Nightforged (Shattering of the Nocturnai Book 1)

by Carrie Summers

  The other nightcallers were filing aboard with their sentinels. Mieshk had selected a girl almost as gaunt as she was. I wondered if they didn’t eat on Araok Island. Mieshk glowered while she walked. I tried to think nice thoughts.

  Behind the Araokan traders, Katrikki Korpit, the—though I hated to admit it—stunning ice-blond, stepped onto the gangway. When her sentinel followed, my breath caught. He was the dark to Katrikki’s light. If anything, more striking. As tall as most grown men, he had wide shoulders, muscular without being heavy. Black hair fell across his forehead in a slight wave. His eyes held secrets.

  I wrenched my gaze away; I had months ahead to stare at the other nightcallers’ faces. No need to watch them get on the boat.

  The last half hour rushed by. Finally, crewmen descended the gangway to free our mooring lines from their cleats. The closest musicians started up a quick jig. Crowd members tossed the ends of ribbons up to voyagers at the rail. My heart crawled into my throat.

  After freeing the lines, the crewmen leaped from the quay, swinging on the ropes across the widening gap before climbing hand over hand to the rail. The crowd roared while sailors heaved against the ropes that raised the sails.

  Canvas bellied in the salt-smelling breeze, and the Evaeni tugged forward. I stumbled.

  Someone laughed. “Look at her. Can’t even stand on the deck.”

  I whirled upon Mieshk and her sentinel. The pair sneered at me.

  I bent my knees to keep my balance and turned away. Unfortunately, the captain chose that moment to change direction, sending me tumbling into a pile of rigging.

  Mieshk, standing as if rooted to the ground, raised her chin. “You cripple the Nocturnai just by being here, gutterscamp. Don’t think anyone will forget that.”

  The ropes beneath me smelled like turpentine and seaweed. With the light sway of the deck, the scent made my belly roil. A shadow crossed the deck. One of the harbor guardstones, blocking the morning sun. When we sailed past, the nesting gulls screeched.

  “Obviously the captain didn’t think so,” I retorted.

  “A confident leader chooses the strongest individuals for his team,” Mieshk said. “Vidyul Altak has shown that he’s weak. We may all regret that.”

  Clearly, Mieshk and I would not become friends. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” I asked as I grabbed a barrel that had been lashed to the deck and pulled up. The world spun, and my stomach tightened. I picked a spot on the horizon and concentrated on it while I staggered away.

  “Goodbye, little land rat,” one of them called.

  I found Paono near the bow. At ease with the sway of the decks, he greeted me with a grin that faded when he saw my face.

  "You okay?"

  "Just seasick."

  A few long strides brought him to my side. I breathed deep, relieved. No matter what else happened on the voyage, I’d have one steadfast ally.

  “Seen your bunk yet?” I asked.

  “Nope. Shall we?”

  We headed for the closest ladder. When I stumbled, he caught my elbow to steady me. Warm comfort spread outward from his hands. Things weren’t so terrible.

  The air in the hold was stuffy, smelling of damp wood and lamp oil. The nightcallers shared a cabin. Paono and I peeked in to see Heiklet, the young caller, curled on her bunk. Homesick, I guessed. She smiled, a lonely expression.

  The sentinels were housed in the next lower level of the hold, in small cabins scattered between storage rooms. Down here, the air was even danker, sopping and mildewy. My stomach cramped. Clenching my jaw, I vowed to struggle through the few minutes Paono needed to check out his room. He had to sleep in this dungeon.

  The cabin's damp-swollen wooden door caught on the floor, and Paono had to yank it open. Meanwhile, another huge wave rocked the ship. I braced my hand against the wall and swallowed. Sweat slimed my face.

  “Guess we’re roommates.” The voice hummed from within Paono’s cabin, sounding like the bass string on a violin.

  Katrikki’s sentinel stepped into the open door, and my tongue turned to rubber.

  “Raav,” the boy said with an easy smile.

  He and Paono shook hands. When Raav turned to greet me, my stomach finally rebelled.

  “Bucket!” I said, voice squeaking.

