Nightforged (Shattering of the Nocturnai Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Acknowledgements

  Nightforged

  Book One

  Shattering of the Nocturnai

  Carrie Summers

  Chapter One

  I WAS RUNNING. Pain stabbed my arches with every smack of a sandal against the cobblestones. Each breath was fire in my lungs, rasping through my throat.

  But I wouldn’t stop. Not today.

  With every step, I shoved away the memory of my father’s broken face, fresh bruises atop the fading yellow of last week’s beating. The harder my aching legs pumped, the easier it was to forget the defeated slump of his shoulders. The resignation.

  Around me, the alley was a dark stone mouth. Balconies jutted like teeth, cutting away the sky. Up there, flowers draped the rails. But down below, it was just gloom and crates and the smell of mildew rising like bad breath from the sewer grates.

  My heel slammed onto a pebble, and I yelped. Hopping, I cursed my pathetic sandals—I’d made them myself, squinting by lamplight, bruising my hand as I shoved the needle through hardened leather.

  “Idiot girl. Break your fool neck running down here,” a rag-seller said as she squinted through the shadows.

  I shrugged. Whether selling rags in a dark alley or sprinting to a trial no one expected me to attempt, being gutterborn meant taking risks. What other choice did I have? Give up like my father?

  Da was done resisting. He’d let them take our money, leave us scraping for meals. But backing down would just make the collectors bolder. The next time, he’d have worse than a broken nose. And soon, the thugs would come after my little brother. They’d already threatened him. Next would be fists. Or a length of chain like they’d used on our neighbor.

  Da wouldn’t fight anymore, which meant it was all up to me now. If I passed the nightcaller trial—if they selected me for the expedition—everything would change.

  So I ran.

  Near the central district, the crowd’s chatter sloshed down alleys, a rising tide. My mouth went dry, but my feet shoved me forward. This was it.

  I skidded to a halt at the edge of Istanik's courthouse square, my heart a hard stone in my throat. Pitched upon a central dais, the ink-black fabric of the expedition’s tent swooped down from a high peak. The tent’s dark walls symbolized the night-soaked slopes of the journey’s destination, the island volcano, Ioene. I swallowed. For over one hundred years, only daughters of the trader Houses had passed the nightcaller trial. But even though I was gutterborn, I was determined not to fail.

  On the platform, a waiting line of trader girls sneered at the commoners crowding below. Anger rushed through me when I saw them. I clenched my fists. The Trader Council sent the tax collectors who’d pummeled my father. But I forced my hatred away. It wouldn’t do me any good.

  Sweat pasted my hair to my cheek. I swiped it away and shoved into the mob of onlookers. Packed like pickles in brine, the crowd reeked of sweat and leather. Men and women cussed at me while I wormed past. Near the dais, a doomsayer had cleared a small space. He gestured with burning batons, green and blue fire tufting the ends. I sprinted across the empty circle, flame swooshing past my cheek.

  A pair of strongmen guarded the stairs leading to the platform. Other guards circled, enforcing a cleared space around the dais. When I reached the edge of the crowd, I halted, glancing at the cudgel shoved through the closest guard’s belt.

  Come on, Lilik. What was he going to do? Bludgeon me in front of all these people? I remembered Jaret’s wide eyes after a thug had pulled him into a dark shop, telling my brother he needed to "deliver a message" to the family.

  Inhaling, I stepped into the gap.

  The crowd quieted when the guard laid a hand on his baton. “Prospective nightcallers only, girl.”

  “I came to test,” I said, marching toward the stairs.

  A murmur traveled the crowd. Someone laughed. I heard the word "gutterborn" whispered unkindly.

  The guard stepped to block my progress. “Traders only.”

  “The law says any girl between eleven and nineteen may undertake the trial,” I said, pitching my voice so the crowd could hear.

  “Herik.” Upon the platform, a woman garbed in the dark silk tunic of the Nocturnai nodded. “She’s correct. It’s written in the charter.”

  Raising my eyebrows at the guard, I waited. With a sigh, he stepped aside, gesturing toward the stairs.

  Scattered taunts peppered the air, but I kept my back straight. I’d survive it. My family sold eggs—little room for pride there. And compared to the fists that had bruised my father’s face, words were no threat.

  “Get ‘em!” The shout of encouragement joined the taunts. Others followed. “About time! Trader scum!”

  Fists clenched, I stepped to the end of the line. The traders ignored me, their chins raised, eyes on the tent. Unbreakable pride and iron fists kept trader fortunes intact. They certainly wouldn’t stoop to acknowledging me.

  The woman who’d called to the guard rose from her stool beside the entrance flap. She looked me up and down as she approached. “It’s obvious you’re not trader stock. Any reason to assume you have the nightcalling talent?”

  “No reason to assume I don’t,” I said.

  “As you’ve pointed out—” Her gaze lingered on my sandals. “—the laws allow you to test. But you’re awfully late for someone hoping to secure the greatest honor in the Kiriilt Islands.”

  I met her stare. “I had work to do this morning. Unlike the others.”

