Divided Fire Read online

  The hunched blond boy beside him stands. He is nervous; Miren sees it in his trembling hands, his tight lips. His mother, an angular woman with milky skin, watches her son with a sharp frown.

  What Song would you like to Sing? Elij signs.

  Davri looks at the two elements before him. Water, he signs. He quickly corrects himself, The Song of Water.

  Elij nods and begins to Sing. The water swirls in the pail as though draining from a hole in the bottom.

  Davri wipes his hands on his trousers absently, his eyes darting to his father and quickly away. Miren grimaces in disapproval; he should be far more excited about the prospect of earning a Voice.

  Elij continues his Song, an expectant look on his face. Davri leans in and sings.

  His voice is so strong that Miren gasps. Elij isn’t ready for an addition of such power, either; the water sloshes in the pail.

  Davri’s Song shifts.

  His tone, light and crisp like a bell, latches to the swirling water with a sudden chill. The water slows to a stop and gleams in the light of Skyflame, frozen.

  The group stares in silent wonder. Turning water to ice is a difficult task, particularly for a younger Singer, when his Voice is still unruly. A few adults in the circle smile widely and sign, Well done. The baron does not, and Davri does not look at him as he returns to his seat.

  Miren signs congratulations with the other villagers, though the message is clumsy in her hands. She wants to impress, but she can’t imagine how she could outshine such an accomplishment.

  It is time for the women, the keepers of Air and Fire. The two men step from the circle as Isha and Mother take their places.

  Who would like to go first? Isha signs.

  Before Miren can decide if being first is a good idea, the seamstress’s daughter jumps up and hurries to the circle, signing Song of Air without waiting to be prompted. A few villagers laugh quietly. After a quick attempt, however, she slumps and returns to her seat, unable to replicate the Song.

  Miren watches the girls enter the circle one by one, each of them attempting to Sing Air. Only two girls leave the circle having joined Isha, who swept the leaves into a whirlwind. The people sign Well done eagerly. Air Singers and Water Singers are more common than Earth and Fire Singers, but they provide great service in fishing, sailing, and irrigating crops.

  And then it is Miren’s turn.

  She stands and enters the circle, her mind suddenly full and empty at once. The flames dance, chasing and stretching shadows across the grass. Isha asks what Song Miren wishes to Sing, and mercifully her hands know what to do: The Song of Fire.

  Mother, her brown eyes shining, steps forward and parts her lips.

  Miren listens intently. Her mother’s Voice doesn’t draw from the world like the other elements; her Song is warmth, a heat that comes from within her. Miren waits, letting the notes set the stage, just as a painter would wet her brush with orange and yellow. She will wait for Mother to provide the colors and warmth. Miren will add shape.

  As the notes rise and blend into something tangible, the small pile of wood begins to glow. Miren expects an explosion of heat, but the flames grow slowly, climbing the sticks as if Mother isn’t even Singing.

  Mother tilts her head in invitation, and Miren nods. She opens her mouth and sings a note.

  The syllables are nonsensical, and meaning is illusive—it is not until a Singer finishes her Song that she realizes there were no words—but the melody weaves like a single strand of light through the air, bright and easy to follow. Miren lets her voice rise next to Mother’s, willing, begging the fire to grow. She sees the people’s eyes pivot to her with excitement, just as in her fantasies of this night, but she suddenly wishes they weren’t here. She needs to concentrate, to follow Mother’s lead, her tempo and volume.

  A breeze drifts through their circle, a cold gust from the bay. The fire flickers dangerously, and Mother’s Song shifts to catch it. Miren’s heart lurches. She doesn’t know this Song—she hasn’t practiced it. The string slips from her grip, and her notes are sour.

  The faces around her wince at the tone, some with pity. The spell is broken.

  She does the only thing left to her: she stops.