  Paono’s eyes widened, and he dashed down the aisle, turning at a cross-passage. A mop toppled into the main aisle with a clatter. Paono dashed back with a wooden bucket clutched in both hands.

  Just in time. I fell to my knees and lost my breakfast.

  “Poor thing,” Raav said.

  I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t even look at Paono. Staggering to my feet, I stumbled for the ladder.

  The walls swam, and lanterns were blurry streaks of light. I followed the brightest glow toward the hatch. Once outside, I swayed like a drunk toward the forward rail, leaned over and was sick again before sinking into a humiliated heap. Soon after, an arm fell across my shoulders.

  “You’ll get used to the motion.”

  I looked at Paono. “Will I?”

  He shrugged. “I imagine so.”

  A dark head emerged from the ladder leading below. Wide shoulders followed, and Raav raised his face to the sunlight.

  As he stepped higher, I stared, horrified. He was carrying my bucket.

  Without a word to Paono or me, he walked to the far rail and dumped its revolting contents overboard. After tying a rope to the handle, he lowered the bucket to the sea for washing.

  I’d never been more ashamed.

  Chapter Eight

  I TOSSED IN my bunk through the first night, fighting the urge to spill my stomach again, and in the morning, a squall moved through. At this point, I had no pride left. I spent the breakfast hours dry-heaving over the rail. But by mid-morning, the winds had quieted, and my stomach finally began to settle.

  The Evaeni rolled when it crested the lazy waves. Canvas sails flapped and bellied in the light wind, and the rigging creaked when each swell rocked the ship. The captain steered a course down a wide strait. To starboard, an island rose from the sea. Trails switchbacked up steep mountainsides, leading to terraced fields. More farms quilted the valley floors.

  To port, the island of Araok spread in blocky, dark hills pocked with the black holes of its many mines. Smoke rose from ore smelters, tossing hints of sulfur and ash into the breeze that filled our sails. Araok was home to the House of Ulstat. Mieshk’s domain. Seeing the ugly island firsthand, I had little difficulty imagining it birthing the Ulstat monster-heir.

  Behind us, Stanik Island was already lost in the haze. I’d been so sick I hadn’t even taken a last look.

  “Not there, boy. Coil that line beneath the port windlass. You’re just making more work for the rest of us.”

  I searched for the shout's source. Oh, poor Paono. Near the forward mast, he stood with a rope coil wrapped in his fist. A pair of deckhands faced him, all muscle and sinew, patched trousers and squinty glares.

  Paono's coil of rope dropped to the deck. “Windlass?”

  One of the deckhands snarled, baring yellowed teeth in his weathered face. “Maybe you ought to learn Evaeni’s fittings before you try to work her decks, eh? Get below, green boy. Find someone to show you around.”

  There was nothing I could do. If I butted into the conversation, I’d just embarrass Paono.

  “Lilik?”

  A young boy, no older than ten, had appeared at my side.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Makal. My da’s the first mate.”

  A cabin boy. Makal’s hair looked like mice nested in it, and his trousers sat crookedly on his narrow hips.

  “I’m supposed to tell you that the other nightcallers are waiting,” he said. “The strandmistress doesn’t like girls that come late to their lesson.”

  Lesson? No one had mentioned there'd be a lesson this afternoon.

  “Where?”

  “Mistress Nyralit’s cabin.”

  “Which is?”
<
br />   He scratched his mouse-nest head and looked at me like I was stupid. “Right next to yours.”

  “Not everyone grew up on this boat.”

  He shrugged and craned his neck to watch a crewman climb to the crow’s nest. “If you’re still standing around like a post in a field, don’t blame me when the mistress comes to fetch you herself.”

  I headed for the aft hatch, adding Makal to my list of people to avoid.

  Inside Mistress Nyralit’s cabin, a small, glassed porthole admitted a shaft of sunlight that fell on the thick rug. On her bunk, pillows were piled high, and the bed covers were patterned in the style of the Tuukan weavers, a tiny colony of artisans on the smallest of the Kiriilt Islands.

  Five pale faces turned when I entered. I ignored the other girls and curtsied to Mistress Nyralit. I didn’t make an excuse for being late.

