Beneath the Vault of Stars

  The Daybringer: Book I

  Beneath the

  Vault of Stars

  By Blake Goulette

  Part I.

  Chapter I.

  On the Way to the Pump

  Chapter II.

  Under a Shooting Star

  Chapter III.

  After a Deep Sleep

  Chapter IV.

  At the Bottom of the Southwest Cracks

  Chapter V.

  Within the Wall of the Empty Sea

  Chapter VI.

  At the Center of Lohwàlar’s Crescent

  Chapter VII.

  In Rooms Below the Ancient Temple

  Chapter VIII.

  Outside the Skin of the Artifact

  Chapter IX.

  Inside a Darkened Home

  Chapter X.

  On the Eve of Departure

  Part II.

  Chapter XI.

  Away from Lohwàlar

  Chapter XII.

  Underneath the Well upon the Steppes

  Chapter XIII.

  Above the Gateway to the Ilvurkanzhime

  Chapter XIV.

  Toward the Fringe of Civilization

  Chapter XV.

  Within Sight of the Capital

  Chapter XVI.

  In the Custody of the Crown

  Chapter XVII.

  In the Dark of Ïsriba’s Dungeons

  Chapter XVIII.

  Before the Queen of the Kingdom’s Throne

  Chapter XIX.

  Beyond the Reach of a Dark Star

  Chapter XX.

  At the Center of the Seven-Sided Room

  Part I.

  Chapter I.

  On the Way to the Pump

  K

  alas struggled to keep up with his father, Tàran, as they crossed the desert. Dead roots and black stones reached up from the sandy ground and harried his every step. Tàran seemed to bound over the trail, avoiding each obstacle with preternatural ability. Unable to maintain his father’s winged pace, Kalas stopped, clung to his shovel for support.

  “Father, I need a minute,” he panted. A few steps ahead, Tàran’s silhouette, a stout patch of black against the faintest hints of rose, stopped moving, too.

  “How do you do it?” wheezed Kalas as he gestured at the terrain.

  Tàran laughed, not unkindly. “It doesn’t just happen overnight, boy! Takes time, I reckon: after all these Sevens, I just know how to miss every rock. Someday you will, too. I’m sure of it.”

  Kalas grunted, unconvinced. He stood, and the pair continued on their way.

  “I know we’re not taking the Pump Road, but what road is this?” asked Kalas. Though it would be a few minutes before the premier sun ascended above the horizon, in its reflected light Kalas wondered at the unfamiliar terrain and its unique geology.

  “Since today’s your second Seven, I thought we’d do things a little differently,” Tàran smiled. “It’s a much longer trip—why we had to stay in tents the last few nights—but, as you’ll see in just a bit, it’s much more impressive, too!

  “And besides, there’ve been reports that something’s fouling the water. The Ruins Road—what we’re on now, though it’s not much of a road anymore—leads to an old path down into the Empty Sea. From there, we’ll follow the Ilswàr about a league, league and a half until we reach the Pump.”

  “The Ruins Road?” prodded Kalas.

  “No one uses it anymore, but a long time ago, when the Empty Sea had another name, there was a great city along its shores. Kësharan. You can still see the remains of some of its piers.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I have no idea. Something bad, though, I think: most stories only mention it in passing. I think I read something about it in one of your grandfather’s books, or maybe heard about it from Tzharak, but like I said, it was a long time ago. Anyway, we’ll be there in a league or so.”

  They walked in relative silence, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Soon, fragments of paving stone dotted the widening road, and Kalas tried to picture it as it must have looked in centuries past.

  “Kësharan,” nodded Tàran, noting Kalas’ distraction. “We’ll reach its outer walls in less than a mile; the old shoreline just after that.”

  The sun—the first sun—sliced the waning darkness with a thin strip of silver. Kalas stumbled, dropped his shovel and clutched his head. For a moment, his world turned white and silent; then, subtle hints of some kind of music rose up within his mind. Without warning, the music swelled to orchestral proportions, danced across his synapses. Time seemed to slow. Kalas fell, struggling to make sense of the enlivened aural energy that arced all around and within him.

