Shattering of the Nocturnai Box Set

by Carrie Summers

  Finally, I glimpsed her in the dimmer glow at the end of the waterfront. Because she’d been moored far from the buzz of daily harbor traffic, Zyri’s Promise had been protected from the onslaught. At least, no obvious holes marred her decks or rigging. Impervious to fire, she had nothing to fear from the blazes on the shore, but I saw that Captain Altak was taking no chances. Crewmen swarmed the deck and quay, uncleating lines and casting off. Upon the deck, the sail was raised to half mast, only enough to pull her away from danger.

  Exhaling with relief, I finally turned back to the harbor. The trio of Ulstat warships hulked midway between me and the guardstones. Highlighted by crackling blue fire, the crew scurried across the decks, raising anchor and preparing the ships to move off. To save the vessels from retaliation, I assumed, though I imagined they’d not go far. The threat posed by the cannons only mattered if they remained in a position to use them.

  From a sheltered cove on the far side of the harbor, I spotted a shadowy skiff skimming across the water. A handful of people sat in the middle of the boat, holding lanterns that silhouetted their figures, while four others pulled the oars. In the stern, a lone person sat. Squinting, I still couldn’t make out details. When the small vessel approached the closest warship, I decided it must be the delegation that had escaped from Council Hall. The man in the back of the boat was likely Frask. I wondered what they’d offered him. A position of power on Araok? The attack was well planned, considering the short time they’d had since our return. I wondered how long Frask had been waiting for such an opportunity.

  Calls from the water caught my attention. Gliding across the darkened harbor, Zyri’s Promise slid into an area of the harbor with no structures along the shore. Shortly after, the sail was once again furled. A winch whirled as the captain dropped a sea anchor, allowing them to maintain position without pinning themselves to the harbor floor.

  Confident that he’d keep her safe, I set off for the hospital intent on helping where I could. My weapon was once again stuck through my belt. For comfort, I laid a hand on the dagger’s pommel. Tyrak’s pommel. Somehow, the boy and the dagger were one.

  Why do we do these things to each other? he asked.

  Narrowing my thoughts, I shoved the words toward him. Our nature, I guess.

  I wish it were different.

  Me, too.

  Ahead, a group of rough-looking men crept from an alley. Moving in a clot, eyes wary, they approached a stack of shipping-ready cargo, the crates stamped with the insignia of House Yiltak. A rope surrounded the pile; I assumed that Trader Yiltak would ordinarily have a guard posted over the goods, but that the men responsible had abandoned their post to help put out fires.

  As the first of the looters ducked beneath the rope, I inched Tyrak from the sheath.

  Don’t be stupid, he said.

  I can’t let them take what they don’t own.

  You’ve had one lesson in fighting. Even if you’d practiced for years, there are still too many.

  Jaw clenched, I nodded. As they cracked open the first crate, I edged toward the water, walking near the low curb at the edge of the seawall. Through my palm, I felt Tyrak’s tension. When I’d nearly cleared the area, I broke into a trot then heard a shout from behind.

  “Hey!”

  I tensed and spun, thinking the men had noticed me. I raised the dagger, ready to attempt a defense.

  I sighed in relief. A pair of city guardsmen approached from opposite the looters, hands on their cudgels. The robbers clustered together, laying hands on knives and slipping their fingers into brass knuckles. As the guardsmen approached, the largest of the looters stepped to the front.

  “You defending trader scum? Easier to just walk away, yeah?”

  One of the guardsmen spun his cudgel, a flick of the wrist. “Drop what you’ve taken and help with the fires, and Trader Yiltak won’t hear anything.”

  “Help protect trader assets from burning, you mean? Hundred years paying their rotted defense tax, traders claiming they need that money to protect everyone, and then a trader House attacks the city. Probably used our own rotted tax money to build the warships. Only fair we take back what we’re owed.”

  The looter’s friends growled approval. One slipped beneath the rope, firelight glinting off the sections of his blade that weren’t covered in rust. A guardsman took an unwitting step back. Nine looters to two guardsmen was a bad ratio.