  “Sorry, Mistress.”

  “Well then,” Mistress Nyralit said, “it seems we can finally begin.”

  I took a seat at the rug’s edge. To my left, Katrikki Korpit, back straight as an iron rod, shifted away. On my right, Heiklet Srukolk sat cross-legged and attentive. Her thumbs rubbed back and forth over the fabric of her trousers.

  “So then, the nightstrands. What brings them to Ioene?” Mistress Nyralit looked around the circle.

  When no one answered, I swallowed and spoke. “Depends on who you ask, Mistress. Either they’re attracted to the volcano’s heat and our talent simply allows us to sense them, or the aether extrudes them in the presence of a nightcaller.”

  “Or the ancestor-gods of a nightcaller’s family herd them from the depths,” Mieshk said.

  Mistress Nyralit arched her eyebrows. “That theory was discarded decades ago, Mieshk. If the ancestor-gods were responsible, only traders could call the strands. Lilik here disproves it.”

  Mieshk's face darkened, and her knuckles blanched, bone-white, when she squeezed her knees. Mistress Nyralit was not helping me get along with the traders.

  The strandmistress continued. “So . . . the basics of nightcalling. Who knows the fundamental techniques?”

  I plucked at the nap on the rug. Wasn’t anyone else going to answer? I’d already drawn enough attention.

  Mistress Nyralit was watching me. “You know the answer, don’t you, Lilik? Well, speak up.”

  “A—a blindfolded nightcaller senses a nearby strand and plucks it from the night. The strand must be calmed and then threaded carefully through the holes in the reliquary. Otherwise, it will thrash and become tattered, and anything forged with it will be defective.”

  Unless you had the Yiltak figurine in your reliquary. In that case, strands entered the container without help. According to Moanet, anyway. An anxious tingle numbed my fingertips.

  The lesson continued like this, with Mistress Nyralit testing our basic knowledge, and the callers—mostly me—answering. I could almost smell the hatred in the room.

  In the middle of a discussion about infusing hot metal with a collected strand, Mistress Nyralit stood. “Thank you, callers. Time’s up. We’ll begin here tomorrow.”

  One by one, we clambered off our cushions.

  “Lilik.” Mistress Nyralit held a nightforged chain. She slid it between her fingers and caught it in her other palm. When she released the end, the chain slithered across her hand and wrapped her wrist. Nightcrafted items were often like that, behaving according to their owner’s desires. Nightforged silver ewers kept summer wines cool while warming mulled cider during the chill rains of winter. And, of course, the nightforged weapons were unlike any other, swords seeming to move an instant before the wielder decided to cut, throwing daggers hitting their target no matter how bad the toss.

  “Yes?” I said, bobbing my head in a small bow.

  “Stay a moment. The rest of you should retire to your cabin and recheck the stowing of your belongings. We cannot predict the onset of storms.”

  The traders filed past, glaring. Was the strandmistress trying to get me thrown overboard?

  Mistress Nyralit pushed the door firmly shut before she spoke. “Tomorrow, if no one carries you the news of our meeting time, please check with me no later than one hour after lunch. I’m guessing you had no idea we were beginning lessons today.”

  “I’m sure it was just a mistake.”

  “Nonsense. But not unexpected. You’ve stolen something precious from the traders—their sense of superiority.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “But they’ll come around, I suspect. Or they won’t. Not your fault if they spend the voyage wallowing in envy. And you should never hide your knowledge for their sake.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “See you tomorrow, Lilik.”

  When I reached the callers’ cabin, I stopped short. Inside, my trunk yawned wide. My possessions covered the floor as if the wooden box had coughed them up. As soon as the traders noticed me, they stopped laughing.

  Moanet’s figurine. My heart stopped beating. If anyone found the statuette and figured out its use, I was dead. Probably Paono, too. It took everything I had to stay calm. I plucked clothing from the floor while I walked, bundling it in my arms. Sitting on my bunk, I calmly folded a fur-lined cloak I’d need for the long night ahead. While I worked, I glanced into the trunk. There. The figurine’s case peeked out from beneath a pair of heavy leather mitts. A warm flush of relief spilled through my body.

