Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  “Gandhan’s—that is, Zhalera’s residence, if you please: I—we have some things to retrieve,” said Falthwën. With a nod, Rül steered his team toward their destination.

  With the thunder of hoofbeats abated, the sounds of reconstruction echoed in the distance. Rül passed a few people here and there, each with surprised (and jealous) expressions their faces.

  “Head up to the farm!” he suggested: “Tell Thara Rül sent you! Mother has a few more horses available!”

  The no-longer-envious passersby voiced their thanks as the cart trucked away: “Àd ëthu dàbirafime! And Thara, too!”

  Rül laughed. “Father won’t like it, but Mother will make him understand. And it’ll be good for the farm to act like part of the community—and better for the town: our horses have been bred for strength and endurance, and it shows! Sometimes I think Father forgets that any income the farm earns comes from Lohwàlar!”

  Both suns had exceeded their apex by the time Rül delivered Falthwën, Kalas, and Zhalera to her home. Before the three of them entered, she told their driver where he could find shade and water for the horses.

  “I packed most of what we’ll need during the early morning hours—well, the earlier morning hours! Zhalera: pack a few changes of clothes, anything you’ll need for the next few weeks—or months. And…pack your sword, but keep it sheathed. Hidden. Here in Lohwàlar, knowledge of its presence was no threat: beyond its borders…who can say?”

  Somewhat puzzled, Zhalera obeyed, returning in moments with a stuffed, worn leather bag slung across one shoulder and a peculiar shape wrapped in cloth across the other.

  “It’s the best I could do!” she insisted when Kalas fought (and failed) to hide his smile.

  “It will suffice,” said Falthwën. “That others know you bear a sword isn’t the concern: that you bear that sword…that’s what needs to remain a secret. Keep those cloths in place and none will be the wiser.”

  Outside, Rül had returned with his horses looking fresher. He jumped from the cart, helped Falthwën with his bales, heaving each as though it weighed next to nothing.

  Glad he’s on our side! thought Kalas, reaching for Zhalera’s bag as she let it slip from her shoulder and hit the ground. She started to protest and finished with a reluctant grin.

  “You don’t have to do that, Kalas! I can carry my own luggage!”

  “I know I don’t—and I know you can! Probably better than I could! But Mother and Father raised a gentleman, and…well, anyway, really, I just…I just like to.”

  She nodded, silent save for the subtle clink of her bag’s contents as she handed it to Kalas.

  When everything had been loaded, including the driver and his passengers, Falthwën, seated beside Rül, instructed him to head toward Kalas’ home.

  “You’ll need to pack your clothes and essentials as well, my child. I’d intended for you to collect your things when we were there last, but in my excitement after recovering Hàfilrifar, I’m embarrassed to admit that I forgot.”

  “I’ll only be a minute,” said Kalas when Rül stopped outside his house. “You can wait in the cart.”

  “Kalas?” said Zhalera.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll be—”

  “—coming with you,” Zhalera finished, her voice cutting in from outside his darkening thoughts. She’d already started for the door when Kalas caught up to her.

  Thank you, he thought.

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered, as though she’d heard his unspoken gratitude.

  Inside, Gandhan’s ashen remains had been swept away: in their place, commingled suns-light, descending from the hole in the roof burned away by Sharuyandas sru, stood guard like some luminal sentry. Zhalera walked into its warmth, closed her eyes and waited for a moment. Kalas followed.

  “I wouldn’t have been able to come back here without you, Kalas,” she confessed. “This light, though, shining on the spot where Father died, having done everything he could to fight against the darkness…I thought I never wanted to set foot in this place again, but now, I could stand here forever, I think, surrounded by this.”

  With a reluctant sigh, she stepped into the relative darkness, shivered, and looked to Kalas, who nodded, turned, and took a step toward his room when he realized that at some point, he’d taken Zhalera’s hand—or had she taken his?

  “I, uh, it’s this way,” he stammered.” She giggled, and the suggestion of cold sloughed away.

  After cramming a few changes of clothes into a pack, Kalas ducked into Wodram’s study, scanned it for a moment before discovering the ancient book with its elaborate woodcuts and indecipherable text. He stuffed that in his pack, too.