  Father, he tried to scream. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually made any sound.

  “Boy?” Tàran turned and raised an eyebrow.

  Kalas didn’t hear him. The music stopped, its last reverberations mere echoes. He remained where he’d fallen, pressed his hands against his eyes and let his head swing in time to the receding sound.

  “Boy!” repeated Tàran. He held out a rough hand.

  Slowly, Kalas let his hands fall. He blinked, looked around as though he’d forgotten where he was before he noticed his father’s outstretched arm.

  “What…what was that?” he wondered, accepting Tàran’s aid.

  “You hurt yourself?”

  “No, I don’t think so. That music though: what was that from?”

  “Music?” Kalas, still holding his father’s arm, felt it stiffen for the briefest instant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, boy: I didn’t hear anything.”

  “You didn’t hear those…I don’t know, chimes, I guess?”

  “Chimes? Out here?” Tàran’s forced laughter didn’t reach his eyes. “No, boy, I didn’t hear anything. You feeling all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, I just—” He raised a finger to his upper lip and wiped at something wet.

  “You sure?” demanded Tàran, pointing at Kalas’ bloody nose.

  “Yes, I’m sure, Father. See? It stopped already.”

  For a while, Kalas was sure Tàran was going to take him home. In truth, his head throbbed, though not too severely. And while Kalas really wanted to see the ancient ruins, his primary desire was not to disappoint his father.

  With a knowing sigh, Tàran decided, “If anything happens to you, I’ll never hear the end of it from your mother.” The leathery skin around his eyes crinkled as he winked at his co-conspirator. “Come on then, boy: we’ve still got a way before we reach the Pump, and with both suns in the sky, traveling will be difficult.”

  Kalas returned his father’s smile, retrieved his shovel, and as they set out again, he mumbled, “Tàfayan.”

  Tàran slowed down, cocked his head: “What was that?”

  “Tàfayan,” repeated Kalas. “Nalënahwu, the Premier Sun.”

  “That’s…what I thought you said…” muttered Tàran, quickening his pace. Changing the subject, he added, “Anyway, I almost hope we find something in the River. If we don’t, then it’s probably something wrong with the Pump, and it could be weeks, maybe months before someone figures it out.”

  Soon, the spires of Kësharan rose up behind a vast wall. Kalas gasped, enchanted by the interplay of jewel-toned colors glinting from rooftops in the sun’s waxing light. Through crumbled gates and broken stones, he let his gaze follow the few towers that remained standing into the sky. As though drawn, he took a step toward the largest opening.

  “The Land Gate—what’s left of it, at least,” nodded Tàran. He joined Kalas and continued, “The busiest gate when Kësharan was a thriving metropolis. At least, that’s what Tzharak clai
ms.”

  “That crazy old man who’s always telling those stories?”

  “I wouldn’t call him crazy, but yes, the eccentric older gentleman. He knows more about Lohwàlar, its surroundings, and its history than anyone else, I’d wager. Strange as he is—strange as his stories are—there’s something honest about him. How do you think I heard about the Ruins Road in the first place?”

  As they walked through the remains of Kësharan’s shadowed colonnades and weathered porticoes, Kalas saw its decay was much more advanced than he’d assumed, as though the city had suffered violent tragedy. Shattered fragments of crystal-paned windows or sculpture littered the streets. Several buildings had huge sections missing: others had collapsed completely. They altered course several times, avoiding canted and broken pillars and statuary, and exited the city onto an immense platform. Kalas peered over its edge, lost his balance to a wave of vertigo. The surface on which they stood was hundreds of feet above the earth, supported—for the moment—by timeworn pilings.

  “Watch yourself, boy!” warned Tàran, grabbing his son’s arm and leading him away from the platform’s crumbling edge. Loose stones hurtled into the chasm. “Come, this way.”

  The pair reentered the city, where Tàran led Kalas through another maze of avenues marked with faded chalk blazes that deposited them just outside the wall at the foot of a small hill.

