Shadowbound

by Carrie Summers

  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 dead. 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 n
o 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.

  Da laid his hands on the table, his face so beset with emotions that it trembled. As he sat frozen, Jaret’s gaze flitted from face to face, hopelessly confused.

  Finally, I spoke: “Hello, Mother.”

  Chapter Nine

  MOTHER SAT AT the table, eyes on its scarred wood. As Da paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, she breathed, chewing her lip.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said.

  In the corner, Jaret glared from the pile of bedding he and I shoved against the wall every morning. In the back of his throat, he made a noise that sounded close to a growl.

  Reaching the far wall, Da whirled again, each footfall planted with enough emphasis to suggest nails driven into a coffin. His gaze was dark, fists clenched. I’d never seen him this way, even after the worst of his scuffles with the tax collectors.

  Numbed by the scene, I slid into a chair opposite my mother. I searched her face for some hint that I was born of her flesh. Some instinctual connection. And maybe, for a scrap of the love I remembered from those distant years. But in her beautiful, high cheekbones and dark brown eyes, all I saw was a stranger.

  I don’t know what to say, Lilik.

  In thanks for his support, I brushed a thumb against Tyrak’s pommel. My eyes strayed to the almost-finished sheath. I was tempted to work on it as a distraction from my emotions, but restrained myself.

  “You don’t know how hard it was,” Da spat. Anger purpled his cheeks. “They were so small.”

  Mother’s indrawn breath shook. I searched my heart for pity and found nothing.

  “I do know,” she said. “But I knew what kind of man you are. I knew you could handle it.”

  “They needed a mother, Maajidi!”

  She said nothing in response, simply stared at her hands.

  Again, Da paced. The silence in the room was suffocating.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  Her gaze wandered to my hands, in loose fists upon the table. In the amber morning light, my scars looked more pearly than shimmering, but there was no pretending they were normal.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

>   “I asked first. What could possibly make you come back here and think we’ll accept you?”

  Anguish turned her face ugly. “I don’t expect you to want me—I won’t push myself on you. But I couldn’t come to Istanik without visiting you. My settlement—there were just ten of us. The waves demolished it. Only three of us survived, and we have nothing. It’s all washed away. The story is the same across the Outer Isles. We’re devastated. We’ll find a way through, but for now, we’re in the camps outside town.”

  I sat up straight. “Waves?”

  “Swells like no one has ever seen. We have a legend in the Outer Isles, that the storms made the world, pushing up the islands. On the last day of creation, the waves threw us ashore. Only the strongest survived the battering. There are people who say the storms will erase us someday, too.”

  My thoughts raced through the stories I had from the Vanished, of the cataclysm that shattered Ioene, its chaos stretching as far as the Kiriilt Islands. My theory was that a few survivors from the Vanished made landfall in the Islands. Our nightcalling and channeling talents came via these ancestors.

  “Which direction are they coming from?”

  “The waves?” Mother asked.

  I nodded.

  “North. Always north. We weren’t prepared.”

  “Ioene,” I whispered.

  Da had stopped pacing. I looked at him, heart thudding. If the waves were what I thought, it meant Mieshk had regained much of her power. We might already be too late.

  But the look in Da’s eyes stilled my tongue. Deep, profound hurt. He was so shaken over her return. And here I was chatting with the woman who’d abandoned us. I needed to explain why.

  “Da, it’s Mieshk. I’m afraid she’s done this.”

  But my words didn’t seem to register. Da was just too devastated by Mother’s return to comprehend the danger. Right now, he needed reassurance—the discussion of Ioene could come later. I stood and wrapped my arms around him.