Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  “I think Falthwën’s right, too. I think Shosafin knew we’d be discovered in ivambar—knew his sword would be recognized, at least. And he knows Nashmur—the commander admitted as much. Falthwën has a good sense about him: I’ll bet Shosafin did, too…Maybe I’m just desperately hoping these ‘coincidences’ keep stringing themselves together—for whatever reason—for our benefit. Maybe I’m assuming too much, but even though Shosafin calls himself an outsider to the queen’s court, he does know how it works. Maybe I’m just trying to convince myself it’s not my fault I couldn’t…get us out of here, but at this point, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to believe that we’re moving in the right direction.”

  “I guess we’ll find out before the day’s over,” she said with a faltering smile betrayed by the uncertainty in her eyes.

  Falthwën, for his part, said nothing.

  Outside, trees and fields whipped past them (distant mountains move a little slower) as Rül followed their escort across the countryside. Despite the road’s pronounced incline, the rhythm of the horses’ gait, the warm suns-light on an otherwise cool day, and the coach’s steady forward motion lulled Kalas to sleep.

  Late in the day, Nashmur brought everyone to a halt. Lunch time, he’d said, and afterward, they resumed their trek.

  “It gets even steeper about a quarter mile from the Ïsriba’s walls. Gives the capital a distinct advantage against direct assault from the west: gives us a nasty climb! Rül, my lad! How are Runner and Dancer?”

  “They’re well, Commander!” beamed the farm boy. “They’ve, uh, been through a lot recently, and…this pace seems just about right.”

  “Excellent!” he nodded as he guided his destrier toward his place at the front of the line.

  Pava had stepped down from the box seat and asked, “Mind if I ride with you?”

  “Of course!” said Falthwën as he pushed the door open and helped her into the seat next to himself.

  “Rül said it would probably be a good idea for me to get some rest,” she explained through a yawn, “I’d rather be up next—up there, outside, but I have to admit, he’s probably right.”

  After Nashmur engaged in a few moments’ consultation with his men, things started moving again. A few hours later, it seemed, the terrain’s slope increased just like he said it would.

  “We must be almost there,” noted Zhalera as she craned her neck for a better view through the coach’s windows. Pava, awake now, looked out as well.

  “I’ll admit: you two seem like you’re all right with what’s happening,” she continued. “Me? I’m not so sure. Nashmur said dungeons: if he’s right—and why wouldn’t he be?!—we could be down there for a long time.

  “And how would any of that help Lohwàlar? I know, I know: a lot has changed while we’ve been on the road, but there are wolves other than the ones who murdered our parents and wrecked our home! Who says they won’t come back? What if they’ve already come back?! What if that lightning—Sharuyandas sru, Tzharak called it? What if this Sharuyan takes even longer to send it than last time? What if he doesn’t send it at all?”

  Pava looked from face to face, her eyes wide, as though she regretted leaving her seat next to Rül. Kalas said nothing. Though he rifled through his thoughts, he couldn’t come up with an response that didn’t taste like ash in his mind. Falthwën, too, remained silent. As the cleric looked away, the boy almost thought he saw tears in the old man’s eyes.

  “‘What if?’” Kalas said at last. When she looked at him, he continued: “Everything you said, I get it. I do. And a lot has changed, but the people back home had already started rebuilding. Falthwën said Tzharak should talk to Sàrush, and I choose to believe your grandfather will listen to the people this time.

  “‘What if?’ indeed. Whatever happens in Ïsriba—wherever we end up—we’ll figure it out. Together. The four—the five of us! Pava, you’re part of our family now, too! The six of us if Shosafin ever returns. I believe he will.”

  Pava smiled—a real smile this time, and relaxed. Falthwën massaged the bridge of his nose and, wearied, offered a nod of agreement.