  Mother lets the Song drift away, like ashes from the small pile of kindling that no longer glows. Mother smiles and signs, I love you, daughter. Miren looks away, feeling the future drop from beneath her. She is not a Singer; she is not special. She is not important like her mother, like the young fishermen and sailors who have been made tonight, like Davri, who will never need to use his Voice to work as the other boys do. He has been given his gift for nothing.

  She returns to her spot beside her father and sits, the weight of the village’s stares burning her skin. Father hugs her, kisses her head, and whispers, “Love you.” She will not cry—she won’t. Her sister, still in Father’s lap, frowns. Miren winces as the word pitiful spikes in her mind. Kesia offers a smile and signs, It’s all right.

  It is not, but Miren gives a little shrug, her eyes stinging.

  Father pats Kesia’s shoulder.

  The group’s attention shifts as Kesia stands, and her knees tremble so much that Miren feels a pang in her chest. Kesia takes her place in front of Mother, who smiles and signs, Which Song would you like to Sing?

  Kesia raises her shaking hands. The Song of Fire.

  Isha steps back, and Mother begins to Sing.

  As the kindling glows again, Kesia takes a deep, steadying breath, and her own thin voice drifts into the air. It doesn’t catch; Miren can hear her reaching for the thread as she tries to align with Mother’s Song. Her voice quavers, more breath than sound.

  And then it blooms.

  Miren inhales. Kesia isn’t strong or loud like Miren, but she has whatever Miren lacks—a level of control Miren never mastered, perhaps the occasional trill or slide to another note, or the instinct of knowing when to take a breath. Miren feels the pleasant heat that Kesia is somehow weaving. The stack of kindling flashes with the additional power.

  Kesia’s knees give way.

  Mother abandons her Song with a gasp, and murmurs of concern from the audience break the rule of silence. Father rushes forward. Miren follows, her heart hammering in her chest. She stares in the direction of her sister’s pale face, but she can’t see past the imprint of bright flame behind her eyes. She thinks to check the wood this time and sees only ash.

  One

  Miren

  Five years later

  Miren scrubbed the lighthouse mirrors, the polish smearing in greasy ripples and coating her hands. She was being sloppy, but she couldn’t bring herself to focus on the menial task. The merchant ships were likely to come soon; the seasons were warming, the green of the hills reaching its brightest hue. Miren wished she were excited.

  She left the inside paneling as it was, frustrated at being saddled with this chore. She capped the bottle of polish and stepped from the lightroom onto the widow’s walk, noting that the door to the chicken coop nestled against the other side of their small cabin was closed. Her sister was nowhere to be seen.

  “Kesia!” she shouted. “You have to feed the chickens before we go.”

  An angry clap sounded from the cabin window. Kesia was likely just getting dressed.

  Miren groaned. “Well, hurry up.”

  To the north, Crescent Bay curved around a herd of crooked, creaking docks and well-worn fishing boats. A tilt in the land pushed the collection of homes close to the shore, where villagers busied themselves with booths and fish and crops. Things to sell to travelers who rarely came.

  Against her will, Miren’s gaze drifted west, up a hill, where a fire had burned once a year, where Voices had bloomed. It had been years since the king had drafted Singers into the war, years since the remaining villagers had agreed to stop celebrating Skyflame.

  Miren rounded the widow’s walk to face the sea and leaned against the railing, the wind weaving the scent of kelp and brine through her hair.
The water glittered in the early morning, the sun rising out of the ocean. She looked as hard as she could, trying to spot the slight ridge of Avi’or across the Tehum Sea. She couldn’t decide if the world seemed large or small from up here, but she felt an ache in her chest if she stared too long.

  It was so tiny that she nearly missed it: a pinprick of white floated along the horizon, heading for the bay.

  “Kesia!” she shouted, nearly dropping the polish as she hurried down the stairs. “Kesia, a ship’s coming!”

  She flew through the door at the bottom of the lighthouse and saw Kesia stepping from the cabin, a bag of feed under her arm, her long hair tied messily behind her.

  “I saw a ship,” Miren said. “It looked huge!”