  Strapped to the woman’s upper arm, a nightforged dagger gleamed. Her weapon made a clear statement: without a successful Nocturnai, our people would die, murdered by the sea tribes. Many blades forged by the previous expedition had been broken or lost. Nightforged ship’s harpoons rusted on the bottom of the sea, their mystical ability to seek a target lost to the depths. Mundane steel and iron, our only choice for armaments without the Nocturnai, were not enough to protect us from the savagery of the tribes.

  “You’ll test last if there’s time. Please step aside for traders, should any more arrive so . . . late.”

  As the woman stalked away, her hand brushed one of the ropes securing the tent. The line shivered, metal disks along its length winking and clicking together. I doubted the other girls understood the significance, but I’d spent hours and hours reading the logs of previous Nocturnais and studying the journey’s lore. The disks represented the stars and moon, the only heavenly l
ight the voyagers would see on Ioene.

  The trader ahead of me curled her lip. “The talent doesn’t run in common families. You’re wasting our time.”

  I glared. “Prisak Relat was the most successful caller of her generation.”

  “A bastard trader, no doubt. Fathered on a gutter wench.”

  Two spots up the line, another girl spoke over her shoulder. “If you even believe stories from almost a hundred years ago.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I looked away. No use arguing with traders. Anyway, they’d regret their words when I passed the trial.

  The line inched forward as if the tent were swallowing it, girl by girl, only to spit them out the other side. Most of the traders sulked away, failures. But then an older girl exited the tent with a conceited smile on her perfect face. She’d passed. When another success followed, a cold weight settled into my chest. Three spots left. Only five nightcallers would be selected for the Nocturnai. Even if I passed the test, the captain would never choose a gutterborn over a trader.

  Mid-morning, a chorus of whispers rose from the crowd. When I glimpsed the source of the commotion, my eyes widened. Marching behind her guardsmen as if she were the only person in the square, Moanet Yiltak, lone heir to her family’s sea dynasty, approached the dais.

  What was she doing here? House Yiltak’s warships protected the Islands’ most critical straits, and half of the capital, Istanik, owed the food in their bellies to commissions from Moanet's family. Even the Nocturnai bent to the Yiltak family. The Yiltak heir typically tested early, in private.

  Moanet ignored me and strode to the front of the line. Though the other traders glared, none objected. When the tent disgorged another disappointed girl, Moanet shoved her way in without a word.

  The square quieted while Moanet was inside the tent. I shuffled, anger growing, the unfairness tearing at my self-control.

  Soon enough, the rear flap opened. Moanet’s lips were a thin line, and deep red blotches marred her cheeks. I stared, stunned.

  She faced the crowd. “Unbelievable, isn't it?” she called out. “Moanet Yiltak does not have the talent. First failure in ten generations. If you hurry home, you can be the first to spread the gossip.”

  After an awkward pause, noise resumed. Prompted by Moanet’s suggestion, a few people detached from the fringes of the crowd and hurried off. Moanet kept her shoulders straight. Unexpectedly, I felt sorry for her. No one expected me to test, much less succeed. But a talentless Yiltak—people would talk about it for months.

  The other traders smirked as they turned from Moanet. I dropped my gaze to my feet.

  When a pair of gold-worked slippers stopped next to my sandals, I curled my toes to hide the dirt around the toenails. I clenched my fists, regretting my moment of pity. Moanet no doubt intended to embarrass me as a way to save face after her failure.

  “Oh, stop it,” she said. “Look up.”

  Up close, I noticed she didn’t line her eyes with kohl or color her cheeks. Her large hazel eyes and sculpted mouth didn't need accenting. Glossy hair, cut in a severe line, curled at her jaw.

  “I have a commission for you," she said.

  What could she want? Eggs weren’t exactly a prime commodity.

  She leaned in, light perfume teasing my nose.

  “Listen carefully,” she whispered into my ear. “The nightweave pattern makes a five-sided figure. Inside, a crescent moon holds a circle suspended between its points. There is subtle shading in the underside of the circle—most girls will miss that.”

  The solution to the trial. Why was she telling me this?

  I pulled back, shocked. Below, the crowd jeered, convinced she’d insulted me. Moanet’s stare met mine.

  “But you failed . . .” I muttered, too quiet for anyone to hear over the noise in the square.

  Her brows raised. “Did I?”

  With that, she whirled, marched down the stairs, and followed the path her House guardsmen cut through the crowd.

  Chapter Two

  INSIDE THE TENT, a single lamp burned. The deep red flame symbolized the lava that flowed from Ioene into the sea. Incense smoldered in a nightforged censer, smelling of the kivi blossoms that flowered in the long-night.

  A woman sat at a low table. Against the far wall, a man stood, brooding and silent.

  “Sit.” The woman gestured to a cushion. “I’m Nyralit, the strandmistress.”

  I knelt before the table, resting my weight on my heels. Mistress Nyralit offered me a swatch of finely-woven black silk. Silver threads caught the low light, sketching Ioene's silhouette and a spattering of stars above the mountain’s cone. Infused with nightstrands, the cloth rippled as if stirred by a breeze none of us could feel.