  I should help, I said.

  Did you not listen to me? You’ll only get yourself hurt or killed.

  Before I could argue further, another group of armed men and women ran past me, feet pounding the stone sidewalk. Unlike the city guard, these soldiers bore edged weapons, among them, a pair of nightforged swords. On the back of their leather armor chestpieces, the insignia of House Yiltak had been embossed and painted red. Mercenaries answering to the Yiltaks. I didn’t like the soldiers, but for once I was glad to see them.

  Well, I guess that settles that, Tyrak said.

  Guess so.

  As I stepped back from the site of the impending melee, a shout from the soldiers scattered the looters like birds from a tree. As the thieves clambered over the heap of cargo and jumped the far edge, sprinting for the relative safety of the alleys, the Yiltak mercenaries slowed to a trot.

  I slid Tyrak back into my belt loop, ready to continue on to the hospital when one of the looters turned. Teeth bared, he leaped for the closest open crate and yanked out a small, rosewood box. Even from my vantage of a hundred paces, I spotted the glint of inlaid gems. Cradling the box against his belly, the man whirled.

  Only to be bludgeoned in the temple by a cudgel blow that had been aimed at his shoulder.

  The city guardsmen watched, mouth open in shock, as the man crumpled, boneless. Blood streamed from the wound to his head. Pulling the box from his limp fingers, the guardsman tossed it back into the crate before laying fingers on the pulse point in the man’s neck.

  He whispered something as he shook his head, horror-struck.

  One of the soldiers swaggered over. “First kill?” she asked. My lip curled at the woman’s tone. Back when the defense bargain was struck, Kiriilti Islanders had no trained soldiers to combat the new threat of the brutal Waikert sea tribes. The trader Houses had hired the mercenary army. It made sense then, but should have been just a temporary solution while we trained a Kiriilti force. Mercenaries would never fight with the same ferocity as Islanders defending their home. Worse, they were coarse men and women, born into violence and living by that code.

  Standing over the corpse, the guardsman ignored the soldier. Blinking, he replaced his cudgel in his belt holster. I knew how he felt. Sometimes, I woke in the night with the image in my head: two attackers chasing me through the dark of Ioene, falling to the ground when I led them through a cloud of poisonous vapors. I’d killed, and a small part of my soul had died along with them.

  Seeking comfort, I opened myself further to Tyrak. Imprisoned within a nightforged weapon, he, too, knew the feeling of blood, the pain of taking a life.

  Miva! Tides, oh Miva . . .

  I jerked. Tyrak? Was that you? I asked, even though it had sounded nothing like him.

  Was what me?

  Did you hear a voice? Calling for Miva?

  I heard nothing but the sadness in your heart, Lilik.

  Swaying, I stepped toward the dead man and the soldiers surrounding him. Before I reached the scene, two of the soldiers shouldered the guardsman aside and lifted the body from the cobbles.

  Hello? I asked, forcing my thoughts toward the corpse.

  What? Who? Oh Miva . . . I only wanted to buy her freedom. She’ll rot in the prison.

  Are you . . . can you hear me?

  Silence filled my inner thoughts, as if a cavern lay open, waiting for a gust of wind. Abruptly, it came.

  I hear you.

  Good! I said, trying to project calm. Sympathy.

  I’m gone, am I not? Tides . . .

  I—yes. Your body is d
ead. Your spirit is not.

  Miva! His shriek pierced me.

  She’s imprisoned?

  In the city lock-up. She hid away money that was meant for the defense tax.

  I sighed, the man’s emotions bleeding into mine. He’d loved her, but there was something else. His guilt overwhelmed everything. Maybe he’d been responsible, somehow. My heart ached for him.

  Abruptly, I felt a spear of anger. I can’t be here. I have to go to her.

  Like a bubble popping, he was gone. I staggered.

  Tyrak . . .

  I heard it, Lilik. It took me a moment, but I caught most of the conversation. You tried. In my day, channelers were trained.

  Still shocked by what had happened, I blinked. Tyrak, do you realize what this means? I thought that only the spirits of the Vanished formed nightstrands. I didn’t really think about what happened to Kiriilti when we died. Our nightcallers have never sensed the strands here.

