Shadowbound

by Carrie Summers

Touch her for me, the man said. Please. I’ve been here for . . . I don’t know. Time is strange. But all I’ve wanted to do is hold her.

  “Miva, this will be difficult to hear,” I said. “Your lover is dead.”

  Husband! We were married two years before she . . . before they took her.

  “Lover? What?” she said, lip curling.

  “Husband,” I corrected. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, but I saw the doubt in her eyes.

  “I saw it happen. A guard struck him. The blow was intended for his shoulder, but he turned at the last second and took it on the temple.” I left out the part about the jeweled box and the man’s intent to sell it to pay her debts.

  Miva’s eyelids fluttered as she struggled to reject what I’d said.

  “I have no reason to lie,” I offered.

  Acceptance fell over her like a yoke. Her face, moments ago a mask of cool indifference, twisted in pain. Miva collapsed to the cobbles that floored her cell, a wail escaping her lips. I followed her movement, dropping down beside her, and threaded my arm through the bars. She sat just out of reach; my fingers trailed over the stones as I withdrew them.

  I don’t know what to do, I said, unsure whether I was speaking to the husband or Tyrak.

  Tyrak answered: Do what you were born for, Lilik. You’re a channeler, the bridge where the living and the dead meet. You offer comfort. Connection.

  Who in the rotted heap was that? the husband asked.

  The similarities in the couple’s speech habits lifted my spirits. I licked my lips, staring into Miva’s eyes.

  From behind, I heard mutterings in the other cells. More than one of them mentioned the word “nightcaller.” I ignored the other prisoners and focused on the task at hand.

  I narrowed my thoughts and concentrated only on Tyrak. I didn’t realize he could hear you, too.

  Your channeling talent is a bonfire, Lilik, he responded.

  There it is again! the husband cried.

  His name is Tyrak, I thought. He lost someone, too. What’s your name?

  Dreven. Dreven Han.

  I looked at the woman, her face torn by despair and confusion. Dreven, tell me something that only you and Miva knew. I need to convince her you’re here.

  I . . . well . . . tell her the babies hatched. Two weeks after the guards took her. Three little chicks peeping and squawking in the eaves. They’ve fledged now. Flown away.

  “Miva, will you take my hand?”

  She looked at me like a cat who’d just been squirted with water. “Why?”

  Go gently, Tyrak said. In my time, the bereaved knew what to expect from a channeler.

  “I have a message for you,” I said quietly.

  At this, the woman’s eyes shot to the guard. He’d backed off a respectful distance to give us privacy. Still, I understood Miva’s nervousness. She was locked away here with no hope of release. Things could still get worse, though. Trader justice was never kind.

  “It’s nothing dangerous. It’s from Dreven.”

  Her dead husband’s name brought a whine of grief from her lips, but I pressed on. “He wants you to know the chicks hatched not long after your arrest. They’ve flown away now.”

  Miva’s lips pulled back from her teeth, a feral snarl. “So you tried to cozy up to him once I was locked up, that it?” She eyed me up and down. “What are you? Thirteen? My Dreven would have nothing to do with that.”

  Tell her there was never anyone but her, Dreven said. From the first moment outside the doomsayer’s stall.

  “He says you’re the only one he’s wanted, ever since that day outside the doomsayer’s. Miva, I know this is difficult to accept. I take it you weren’t free when the Nocturnai sailed for Ioene.”

  She snorted. “Trader business for a trader war.”

  A few of the other prisoners cheered at her words.

  “Same thing now, what with the Ulstats attacking,” a nearby man said. He stood in his cell, dirty hands wrapping the bars. “We ought to have stood up for ourselves decades ago.”

  “Never should have signed that stupid defense bargain in the first place,” Miva spat. She stared at me, eyes piercing. “So if you weren’t out for his affection, what? You keep talking like he’s alive even though you just told me the opposite.”

  Thinking about the number of ears listening in, I reconsidered what I’d been revealing. None of the prisoners would be talking to a trader any time soon, but one of the guards might decide to tell the Council that I claimed I could speak to the dead. Specifically, a recently deceased Istaniker. Now that I’d explained channeling to the traders, someone would put it together. And they absolutely could not know about the presence of nightstrands on Stanik Island.