  “Take your time,” she said.

  Seven traders had passed the trial already. I had almost no chance of being selected, but my stubborn heart refused to give up hope.

  I ran my fingers over the fabric, seeking the hidden pattern of nightsilk woven through the cloth. I’d read that I would feel cool tingles where the nightsilk ran. The silver threads were coarser than the strands of silk. I wondered if they'd been added to confuse potential callers. Between, the delicate silk reminded me of water, smooth and cool.

  But nothing tingled. Not yet.

  Each thread of nightsilk had been infused with a mystical nightstrand gathered on Ioene. Only nightcallers could sense and capture them. It shouldn’t be difficult for me to feel them if I had the talent. Maybe I just needed more focus.

  Mistress Nyralit and her guardsman shifted while I examined the cloth. Time stretched out, my fingers moving back and forth over the square. Still I sensed no threads of nightsilk. An invisible belt wrapped my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter.

  If I didn’t find the strands soon, I would fail. Each passing second was a brass-knuckled fist smacking my da’s face. A kick to his already broken ribs.

  Mistress Nyralit cleared her throat. I closed my eyes. Concentrate, Lilik. Fingers over the weave.

  I felt nothing. Not the slightest tingle nor hint of magic—despite my absolute conviction that I’d succeed, I had no talent. I’d never be a nightcaller. The last air left my lungs.

  “Most traders fail, too,” the strandmistress said.

  As I opened my eyes, she tugged the fabric away, slowly, as if a quick motion might bring forth a gush of tears.

  She didn’t even bother to ask whether I’d sensed the strands. Why would she? I was gutterborn—in other words, worthless. Mistress Nyralit had assumed I’d fail from the moment I entered the tent. And she had the gall to offer comfort.

  Anger flooded my chest, the need to scream searing my lungs. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let her be right about me. I wasn’t a failure, no more than Da deserved to be beaten because he couldn’t honor a defense bargain made generations ago.

  Without thinking, I slapped my palms against the table and stared at the strandmistress. “The five-sided figure represents the five corners of the world. Inside it there’s a crescent moon.”

  Mistress Nyralit froze. Stunned, she glanced at the man against the wall. He shrugged in disbelief. Of course . . . why would a gutterborn detect anything? Furious now, I couldn’t stop talking.

  “Within the crescent, there’s a circle. The subtle shading at the bottom symbolizes Ioene’s transition to the long-night.”

  Silence followed my words while Mistress Nyralit and the man shared a long look. Finally, the man raised his eyebrows and detached from the tent's wall. He approached the table with heavy steps. Three gold earrings pierced his right ear.

  “Such a strong nightcalling talent, yet you have a common birth,” he said.

  I refused to be embarrassed. “My family delivers eggs.”

  “Ever sailed? The Nocturnai is treacherous. Once we cross the night line, there will be no daylight, no comfort, no safety for months. What would you do if a storm damaged the ship?”

  “Only traders and their hired crew have the right to—”


  “And yet that didn’t stop Prisak Relat from learning the windcraft. By the time she tested as a nightcaller, she’d weathered months aboard. Stowing away. Signing on with foreign ventures. Her seaworthiness got her nominated to the Nocturnai.” He picked up the swatch of silk, traced the volcano’s outline with a fingertip. “And don't forget the dangers once we anchor at Ioene. Eruptions, endless dark. Nightcallers have disappeared in the island’s wilds, never to be found.”

  I clenched my fists as he laid out his reasons for rejecting me. The other girls who passed the trial would wait until the day of the presentation before learning who’d been chosen, but he wouldn’t taint the Nocturnai by associating it with a gutterborn.

  “Then again,” the man said, “following the rules despite personal desire . . . That’s a quality you rarely find in trader spawn. And no one can question your courage, undertaking a trial that no gutter—excuse me, no one of common origins—has attempted for decades. Welcome to the Nocturnai. Vidyul Altak, Captain.”

  Captain Altak held out his hand. In it laid a pin, blue sea opal set in a nightforged silver housing. The sigil of the Nocturnai’s ship, the Evaeni. I stared at it blankly.

  “But I—”

  “Yes, you’re gutterborn, if you want to be crass about it. Frankly, I’d take a ship full of your sort over traders with their fussy needs and soft hands, but none of you are brave enough to test. When you walk out of here, the next generation of girls will see I’ve already pinned this to you. Perhaps more gutterborn will test next time.”

  But I’m untalented. My heart stuttered. I couldn’t join the Nocturnai; I had no way to call the nightstrands. I’d only blurted out Moanet’s solution because I was so mad.

  “I didn’t expect—”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Captain Altak stuck the pin through the collar of my tunic and fastened the clasp. “Now out with you. The presentation ceremony is in two days—your appointment will be a formality. You’ll name your sentinel that evening. We sail at dawn five days from now.”

  When I stumbled out of the tent, a nearby woman pointed at the pin affixed to my collar. Whispers rippled across the square. In the crowd’s midst, someone cheered. Others took it up, a rising storm. My stomach heaved as I ran for the alleyway and home.