  “Feels like we’ve hit the switchbacks,” Pava observed as their coach slowed and changed direction every few minutes. A quick peek through the window confirmed her suggestion. After about an hour of jarring back-and-forth travel, the slope lessened and the road—the Highway, Kalas reminded himself—straightened. With a mischievous grin and a conspiratorial wink, the ilmukrit girl opened the door, whirled herself around it as it shut, and said, “I’ll see you soon!” as she laced her arms around part of the imperial and somehow curled her body against the pull of gravity.

  “What—how did—?!” Zhalera murmured as Pava’s footsteps made the slightest sounds against the roof. After a light pressure—and a surprised yelp from Rül—they realized she’d returned to her seat up front.

  “I’d say she’s feeling better,” said Kalas. “Nap must have done her some good!”

  “I had no idea she could move like that!” Zhalera marveled with what sounded like a touch of jealousy.

  “Life among the sheer cliffs of the Áthradho provides uncounted opportunities for practice, I’m sure,” said Falthwën. He still had a faraway look in his eyes.

  Perhaps a few minutes later, Rül brought their coach to a stop. Though the first sun hadn’t quite set, something blocked it from view, even through the coach’s windows. Kalas stood, was about to step into the spreading twilight when the sounds of an argument changed his mind. He sat, tried to see what he could from within.

  “Zhalera, might I see your sword for a moment?” said Falthwën as though struck with a random thought. As she handed it to him, with a nod of thanks he added: “Our prior discussion: may I…keep it safe?”

  Zhalera understood, glanced at the folds of his silvery robe. As the cleric risked a look outside and removed the coverings she’d applied, she remembered the item he’d…summoned? drawn? freed? from within Kalas’ stone table. He’d held it up to the light for a moment before making it disappear. He’d neither mentioned nor made use of it since.

  “Of course,” she almost whispered. With reverence, the cleric ran an unhurried hand across the length of its blade: as he did so, Zhalera’s weapon vanished beneath his callused fingers; when he reached its hilt, he waved his hand with a subtle flourish and it was gone.

  “Can you do that with this?” breathed Kalas as he tapped at Shosafin’s sword.

  “My child, if it were possible, I would, but it’s not: Loradan’s and srufin’s weapons are…of a different form than Ilbardhën’s. You’ll have to trust Nashmur with it, and, as I’ve said, I believe we’ll find him worthy of our trust.”

  Kalas wanted to press Falthwën for more details; before he could, however, Nashmur knocked hard and fast on the door.

  “We’re here, my friends!” he boomed as he helped them exit the coach.

  They’d gained perhaps a few thousand feet, and though he’d noticed the dropping temperature from within, outside the cabin’s confines Kalas shivered. Zhalera, too. He took a few steps, tried to loosen his stiff muscles, then stopped in mid-stride.

  Before him loomed a vast, polished gate carved out of the living rock, at least as high as four grown men standing on one another’s shoulders. Ramparts had been cut from the same. Between their battlements soldiers kept watch on the horizon, paying little to no attention, it seemed, to the scene beneath them. Behind and high above them, the capital’s towers stood stark against the night sky, the lights in their windows glinting like precious stones as the suns’ rays caught and danced within their faceted panes.

  He looked to the wall again and saw that portions of it disappeared within the mountain: tunnels connected the exposed sections to one another, wrapped around the entirety of the city, Kalas assumed. He found it difficult to comprehend just how much time and effort and skill must have been required to raise up the capital’s walls, to circumscribe its perimeter with such a monumental barrier.


  “Shâume á âume!” Commander Nashmur laughed as he allowed them a moment’s wonder. “Welcome to Ïsriba!”

  Chapter XVII.

  In the Dark of Ïsriba’s Dungeons

  C

  ommander Nashmur motioned for a pair of soldiers to drive the coach toward some unspecified destination, though he remained astride his war horse. Before he led everyone through the gate, he pulled Kalas aside and asked him one more time if he might hold on to Shosafin’s sword: “I’ll do everything within my power to return it to you when the time is right,” he promised. Other than the few soldiers who’d traveled with him, the commander hadn’t called for additional support. Perhaps, Kalas allowed, Falthwën’s impression of him was on point.