  Reaching into her cage, I gestured for Miva to come closer. Though she regarded me with narrowed eyes, she edged within reach. Straining, I pressed a finger against her wrist.

  “It’s not important how I know,” I said. At the same time, I projected my thought: Dreven. Try to speak to her.

  It was only a theory; I had no training in channeling. But it had been so much easier to hear the strands when I’d laid my hands on Ioene’s stone. Plus, Tyrak’s voice was much stronger when I touched the dagger. It might work.

  Miva. My love. Dreven’s voice broke before he could say more.

  But Miva heard. I knew it by her gasp. Staring at me, she shook her head side to side, astonished.

  “I just know,” I said quietly.

  “Hey,” the guard warned, booted feet stomping closer. “No touching the prisoners.”

  I wondered why he’d decided to object now, but quickly understood when I glanced over my shoulder. The iron gate had swung open, and a knot of traders had stepped into the yard. Among them, I spotted Trader Yiltak and Trader Korpit. So much for my hopes of getting inside the building. Smoothly, so as not to cause more trouble for the guard who’d been lenient, I slid away from Miva’s cage.

  “Will you come again?” she whispered.

  “Every half-moon that I’m in the city.”

  As she smiled at me, her lip trembled. A tear slipped down her cheek.

  Well done, Tyrak said. I’m proud of you.

  What can I do to thank you? Dreven asked.

  I started to tell him no thanks were necessary. I was a channeler; this was my duty. But as I watched the traders gather, whispering and casting glances my way, I realized there was one thing he could do for me.

  Can you feel the other prisoners? I asked. On Ioene, the strands had difficulty sensing distance and location in the same way as the living, but for them, people burned bright.

  Silence filled my mind while Dreven considered.

  I think so, he said at last. It’s been difficult, but I’m feeling more . . . anchored now that you’re here.

  It was much the same in our time, Tyrak added.

  There’s a young man. A trader, locked inside. Raav Ovintak. He’s here with his mother.

  I feel him.

  My throat caught. Is he okay? Is he hurt? Afraid?

  He’s okay. Hungry. But he’s okay.

  My breath left my lungs. “Thank you,” I whispered, forgetting to speak through my thoughts.

  “Huh?” the guard asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  I approached the traders, head held high. Most of them ignored me, though they clearly knew who I was. Trader Yiltak, on the other hand, fixed me with a hard stare. I met her eyes and shrugged. She didn’t control my movements. Though she might suspect my reasons for coming here, she had no proof.

  Nodding at her, I stalked out the open gate. Only once I’d cleared the grounds did I pause to wonder: why were the traders here? Were they moving on Raav already? I whirled, ready to beg for his life. Too late: the gate swung shut in my face, its squeal reminding me of Miva’s wail upon hearing news of her beloved’s death.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I STILL HAD hours to wait before my meeting with th
e Korpit sisters. I wanted to keep my mind off Raav, so I decided to investigate the Istaniker nightstrands a little more before seeing Katrikki. I thought about the voices I’d heard growing up, so many stories I’d decided were created by my overactive imagination. They’d seemed like little scenes from the past. Histories. Unlike the strands on Ioene, the spirits in Istanik’s aether seemed confused. Locked to the stories of their deaths, maybe. What better place to try to contact them than the graveyard?

  Near the stilt-houses on the upper fringes of the slums, the terrain plunged into a narrow valley. On one of the hillsides, before the final drop into the gorge where runoff from heavy winter rains carved a trench, a natural bench had formed. Centuries ago, the trees had been cleared away and a stone fence constructed. Much of the fence had fallen now, tumbling into the ravine below, but the enclosed area hadn’t changed. Istanik’s graveyard was a peaceful place, a meeting of ancient and new. Toward the back, the oldest graves were marked by headstones so worn by age and moss that no one knew who lay beneath them. Nearer to the city, the recent dead were buried.

  As I neared the grounds, I swallowed hard at the sight of the newest graves. Two of them with the earth so freshly turned they could only be the people who’d been killed in the Ulstat attack. Dreven and another.

