should reach her gates before the second sun sets,” he continued as he turned back toward Kalas and the others. “For what it’s worth,
I do hope the Queen is…lenient with you.”

  Rül took his seat atop the coach box and Pava followed. She clung to his arm as her eyes darted from side to side.

  “I’m sorry,” Kalas muttered to her as he followed Zhalera inside the coach. The ilmukrit girl spared him a glance and a weak smile. “I’m sorry,” he repeated as he unslung his sword and took his seat next to Zhalera. She said nothing, took his hand instead, squeezed it, and rest her head upon his shoulder.

  “I know neither of you slept particularly well last night,” noted Falthwën as he sat across from them. “Sleep now. I’ll wake you should anything untoward come to pass.”

  “Falthwën, why couldn’t I—”

  “It’s my fault, really,” interrupted the cleric. “I’ve asked more from you than I had any right to ask. You’re still learning about The Song, about your place within its strains: you have yet to fathom, to understand the complexities and boundaries of the privilege you wield…

  “You offered an apology. Allow me to counter with an apology of my own: I am sorry for asking you to shoulder a burden that never should have been yours.

  “With all that out of the way, however, I suspect we’re in the midst of an act of providence the scope of which we haven’t yet begun to appreciate. Commander Nashmur, for one: unless I miss my guess, he’s everything he appears to be…and more. It’s no coincidence that we’re in his custody.”

  “It sounds like you’re saying it’s a good thing we were captured,” said Zhalera with a raised eyebrow.

  “‘Good?’ Hmm…that’s a stronger word than I’d use. ‘Necessary’ might be a better fit.”

  Kalas considered Falthwën’s supposition in silence for a moment before permitting himself an inward chuckle. Zhalera raised her head and gave him a sidelong glance. Sensing her unasked question, he said, “Shosafin said his sword would be a bane to him and perhaps a boon to us. I was just wondering if he considered it could be both as the same time. Zhalera, you thought maybe he gave it to me because it would put his pursuers on our path. You’re probably right—no surprise there!—but I was thinking about what Falthwën said, about how maybe…this…is necessary: Shosafin knew our goal was an audience with the queen. If he were chasing after Marugan, why would he go without his sword? Even if mere steel isn’t enough to kill him, he’s sure to encounter perfectly killable resistance along the way, right? Wouldn’t he want his sword with him?