  When I leaned down to place the cloak inside the trunk, I lifted the case’s lid and palmed the little statuette. After sitting up, I slipped it into my pants pocket.

  I’d been an idiot to leave the heirloom unguarded. Never again. Without looking at the other girls, I folded the rest of my possessions and tucked them back into the trunk.

  “It wasn’t us,” Heiklet said quietly. The small girl sat on her bunk, apart from the other traders. With her back against the wall, her feet barely cleared the edge of her bed.

  I shrugged, worried that my voice might break. Even if that were true, none of them had lifted a finger to help me. I latched the lid of my trunk, wishing for a lock.

  As I pushed out the door, a figure descended the ladder, a boy with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was facing away. Dark hair curled lightly against his neck. It looked like Paono—he really had grown in the last year. I hoped so; I needed a friend right now. But when the boy turned, my shoulders slumped. Raav.

  He seemed to fill the aisle when he drew close. There wasn't enough space to duck around him.

  “Hello,” he said.

  I nodded a greeting. All I could think about was throwing up at his feet.

  “How was your first training?” he asked.

  If the nightcallers hadn’t emptied my trunk, maybe it had been the sentinels. I swallowed to steady my voice.

  “The training was fine.”

  “Listen,” he said, “half my trader friends were sick on their first ocean voyage. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  Raav’s hair fell across one of his eyebrows. He’d stepped close while I was staring at my feet. The knot of cartilage in his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Abruptly, I felt too warm.

  I turned sideways to edge around him. “Thanks for cleaning up after me.”

  “I was happy to help.” He pivoted as if to keep the conversation going, but I continued on.

  “Bye, then, Lilik,” he said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  Was he really, or was he making fun of me? A smile curled his lips, amused but not mocking. The edge of my foot caught a floorboard. I stumbled.

  Idiot. I ducked my head and scurried for the ladder.

  Chapter Nine

  Finally, we grazed the shallows of the northern-most Outer Isle, and our next tack sent us into the open ocean. I looked back at the craggy headland, the last glimpse of home we’d see for months. Home, but only in name. The outer Kiriilt Islands were sharp, rocky, and harsh, entirely foreign compared to the rounded, lush hills of Stanik.

  My mother was somewhere among
those crags, returned to her birthplace. The ache of her abandonment throbbed in my heart. To my eyes, choosing this place over Stanik Island was insane. The wind blew harder here, forcing the sparse vegetation to wedge deep in fissures and gullies. Villages crusted the crags’ leeward sides and extended out as floating rafts of shanties connected by narrow plank bridges.

  Yet despite the apparent hardships, the pull here had been so strong that it’d torn her from her children, from the cozy house and soft bed my father had provided.

  But no amount of thinking about it would change what my mother had done. I forced my eyes away and didn't look astern until the Outer Isles had fallen beneath the horizon.

  After we had cleared the Islands, the view lay unchanged, day after day. The open ocean spread to a hazy horizon, broken only by the occasional herd of whitecaps raised when a gust of wind plucked wavelets from the water’s surface. Sometimes, Paono joined me for a few minutes between tasks, and we sat shoulder to shoulder in the sun. Others, I sat alone.

  One afternoon, I’d found a small cubby formed by stacks of crates with a pile of fishing net in the bottom. A perfect spot for a snooze. I’d just shut my eyes when a shout traveled the deck.

  “Captain! Got a stowaway.”

  I’d forgotten about the boy I’d seen hanging onto the seaward ladder. He’d probably been lurking in the lowest hold this whole time, miserable in the dark and the damp.

  I peeked over a crate. Yes, it was the same child. Brown eyes, black hair. Staniker through and through. Two crewmen grabbed him under the arms. They held his toes a good distance above the deck. The boy didn’t struggle.

  Captain Altak had been helming the wheel himself. He handed off control of the ship and marched forward.

  “Rotten tides, boy.”

  Captain Altak smacked him on the side of the head, and I winced. For all his words about Prisak Relat, he was being awfully rough.