  “I don’t know, it’s just, well, it’s one of the last things Father and I looked at, and…” he began, but Zhalera understood.

  “Is that everything?” she asked.

  Kalas didn’t answer right away. After a long moment, he shook his head.

  “You stood in the light. Now I have to stand in the shadow. One last time. Will you—will you come with me?”

  You know I will, he read in her expression as she took his hand and followed him into the great room toward the place where Màla had breathed her last.

  No heavenly fire had punched a hole in the roof above her, and with the suns still hours from descending beneath the horizon, the shadows here in the great room were deep, only tempered by what little daylight filtered in. Someone had swept away her ashes as well, allowing the indelible stains of Màla’s blood to catch the weak light. Kalas knelt, traced the undulating scarlet outline with his finger.

  “I’m not sure what I expected,” he admitted as he stood after a moment of silence, “but if nothing else, the…the emptiness of this place makes it clear that Mother is altogether gone. I didn’t think I doubted that, but now I know I don’t. Let’s go.”

  3.

  “There are a few items I must discuss with Vàyana—and Tzharak—before we leave for Ïsriba, which, it seems, will be tomorrow. Master Rül, if you and your horses would be so kind?” said Falthwën as Kalas tossed his things into the cart and he and Zhalera took their seats. With a curt nod, Rül flicked his reins. His horses snorted a time or two as they headed out.

  The drive through town revealed more progress rebuilding than Kalas would have thought possible in the intervening days. Vast piles of rubble had been cleared, and repairs on the many damaged structures seemed well underway. Sweat-soaked citizens offered brief waves here and there: most seemed too engrossed in their labors to notice the team’s presence.

  Kalas had been so rapt with the spectacle that he didn’t realize Rül was taking them through the Crescent until they were already there. He sucked air through his teeth with a sharp hiss, and though he didn’t want to see the place where Dzharëth had killed his father, he seemed unable to prevent his eyes from wandering, scanning the earth until he—there! Just ahead of them, where a small gathering had congregated, blocking the road. Rül stopped.

  “What’s going on?” said Kalas.

  “Not sure,” Rül answered. One of his horses—the darker bay—pawed the ground in his impatience.

  Kalas’ question, combined with the bay’s stomping, grabbed a member of the crowd’s attention.

  “Master Kalas!” he said with surprise, and Kalas realized it was Azhëk, the man who’d been on shift with his father. “It’s gonna go right here—right here! And it’s going to be beautiful! And Tàran’s name is going to be at the top!”

  “What? I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

  Another, somewhat more somber figure Kalas knew by face but not by name joined Azhëk and explained: “The Council has decided to erect a monument celebrating the kelâme taken from us by the zhàrudzhme. You’ll have to forgive Azhëk his exuberance: we haven’t finalized such details. But Tàran was a good man. A great man. Did much for Lohwàlar: seemed to understand the Pump better than anyone I’ve ever known—”

  “That’s the truth!�
� Azhëk interrupted, nodding his hearty agreement.

  “When it’s time to decide such matters, I’ll do my part to ensure his name is writ large. Màla’s, too,” the unnamed man finished.

  Kalas didn’t know how to respond. He thought of all the people slain—the ones he knew, at least: even Commander Valderïk—and had to fight back tears.

  “Uh, thank you. Thank you, u…?”

  “Hebul.”

  “Thank you.”

  The conversation over, Hebul gestured for the others with him to move aside. Rül repeated his suggestion that his farm had a few additional horses that could be of service, that someone should talk to Thara—not Barish—as he guided his cart along the street.

  Activity at the Sanctuary had subsided somewhat, though a steady stream of people flowed in both directions through its doors. Falthwën, having instructed Kalas, Zhalera, and Rül to remain with the cart, stepped down with a grace his age belied and made his way through the human river; soon—mere minutes, really—he returned with Vàyana and Tzharak in tow. Though the former had made it clear she was most content to remain in Lohwàlar, Kalas thought he saw a tincture of regret mingled with the apprehension that clouded the rest of her expression. Tzharak’s was almost the polar opposite: as much as he wanted to travel to Ïsriba, to be part of an adventure unlike anything he’d experienced in well over one hundred Sevens, he understood and accepted Falthwën’s rationale that he remain in town and assist with its reconstruction.