  Kesia signed, Traders?

  “I assume so.” Miren closed the lighthouse door and locked it behind her out of habit. Her heart thudded with possibilities. It could be a military ship, a wanderer from the Kaleon fleet. Or the Avi’ori fleet. Or pirates. Or a royal Kaleon messenger looking for Singers to force into the army to fight in the endless, consuming war with Avi’or.

  It was most likely traders.

  But still.

  “I’m coming to town with you,” Miren said.

  Her sister rolled her eyes. I’m meeting Davri, she signed.

  Miren groaned. “Not before we sell a few things. And we’re out of eggs. And I’d like some bread from Etela.”

  Kesia sighed voicelessly. And then I’m meeting Davri.

  “We still have to make those apricot preserves.”

  Miren.

  “And you said you’d help me clean this place.”

  Stop it, Miren. Kesia glowered, but Miren pretended not to notice.

  “I’m just saying that chores come first, before . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say love, even in a derisive way. “Whatever you call it.”

  Kesia narrowed her eyes. You’re afraid I’ll tell him.

  Miren instinctively raised her hand to cover Kesia’s signs, but there was no one close enough to see—everyone was down in the village. “We agreed you wouldn’t, right?”

  Kesia pointed at Miren.

  “Because it’s dangerous and stupid and we don’t need to argue about this anymore.” Miren’s chest tightened in panic. “No one can know. No one. Please, Kesia, you agreed not to.”

  I hate lying to him.

  “It’s not lying; it’s keeping you safe.”

  Let me tell him. Please.

  Miren clenched her jaw. This conversation became more difficult each time. “Stop asking me that.” She headed to the cabin to make her escape. “Please, let’s not start this again. It’s a beautiful day, we might see traders, and I have some salted meat I’ve been saving. We can have it tonight, all right? I’m going to package the candles.”

  Kesia was signing, but Miren closed the cabin door. Hopefully, Kesia would be cooled off by the time they left.

  Their square cabin pressed comfortably around her, returning the world to its normal size. A large bunk bed, a table, a desk, and a fireplace left almost no room to walk. The cabin was far too small, despite the fact it only housed two now. With all four of them, it must have been oppressive, though she didn’t remember it that way. Of course, running under the table had once been an option.

  She drifted over to the desk, pitted and smooth with use, where a few precious books were stacked. She lifted the cover of their mother’s book of recipes and slid out a letter. The seal of the King’s Army, a tower with a sword protruding from the top, was broken and crumbling, the paper soft from being read dozens of times.

  It was the last letter their father had sent. They’d received it nearly four months ago.

  Father had left at the onset of the war almost five years earlier, with the first draft that had called for all able-bodied men in Kaleo. The goodbyes had been long and tearful, with most of the remaining villagers piled on the docks as they waved at the departing ship. They had been worried but hopeful; surely neither country wanted a long war.

  Now she opened the letter more from habit than anything; she had it memorized. Father had warned that he might not be able to write for a while, which was what Miren said every time Kesia expressed worry. But four months without word was concerning. Four months could mean anything.

  Their mother hadn’t sent any letters. She’d been gone for four years.

  After the men from Crescent Bay were drafted, the tide of the war had quickly turned against Kaleo; despite a protected northern coastline, the navy couldn’t stand against Avi’or’s superior steam-powered ships. So the king had decided that Singers would serve their country in combat and declared a Singer draft. Singers of all ages were called to report to the capital.

  The village had been in an uproar. That was not what Singing was intended for. To use it for violence was sacrilegious, dangerous, evil. The Singers were needed in the village, and many of their number were far too young to be thrust into combat. At the time, Kesia had been twelve and sick with cloud fever.

  Miren remembered screaming at the uniformed men who came to their door. They looked at Kesia sick in bed, her Voice likely lost to the illness if she survived, and instead took their mother, one of the most powerful Singers they would likely ever find.