  “There’s a trail here that leads down into the canyon. From there, it’s a few miles to the Pump. We’ve made good time, so we’ll rest a minute. Drink some water: you don’t want to—”

  Again, Kalas’ mind filled with music as everything around him—time included—seemed to smear. This time, however, there were shapes within the music, or so he thought. When it passed, the second sun was above the horizon, warming the first sun’s argent light with a soft, golden glow. Tàran’s mouth was moving, too slowly, until time snapped back into place.

  “—drated,” he finished. His eyebrow arched, he regarded Kalas for a moment.

  “It happened again, didn’t it?” he accused.

  “Did you hear it?” asked Kalas, his enthusiasm bare.

  Tàran shook his head, pointed to his son’s nose. “No, boy, I didn’t,” he sighed as Kalas wiped away another bloody streak. “If this keeps up, I’m taking you home. And I don’t—”

  “Father, I’m fine! I promise!” Kalas protested. Tàran must have noticed his eyes, squint against the dull pounding between his temples. “If…if it gets worse, I’ll tell you! I promise! Please don’t make me go home!”

  Tàran remained silent. With a huff—and a hint of pride—he conceded, “I admire your determination, boy. I do. And it’s your second Seven: you’re not a child anymore. If you say you’re fine, fair enough. Still, I am your father…”

  “I’m fine, Father. Really,” Kalas assured him. He picked up his pack, cinched its straps, and gestured toward the hilltop, beyond which lie the rim of the Empty Sea.

  2.

  Kalas peered out over a vast gorge, its opposite edge obscured by haze. Beneath him, birds soared on updrafts toward points unknown. An immense and ancient forest, its treetops rippling in the warm, rising air, spread out across the floor of the canyon. Obscured by the forest’s canopy, occasional specks of reflected suns-light glimmered across the meandering surface of the Rumiyilswàr, a stitch of silver thread sewn into the very fabric of the earth.

  What Tàran called a trail, Kalas discovered, was little more than a series of thin switchbacks and rough hand- and footholds carved into the slope of the cliff. Another slight suggestion of dizziness upset Kalas’ equilibrium. He closed his eyes for a moment: when he opened them, the sensation had passed.

  “It’s almost a quarter mile straight down,” Tàran explained. “It’s more like a league, maybe less, for us. It’ll take an hour or two to reach the bottom; after that, it’s still quite a hike to the river. Just watch your step. You’ll be fine.”

  They reached the ground without incident. Kalas, panting, noticed his father seemed a little breathless, too.

  “That’s the worst of it,” said Tàran, recovered. Kalas, seated on a tree-shaded rock, nodded. “It’s downhill—if only slightly—from here to the Pump. It’s another three or four miles, but they’re easy miles. Especially compared to that!” Tàran gestured toward the route they’d just descended.

  “You ready?”

  “Now I know why we usually take the Pump Road!” he nodded. Kalas picked up his shovel, and, ignoring his headache as best he could, followed his father along an almost invisible path between the trees.

  As the forest deepened, the suns-light weakened and the air grew cooler. It wasn’t long before he could make out the gentle rush of the Rumiyilswàr somewhere ahead of them. Myriad woodland creatures chattered within the shadows; songbirds chirped, flit from branch to branch. After a while, Tàran and Kalas reached the river.

  Animal tracks dotted its serpentine banks. Where its waters frothed and tumbled over rocks, Kalas saw rainbows shimmer in the spray. A bit downstream, the rapids lessened, dissolved into powerless whorls and eddies carried away by the exhausted current. They walked, fording the river’s many curves along their way.

  “Well,” surveyed Tàran, “at least this part of the Ilswàr looks all right. We should keep working our way downriver, make sure everything’s okay.”

  Without warning, the sky darkened and the air acquired an amber tint. Just as suddenly, the animal sounds ceased. Kalas looked up at a writhing mass of purple clouds, ripe with suggestions of fire. Before he could ask his father what was happening, a sizzling fork of orange energy split the sky, wormed its way into a tree and, for a fraction of a second, disappeared—the tree seemed to glow as it exploded with a searing flash. Kalas ducked as a sizable branch sailed over his head; Tàran dived for cover as another whistled through the space where he’d been standing.