  “How long will you be away?” Vàyana asked as she glided toward the horses, stroked their manes and scritched their cheeks.

  “Are you asking because you’re concerned about our welfare or because you’ll miss these horses?” Falthwën laughed.

  “Maybe both,” she teased. “Long before you came to Lohwàlar—long before Thara ever married that clown Barish—I spent Sevens tending to her father’s stables. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, this buckskin’s sire was a grullo named Wir-zhi-bethru.”

  “You’ve got a good eye, lady!” said Rül. “This here’s Palev-hothalme—‘Dancer,’ for short. Racer’s ‘grandson.’”

  “Oh? You’re familiar with Hirom’s—I guess now Thara’s—stable?”

  “I should hope so!” he laughed.

  “Vàyana, this is my friend Rül,” said Kalas.

  “Rül? Where have I heard that name before?”

  “Thara’s son.”

  The typical warmth in the cleric’s features drained away as she froze mid-stroke. Dancer snorted his displeasure, canted his head into her motionless fingers.

  “Oh…” she said, her voice small. “I’m sorry! I—”

  Rül laughed again, louder this time.

  “No offense taken, shâu! Lately, Father has been acting something of a clown. Can’t blame you for calling it like you see it! Oh—the bay’s name is Runner. Strider’s offspring.”

  “‘Racer’, ‘Dancer’, ‘Runner’, ‘Strider’?” said Kalas, his eyebrow raised. “Seems like there’s a theme here!”

  Rül shrugged. “Runner’s easier to say than Reshir-dïl-âsru!”

  “Strider must have been after my time, but Dancer and Runner are beautiful creatures, Master Rül,” said Vàyana, succumbing to Dancer’s insistence and massaging his cheek again.

  “I can’t say with any certainty just how long we’ll be away, though a month, I suspect, is an aggressive estimate,” Falthwën interjected. “Probably a month and a half at the least. There are just so many variables, and I can’t account for all of them. Not yet, anyway.”

  “You’ll take the King’s Highway?” asked Tzharak as he peered at the cart’s contents. “You’re prepared for more than a few nights under the stars, I assume? I’m sure you know better than I do that towns are sparse between here and Ïsriba. The kindness of strangers even more so.”

  “I’m well aware, old friend,” Falthwën concurred. He glanced at Kalas and Zhalera, at Rül, and added, “I suspect we’ll manage.”

  Something shifted at the fringe of Kalas’ perception. He looked around, was about to dismiss the sensation, when he thought to look up as well.

  “We’ll have Shosafin with us, too,” he smiled.

  4.

  With a series of effortless leaps, bounds, and somersaults, the soldier descended from his almost-unnoticed perch among the friezes of the ancient Sanctuary.

  “At your service, Master Kalas,” he said with a nod as he planted his feet on the ground.

  “Very good!” exclaimed Falthwën with a knowing grin. “Perhaps your membership within our company will grease the wheels of the court once we’ve entered Ïsriba.”

  “Perhaps,” allowed Shosafin. “Perhaps not.”

  “Oh?” said Falthwën, though his tone implied he suspected as much.

  “It’s no secret among the queen-regent’s courtiers that I’m something of…a misfit, one might say. One of the reasons I ‘volunteered’ to come to Lohwàlar.”

  “Nonetheless, you know the ins and outs of Poyïsriba society, its customs and mores, and whether you fit in or not, such knowledge should help us blend in, avoid excessive attention.”

  The soldier nodded his agreement.

  “Uh, mister cleric, sir? I’m not sure there’s room in the cart for anyone else—or his stuff,” said Rül. He’d exited his seat and, without success, attempted to rearrange things while Shosafin and Falthwën had been speaking.

  “Oh, I won’t be traveling with you—not in the cart, that is,” said the soldier. “I’ve, ah, made other arrangements!”