  Have they tried?

  I assume so.

  But maybe they hadn’t. Or maybe their abilities were too weak here.

  Around me, fires blazed, men and women shouted and cried. Guards from House Korpit carried another corpse away from the waterfront. But despite the smoke and the haze and the noise, I fell into memories. Ever since I was a young child, I’d imagined stories and histories to help me cope with my gutterborn life. Almost always, the imaginings focused on voices and emotions, the same sensations I’d felt from the spirits of the Vanished.

  I’ve felt them all along, I said, awestruck. It took the Vanished to make me understand, but I’ve been a channeler from the beginning.

  Looking out to sea, I cast my thoughts to faraway Ioene and the spirits of the Vanished that had showed me my path. The nightstrands were here, too. The spirits of our ancestors were all around us. And we’d never known it.

  Chapter Eight

  MORNING SUN FELL on the street outside our room. Like in most gutterborn homes, the narrow streets and small windows kept the golden rays from entering directly, but the honeyed light outside lent a sense of calm.

  Calm on the surface, anyway. Inside, I was crackling with anger. Shortly after I’d staggered home, in shock and still reeling from what I’d learned about nightstrands in the Kiriilt Islands, Da had shouldered through the door carrying Jaret in his arms.

  I’d hoped my father and brother had stayed away from the violence at the harbor. No luck. Because of their stubborn desire to help, they’d rushed to the quay shortly after the barrage from the cannons. Guards from one of the trader Houses had told them to go home. Instead of listening, Jaret had sprinted for a bucket brigade, only to be smacked by a guard’s cudgel for disobedience.

  The healer didn’t know if the bone was cracked or bruised. Either way, how could I keep trying to work with the Trader Council when they hurt children for the crime of trying to help?

  In any case, no ships would be returning to Ioene until we dealt with the Ulstats. I’d dealt with Mieshk on Ioene; somehow, I’d find a way to deal with her family and the other traders. But after last night, I couldn’t pretend I could do it without involving my family.

  I shoved the awl through the hardened leather pieces of the dagger sheath. It was almost finished, just a few more stitches and pounding in the grommets to reinforce a few places. When Da carried breakfast over to the table—eggs, unsurprising given the family business of delivering them—I pushed my work aside.

  Jaret stabbed an egg to puncture the yolk. Setting down his fork—his injured arm was in a sling—he grabbed a hunk of bread and dipped it into the gooey yellow. “What do you think the Council will do?” he asked, speaking with his mouth full.

  I made a face at his bad manners—hurt or not, he didn’t get a pass on that. “I don’t understand traders any better than you do.”

  “But you’re almost a trader yourself,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Attending Council sessions—not to mention the rumor I heard.”

  “Oh?” Da said. “Not more talk about Lilik and the young man from House Ovintak . . .”

  At that, I shoved a bite into my mouth and chewed. They knew the story about Raav, more or less, but since I had no idea what would happen with him, I definitely didn’t feel like talking about it.

  “Trader Yiltak came here last night,” Jaret said. “Can you believe it? Lilik making a trader come to her?” He cackled.

  I flinched. After what had happened to my brother, the association between me and the Council was not something to be proud of.

  “Oh, really?” Da said. “And you didn’t see fit to mention this, Lil?”

  “Didn’t seem to matter after the attack. Anyway, since when are you so nosy, Jaret?”

  My brother stuck his yolk-covered tongue at me. I grimaced, disgusted.

  “So why was she here?” Da asked.

  “I . . . it’s a complicated story.” I hadn’t told them about the figurine. Da had been so proud of me when I was selected for the Nocturnai. I couldn’t make myself admit that I’d only been nominated because I cheated on the trial. “Right now I could really use your advice.”

  Da set his fork down, giving me his full attention. Jaret, on the other hand, kicked me under the table. “Nightcaller Lilik. Soooo important,” he teased in a sing-song voice.

  “I’m serious, Jaret. Can you clap shut for a minute?”