  All at once, I was so angry I wanted to sink the Ulstat fleet myself. But it wasn’t only the Ulstat’s who’d hurt us. The Trader Council was just as much to blame. And had any of them shown a drop of remorse that one of their own members had turned on Istanik? Were they even considering risking themselves to take down the Ulstats?

  Even before the Ulstat warships sailed into the harbor, the Council had been coming up with excuses for why they couldn’t help on Ioene. Most likely, they’d still be arguing with me if the Ulstat’s hadn’t shown up. And all the while, Mieshk grew stronger.

  As I stood looking over the graves, I realized I was well and truly done hoping for their help. Gutterborn would retake Ioene. But before we set sail, we’d retake the city. It was the only way to be sure that no more commoners would die because of trader arrogance. We’d throw the Ulstats out of our harbor, and as soon as the Council lost power, I’d free Raav and the prisoners who’d been locked up for the crime of being poor.

  Whenever I visited the cemetery, I made a point to pay tribute to Paono’s parents. Buried side by side, they were as close in death as they’d been in life. After slipping through the gate into the yard, I found their markers by ease of habit, and knelt in the moonlit grass.

  “I’ll bring him home,” I promised, imagining they were watching.

  And maybe they were. My tribute finished, I stood and faced the recesses of the cemetery. When I was young, this place used to spook me. I still remembered shivering, gooseflesh on my arms, during the funeral for Paono’s parents. But now, even at night, I felt only stillness in my heart. With what I’d learned on Ioene, the friendships I’d made with the spirits of the dead, I knew there was nothing to fear here.

  Looking upon the moon-silvered graves, I opened my mind.

  And gasped, recoiling.

  Within the graveyard, the nightstrands howled. They ached. They lived in confusion and loss. Immediately, my jaw clenched with the rising urge to vomit.

  Fires, Lilik. It’s awful.

  I clasped my forehead between my fingers and thumbs. Had our dead been suffering like this ever since the survivors of the Vanished civilization washed up on our shores?

  Can I fix it? I asked.

  I—I don’t know. Not right away. I don’t think it’s like this for all of them. Not Dreven, clearly, but he had your early guidance. There must be others.

  “I hope so,” I said, my voice loud in the darkness. My illusions that the graveyard was a place of repose had been shattered. I no longer wanted to pretend there was peace to be found here.

  It’s nearly time to meet Katrikki.

  I nodded, swallowing. In truth, I was glad for the excuse to leave.

  The tree’s rough bark felt like oyster shells, smooth yet sharp, with edges that could cut. Carefully, I climbed from a large limb onto the wall, then spotted the other tree, some narrow-leafed variety, a few paces away. The branches didn’t overhang the wall as far as I’d hoped—maybe they’d been trimmed since Mareti’s childhood. I wasn’t sure how I’d manage to get back out of the gardens but decided I could solve that problem later. Teetering atop the wall, I jumped and caught the closest limb. The branch bent and crackled, leaves rustling. My heart crawled up my windpipe, lodging there for a moment while I waited for the inevitable snap of breaking wood, but the tree held. Wrapping my legs over the branch, I shimmied for the trunk.

  “Ever think of joining an acrobats’ troupe?” Katrikki asked when I’d climbed low enough to hear her whisper.

  I dropped the last body length to the ground. “Nah. I have too much fun hawking eggs.”

  Mareti smiled at this, earning a glare from her sister that quickly vanished. Katrikki might not like me any more than I did her, but she recognized the help we offered one another.

  “So here we are,” Mareti said.

  “Any luck with Raav?” I asked.

  She shook her head, her frustration showing on her face. “Maybe if I were heir. But I doubt they’d listen even then. They have no idea what to do about the Ulstats.”

  “Have they tried to get aboard the ships? The cannon are the only problem here.” I shook my head, equally frustrated.

  “True, but who is going to do it? No trader will risk it, and last I heard the soldiers are refusing orders until they find out who wins. Most House guardsmen are useless for shipboard combat.”

  “So they’d rather take the easy route and sacrifice Raav.”