  “That’s just it, isn’t it?” he said. “‘Within your power.’ You’re not as powerful as the queen—are you? What if she demands you turn it over to her?”

  “A fair point,” Nashmur conceded. “Perhaps I won’t be able to guarantee what happens with your friend’s sword, but what I can guarantee is this: right now, it’s safer with me than it is with you. I’ve explained as best I can what you’re about to face: if you’d prefer one of the Queen’s…less accommodating guardsmen to relieve you of it, that’s your choice. I won’t mention it again.”

  “You seem strangely interested in Shosafin’s sword,” noted Kalas. “Why?”

  The commander said nothing, simply shrugged. He rode beneath the vast iron teeth of the portcullis suspended above the entrance. Kalas looked up at their gleaming points, shuddered at the thought of their chains giving way.

  “What was that about?” Zhalera whispered as Kalas jogged to her side.

  “Sword,” he said, and she nodded.

  As they walked through the opening in the wall, Kalas saw that it was much wider than he’d expected. Though portions remained uncut mountain, others had been built up from dressed stones to form quarters of some kind. Torchlight glittered through bow slits, interrupted now and then as someone inside changed position.

  This place is impenetrable, Kalas assumed.

  On the other side of the wall, within the limits of Ïsriba proper, instead of residences or commercial structures stood additional defensive constructs. The well-worn road—which had finally seemed like a real highway since leaving ivambar—lie between vast pillars of polished basalt as it snaked toward the capital’s center. Within those canyon-like pillars shone pinpricks of light: they, too, were occupied.

  “I’m not sure how much you know about Ïsriba’s history, but she got off to a rough start,” said Nashmur as he noticed not only Kalas’ gaze but most of the others’ as well. “Something of a mashup of two, maybe three kingdoms—there’s still debate about it—from millennia ago. Not everyone liked the idea: lots of animosity and mistrust between those original components. Her first king—Ulobir the Steadfast—held her together though. These defenses were his idea: as a subtle reminder of the threats the new nation faced from opportunistic countries and as a means to force these different cultures to come together as a new, united entity. It worked, and for thousands of years—hundreds and hundreds of Sevens—Ïsriba has been the embodiment of her first king’s iron will and inflexible spirit.”

  “Almost sounds like you think that’s a bad thing,” observed Zhalera they followed the commander and his horse. Kalas looked at her with mild surprise: he’d wondered if anyone else had sensed that almost morose quality in Nashmur’s speech. Even Rül nodded. Pava, too.

  “Oh?” he said with surprise of his own, as though he realized he’d communicated something he hadn’t intended. He grunted, snapped his reins, and said nothing else until they reached a series of other, lesser gates. The commander spoke with the guards on duty: after a short exchange, the one in charge pointed to one of the heavy wood-and-iron doors.

  “With these smaller gates, we’re able to keep the West Gate closed until we’ve marshaled our forces in this staging area. Should the West Gate ever fall, invading forces would have a much harder time attacking en masse…”

  Nashmur led them toward the door the guard had indicated and continued: “We’ll wait here. It’ll only be a few minutes,” he said as he addressed the guard with a reproving glance. The figure shrugged and disappeared between the moon- and torchlit battlements.

  Maybe fifteen minutes later—it was hard to tell, Kalas thought, in the dark—the gateway’s doors opened inward. Beyond their ironwood planks and tempered steel bands, everything he could see within the city looked…ordinary. The streets seemed rather empty, though perhaps that was because the day had neared its end. In the distance, however, sounds of merriment intruded upon the shadowed stillness.

  They’re getting closer, Kalas thought to himself. Almost sounds like…children?

  Still peering through the gate, he saw a few boys, none older than two, maybe three and a Seven, appear at the end of a street, each giggling and clapping the others on the back as though they’d accomplished some great feat.