  “Oh fine.” He rolled his eyes.

  “I met with Trader Yiltak to try to strike a bargain.”

  “Okay . . .” Da said. His eyes roved the room, obviously struggling to contain his curiosity about how I’d convinced the most powerful person in the Islands to come to our tiny home. On my first night at home, I’d told him about my time on Ioene, talking until almost dawn. But I knew part of him still saw me as his little girl.

  “The problem is, the traders don’t believe what I’ve told them about the nightstrands. Some think I’ve made it up to discredit Mieshk—though I’d say her father’s attack solved that problem. At any rate, no one wants to provide ships or soldiers. They don’t think it’s worth it to rescue the others.”

  “Even the traders that still have children on Ioene?”

  I shrugged. “That’s a good point. Maybe I could try to talk to them specifically. But as a whole, no. And they think it’s madness to stop nightforging when we’re barely fending off the Waikert.”

  “So you wanted to convince Trader Yiltak. That’s my Lilik, starting at the top.”

  I shrugged. “I know a few things she wouldn’t want told. I thought I could use that.”

  He grinned. “Oh really? Blackmailing the prime Yiltak. I like it. And where’d you learn these . . . things?”

  “Long story. From Moanet Yiltak, mostly. The point is, I convinced her to make a deal.”

  His brows raised as he pushed back from the table. “I’m impressed.”

  “I’m not,” Jaret muttered. “Doesn’t change that you’re still my smelly sister.”

  I glared at him. “Trader Yiltak understands the value of restoring Ioene, but she won’t help without better evidence. She wants me to prove that I’m a channeler.”

  “Hard to do without a nightstrand around,” Da mused. “Unless you faked it, which isn’t really your style.”

  I looked away. He might be my da, but he’d clearly misjudged me in that regard.

  “I discovered something last night . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “The nightstrands are here, too.”

  Da had been leaning back in his chair. At my words, he fell forward, bracing his hands on the table. “Really? We’ve been doing these ridiculous Nocturnais, and the strands have been here all along? Who are they?”

  Jaret stuffed another bite into his mouth before speaking. “Our ancestors, obviously. Lilik already said she thinks we’re descended from the Vanished that washed up here.”

  Brows knit, Da blinked. “But why can’t the nightcallers see them?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe they’ve never tried? I�
��m not sure. But anyway . . .”

  “You could talk to one. You could find a Yiltak ancestor floating around in Stanik Island’s aether and get them to tell you something private.”

  I nodded. “I don’t think it would be that hard, now that I know what to listen for. But—”

  “As soon as you do that, the traders will know we have nightstrands here.”

  “They’ll see the chance to arm our mercenaries, create a hundred nightforged weapons a day. Not to mention the other magical goods they could sell.”

  “Hmm. A real dilemma,” Da said. “What if you chose the right people to tell? Don’t worry about Trader Yiltak for now. You don’t need her. Concentrate on the traders who have morals—if there are any, that is. It may be worth the risk.”

  Nothing would make it okay to bind souls against their will, Tyrak said. It’s slavery.

  I know. I won’t allow it, I said.

  “I don’t know, Da. I think . . . I’d like to talk to some of the strands here. But unlike the Vanished, they weren’t raised to understand what’s happened to them. There haven’t been trained channelers in the Kiriilt Islands for centuries. For all I know, the strands have gone mad without guidance.”

  I thought of the man’s reaction from the previous night. He’d been so shocked, unsure whether he was alive or dead. His poor Miva, too. Would she never know what had happened to her lover? Or maybe he was her husband. In any case, I made a mental vow to attempt to speak with her.

  As I sipped from my teacup, contemplating, a quiet knock came at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Jaret said, jumping from his seat—even though he was twelve, visitors still excited him. After twisting the knob, he yanked the door open. The eagerness on his face turned to puzzlement when he didn’t recognize the woman on our doorstep. Wearing tattered clothing poorly matched to her beautiful beaded necklaces and bracelets, she licked her lips, tentative. Stray hairs had escaped the scarf she’d wrapped around her head. Nervously, she tucked them behind her ears.