  She shrugged. “It’s typical trader negotiation. Figure out the position of least risk and bargain from there.”

  “Least risk to whom?” I asked, wondering why I’d ever considered asking for help from the Trader Council.

  Mareti sighed. “You don’t have to convince me, Lilik.”

  “But you didn’t drag me out of bed to talk to my sister, right?” Katrikki cut in.

  As I turned to face the girl Paono had chosen, Tyrak whispered in my mind. You sure she’s an ally?

  I nodded. Like Gaff had said, way back on Ioene when I was holding my secrets too close, I had to trust someone, sometime.

  Katrikki’s brows had drawn together when Tyrak spoke. “Lilik?” she asked.

  My attention snapped to her. “Yes?”

  “Lost you for a moment. You used to do that when you talked to the air.”

  I almost smiled. “My imaginary friends.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice cracked, just slightly, at the reminder of the conversation I’d had with her and Paono.

  “You must miss him,” I said softly.

  She nodded. “I’m not the only one, though. We both care about him.”

  Her honesty cemented my decision. “I have something to tell you. I need you—both of you—to promise to keep it quiet.”

  As I looked between them, the Korpit sisters nodded.

  “The nightstrands are here, too,” I said. “In Istanik.”

  Katrikki inhaled sharply. “Really? But we never—”

  “Did you ever try?”

  “No, but someone must have.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “But there’s a lot we don’t know about nightcalling. Maybe it only works on Ioene. Will you try?”

  She blinked, surprised at the request. “I . . . sure.”

  Mouthing the Chant of the Five, she closed her eyes. After a moment, her body relaxed, swept away by the trance we’d worked so hard to master aboard the Evaeni. As she fell deeper, I opened my mind, searching for the brush of spirits.

  After a moment, Katrikki stiffened. I felt the soul, a tattered thing muttering nonsense, most likely driven mad by centuries of isolation, slip toward her. As Katrikki reached for it, the spirit howled, knocking me aside.

  Stop! Wait! I ca
lled to the strand, hoping to calm him, but it was no use. The terrified spirit thrashed against Katrikki’s pull.

  I stepped to her and laid a hand on her forearm. “Let him go,” I said.

  Katrikki’s eyes fluttered open. She swallowed. “They’re different.”

  “They had no channeler or histories to explain what was happening. They’ve been lost, floating and alone. Some for centuries.”

  “Ioene has the Vanished, and we have the Lost,” she said, a desolate smile on her face. Maybe Katrikki wasn’t so bad. Some of the time, anyway.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t be able to call them,” I said. “If that were the case, I wouldn’t have to worry about the traders imprisoning our ancestors.”

  “So that’s why you wanted to meet?”

  “Partly,” I answered. “But we need to talk about Mieshk. We can’t keep waiting for the Council. Not if we want to get to Ioene before the storm season.”

  Katrikki shrugged. “I’m confined to my house.”

  “I need money,” I said bluntly. When I’d asked Mareti to bring Katrikki here, the thought hadn’t yet occurred to me. But after the conversation with Tyrak earlier in the day, I’d realized the Korpits were more than voices on the Council. They were some of the richest people in Istanik.

  I almost laughed at Katrikki’s shocked expression. Conditioned to take offense at anyone asking for charity, she blinked and cleared her throat.

  “Oh, sail over it, Katrikki,” Mareti said. She turned her gaze to me. “Of course. How much?”

  “To start? Let’s say twenty gold shields. But it would be easier if you could give me that amount in smaller coin. Crescents and silver jits, if possible.”

  At this, even Mareti’s eyes widened. “It’s a small sum for our family, but I know how little commoners survive on. How will this help you get to Ioene?”

  I hesitated. Should I tell them the truth? The defense tax had built the Council warships. Gutterborn had just as much right to them as the traders did. And if any of those ships survived the Ulstat siege, we needed them to sail for Ioene. The fastest way to get ahold of them was to take them. But we couldn’t do that while the Council and their guardsmen had control of the city. If the Korpits were gutterborn, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell them my plans. But could I trust them considering their birth?