  “What’s going on?” Kalas yelled, his voice swallowed by wind that had risen out of nowhere.

  Tàran took a step toward him and bellowed. “Ilâegsali! Back toward the cliffs! Hwer! Now!” With an anxious shove, he prodded Kalas, who stumbled, dropped his shovel. He knelt to retrieve it.

  “Forget it! Just go!”

  Kalas obeyed, crossed the knee-deep river with moderate difficulty. Tàran helped him over its bank and continued, “Quickly! Shelter! Look for shelter! A cave! A ledge! Anything!”

  Tàran scanned his surroundings, saw nothing satisfactory, and, with a curse, dropped his pack and rifled through its contents. He withdrew a bundle of poles and skins which the mounting wind ripped from his hands.

  “Bethru, al neshritëthu!” he swore.

  “Father! Look!” shouted Kalas. A gust had pushed aside just enough cover for Kalas to notice an outcropping under which they could find shelter.

  “Well done, boy! Well done!” cheered Tàran as he grabbed his pack and followed his son into safety.

  “Toward the back,” he urged. When he was satisfied they were safe, he sat.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Kalas, shivering.

  “Just wait,” breathed Tàran. “Listen.”

  At first, Kalas heard nothing—not even the wind, which had already died. Then, a series of faint tink, tink, tinks, each followed by a hiss of steam, broke the stillness. With abandon, the sky opened up.

  “The rain that hungers,” said Tàran. “We should be safe in here. Should be.” Thunder boomed, underscoring his doubt.

  Above them, the clouds hurled themselves in torrents to the ground as occasional lightning bolts stabbed at the earth. Kalas and his father waited, silent as the storm unleashed its sourceless rage.

  3.

  “‘The rain that hungers?’” asked Kalas when the downpour had stopped.

  “Hungry rain. Rainfire. Falling fire. It’s rare, and you do not want to get caught in it. If you hadn’t spotted this place, we’d have had to hope this tent would have been enough.” Tàran patted his pack.

  “Why? It’s just rain, righ
t?”

  Tàran surveyed the forest. Deeming it safe, he beckoned to Kalas. “Look around.”

  “It’s the forest,” Kalas muttered. “Same as before.”

  “Look a little closer,” encouraged Tàran.

  Kalas looked again. He was about to repeat himself when he noticed thick, white smoke swirling among the trees, rising in some places and spilling over the pocked ground in others. Many of the trees appeared as though burned: some still smoldered, glowed with subtle embers. The suns, shining down through cloudless sky, glinted from something near the river’s edge. Kalas picked his way toward it, knelt to retrieve it, and held up the smoking remains of his shovel. Its metal blade, gleaming mere moments ago, was now pitted with rough, black indentations, ragged where the rainfire had eaten it.

  “Not ‘just rain,’” noted Tàran, who’d joined Kalas. “No one knows what causes it, but those purple clouds, that orange sky—that’s a sure sign it’s coming. This, though: this is the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m sorry about the shovel,” said Kalas.

  “Well,” he said, his eyes smiling, “I’m sure Gandhan can have Zhalera make us a new one…”

  Kalas blushed, looked away. Something caught his attention.

  “Father, what kind of rock is that?” he asked, pointing toward the formation under which they’d taken shelter. The vines and mosses that had covered it had been burned away by the storm; now, it appeared milky white, almost pearlescent. A thin, straight line, beginning somewhere within the cliff, bisected its perfect symmetry; another rose perpendicular from the first, followed its contours until it was no longer visible. Unlike the surrounding exposed faces, it bore no trace of the hungry rain’s destructive touch.

  “I don’t know,” Tàran marveled. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Kalas approached it, reached up and ran his fingers over its surface.

  “It’s so smooth! Feels like some kind of metal!” he exclaimed, turning to Tàran.