  “Did your horse from Ïsriba survive the rudzhegume attack?” Kalas wondered.

  “Sadly, no: they destroyed the entire garrison and all the horses in its stable.”

  Shosafin glanced at Rül, offered him a sly half-smile, and added: “Here, let me show you.”

  He tucked his tongue behind his teeth and gave a shrill whistle. In moments, not-too-distant hoofbeats grew ever nearer until his mount—an immense, raven black stallion with a silver blaze—cantered into view. The imposing creature came to a stop and pawed the ground, and even in the risen dust, he shimmered.

  “Breaker!” shouted Rül, his amazement bare. “He’s Mother’s most prized horse! One I would have taken—if I’d dared! (No disrepect Runner, Dancer!) How did you ever convince her to let him go?!”

  “I heard you were volunteering Thara’s horses,” he explained with uncharacteristic detail as he ran a hand over Breaker’s withers. “When I got to your farm, I spoke with your mother only to learn that all of her other horses had been borrowed. I was about to leave, but she saw my scabbard with its Poyïsriba crest, grabbed my arm, and insisted I keep you safe: to that end, she confessed she had one more horse…

  “Though I doubt you need to hear it from me, your mother’s most proud of you. Concerned, but not overly so.

  “And I can see why Kursh-zhi-nimhàfil is her favorite! Catches onto things quickly: by the time we reach Ïsriba, we’ll be old friends.”

  “Master Kalas, a word, please?” said Tzharak. Shosafin had checked and double-checked Breaker’s tack and the rest of his gear; Rül secured his cart while reassuring Runner and Dancer that they were good horses, too; and Zhalera, though she glanced in the old man’s direction, made a show of listening to Falthwën and Vàyana discuss something.

  Probably Sanctuary stuff.

  Tzharak had beckoned for Kalas to follow him a short distance, just out of earshot of a quiet whisper. With his back to everyone else, he reached beneath his outer garment and produced a small package only a few inches square and wrapped in a fragment of treated skin.

  “At the bottom of the Empty Sea: do you remember me saying there was something familiar about that…that artifact that we’re not supposed to talk about?”

  “Yeah, that’s right! You told me to ask you about it again in the morning, but I never did. But should we be talking about it now? Falthwën told us to forget, right?”

  “That he did, young man, that he did—an
d maybe he has the right idea about that thing, but when I returned home, I couldn’t ignore that familiarity, so I did some digging around in my ‘collection’ and stumbled across this—”

  With haste, Tzharak unwrapped his prize and, still cupped within his shaking hands, allowed Kalas to see.

  “I think it’s made from the same material as that thing! And look: if you’re careful, you can see similar markings all around its faces!”

  Stunned, Kalas reached for it, then pulled away.

  What if it reacts?

  What Tzharak held bore a passing resemblance to the skin of Kalas’ artifact, though it was darker in places, like it had been through fire, perhaps. As the ancient figure turned it, exposed different angles to the suns-light, Kalas noted the glyphs carved or etched into its surface. Overall, it had an ovoid shape, interrupted here and there with flat planes. He nodded as Tzharak quickly rewrapped it.

  “I wish I could remember where I found this—or maybe someone gave it to me? Eight-hundred years does a number on one’s memory! I’ve had this for tens of Sevens—at least—and I’ve never known what it was nor where it came from. In fact, if you’d never shown me your artifact, I probably never would have remembered it at all!”

  Maybe that would have been best?

  Tzharak must have gleaned Kalas’ thought from his expression.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have shown you…I’m sorry, Master Kalas! I know what Falthwën said—and when I know more, I’ll bring it to his attention, but for now, I thought you, of all people, would want to know…”

  “No, it’s okay, Mister Tzharak. Really.” Warming to the subject, his tone less strained, Kalas added: “What do you think it’s for? Does it have anything to do with the…thing, or is it just made from the same stuff? Where do you think it came from?”

  “u Tzharak! A moment?” called Falthwën.

  “I’ll keep digging,” Tzharak whispered as he slipped the object back into his pocket. “Maybe I’ll learn—or remember—something by the time you return from Ïsriba!”