  “I think that was the last of the guards!” said one as the others nodded.

  “Wonder what they’re guarding?” posed the next.

  “I can’t believe we slipped by all of ’em! These streets aren’t normally—” began a third: he was interrupted with a sharp blow to the head.

  “What—?!” gasped the others as a soldier stepped into the light.

  He said nothing, held the remaining children with his indifferent gaze as he wiped blood spatter from the shaft of his spear. The youth he’d jabbed didn’t move—none of them moved. The soldier inclined his head toward the injured lad, and, with vigorous nods, his accomplices grabbed his arms and dragged him as fast as they could away from the guardsman. When they were gone, as the guard turned he noticed Nashmur and nodded, offered him a prim salute before merging with the shadows again.

  “All right,” the commander sighed as he shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  “Commander Nashmur,” said Kalas with a tug on the soldier’s leg. Nashmur reined in his horse and waited.

  “You’re right,” the boy admitted as he unslung Shosafin’s sword and handed it to the commander. “Falthwën thinks we can trust you. I’m still not sure, but I trust Falthwën…Please don’t prove yourself a liar!”

  “You’ll find my word is good,” he promised. “And, perhaps, that my ‘power,’ as you’ve said, is perhaps a touch greater than you assume.”

  2.

  Nashmur led everyone through the now-deserted streets toward an undisclosed destination: given the hour, Kalas assumed they were headed nowhere pleasant. Even in the dark, he felt a…tainted magnificence, he guessed, springing up from the city’s roots and twining around its structures, spreading throughout the simple fact of its existence.

  This is wrong, he thought without specificity as he strained his eyes against the night. Once or twice, he sensed the presence of something just within the shadows—

  Shagabme?

  —but nothing interrupted their reluctant procession.

  “Commander, why is the queen so interested in Shosafin? His sword?” Kalas wondered. “Is it because of King Rufàran—”

  “I…wouldn’t mention that name, friend. That title. Not outside the right circles, at least…But that’s part of it—most of it, probably. She’s always been suspicious that he was the only one to survive the…incident.”

  “He told me what happened. What do you think?”

  “Most of that was before my time…”

  “Most?” Kalas prodded. Nashmur sighed, shook his head and said nothing for a while. Kalas thought he’d abandoned the attempt at conversation when, in whispered tones, he warned: “Best not to speak of such things. Anywhere.”

  The commander led them through quiet streets flanked by vast structures, illuminated by the moon and nothing else. Whether residential, commercial, or public, Kalas couldn’t tell. Decided it really didn’t matter. Not now, anyway. In the soft pink moonlight, he sensed, on occasion, the presence of other shagabme. As they
walked past a dark lamppost, Kalas said aloud, “Ah, I see…”

  “See what?” wondered Rül. “I can’t see anything!”

  “Why we had to wait when we got to the main gate. No one will know we’re here—no one’s supposed to. Except maybe a few soldiers: can’t you feel them waiting in the shadows?”

  “I can,” Pava nodded. “I thought everyone could. I guess my eyesight’s more adapted to the dark than most. But what do you mean? Why are they out there?”

  “They don’t want anyone to see—to know—about the people Nashmur’s about to toss in the dungeon,” insisted Zhalera with more than a hint of steel in her voice, as though she dared the commander to contradict her.

  “You’re quite right,” he admitted without reserve.

  “I told you,” Zhalera chided.

  “As anxious as the Queen might be to receive her…guests, it can—and will—wait until morning,” he continued. “And while the dungeon isn’t the height of sophistication, it’s still much nicer than a hole in the ground.”

  “What do you mean by that?!” Pava bristled. Rül stifled a nervous chuckle and whispered something in her ear. The commander observed the exchange, spared a closer look at the úrukilmukrit girl and laughed at himself. “My apologies, urín. I meant no disrespect. If I might offer a defense: I think the labyrinths woven underneath the Áthradho rival some of Ïsriba’s most stunning structures.”