  Miren had run after them, still screaming, but Mother had marched willingly to the docks with the rest of the Singers. Miren could still picture her turning back one last time to sign: Protect your sister.

  In the four years since that day, Crescent Bay had worked in silence. There was no one to Sing the fish into nets, to fill sails with a steady wind, to till fields, or mend horseshoes. There was no one to lead new Singers in the Skyflame ceremony; no new Voices were heard.

  Miren tucked the letter back inside her mother’s book. She looked around, but the candles were already wrapped in string and paper. She grabbed her pack and slid the candles in, along with some carrots, potatoes, and a few pieces of jewelry, necklaces of seashells and stones, that Kesia had made.

  She glanced at the bottom left drawer in the desk, then opened it slowly, as if Kesia might hear.

  Inside sat a large, black revolver, one of the few Kaleon-made firearms that had existed before the war. Her father had received it from a friend who had served in the military some ten years ago, though Father had refused to take it with him when he had left for the war. Just in case, he had said, his well-used hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, the draft notice peeking out from his shirt pocket as he headed for the docks.

  Miren picked up the revolver, the stock cold and heavy in her hand. It was loaded, but she checked and rechecked that the safety was still on. The metallic weapon made the wooden cabin feel brittle around her.

  She placed the revolver back in the drawer and instead clipped her father’s old fishing knife to her belt. I won’t need it, she thought. I’ve never needed it before.

  From the open window, she heard the chickens squawk happily. “Kesia,” she called. “Let’s get going.”

  * * *

  By the time they made their way down the rise, the ship was visible to the entire village. Everyone moved with enthusiasm, spurred by the prospect of selling their wares to someone other than one another. Kesia carried the coin purse on her belt, her smile eager. She was always so much happier outside, but Miren noticed how the sun made her skin seem paler, her cheekbones a bit too prominent.

  Haro the blacksmith pounded at his furnace, the rhythmic clink of metal ringing through the village. He had burn marks on his arms that had been there all of Miren’s life, and a heavy hunch in his back that had not.

  Miren arranged her features into a warm smile. It had been difficult to speak with him for the past six months, since his older son, Jonath, had abruptly stopped sending letters home.

  Haro looked up as they approached, and his bushy, peppered beard tweaked in a smile. “Morning, ladies. Did you see the ship?”

  “We did,” Miren said. She sometimes felt like her voice wasn’t hers�
�it was too controlled, too polite to be true. “Kesia wants to spend all of our savings on whatever they’re bringing.”

  Haro chuckled. “I could go for a stronger drink than wine, you know?” he said.

  Miren smiled cordially. “Sure.”

  “At least we know it’s not from the army, huh?”

  Miren blinked. “How do we know that?”

  He nodded at the horizon. “Wrong flag.”

  “Oh.” Of course. Military ships always flew the king’s crest: a white star on a deep purple background.

  Haro looked at Kesia, and his features softened. “How are you feeling?”

  Miren winced. When the villagers had pity to spare, they often saved it for Kesia, the last Singer among them, who, they believed, had lost her Voice to cloud fever years ago. Miren knew how her sister hated their pity.

  Kesia smiled and signed, Thank you. How are you and Raila?

  “Fine, fine.” Haro kept grinning. “Raila spent all night working on some pies. I managed to restrain myself and only ate one.”

  Miren joined in his laugh. “We’re going to see if Etela has any bread,” she said. “But be sure to save us a slice or two of pie.”

  “Will do. Take care, Kesia.”

  Kesia waved as they walked away. She glared at Miren, but Miren put a hand over her signing fingers. “Wait until he can’t see,” she murmured.

  But Kesia discreetly flicked her hands. I’m going to see Davri. You don’t need me to come.

  “Just a few more stops,” Miren said, trying not to sound frustrated. “Don’t you want bread?”

  I don’t want pity bread, Kesia signed.

  “I’m pretty sure it tastes the same as regular bread.”

  Kesia glared for a long moment.

  Miren sighed. “Don’t be angry with me.”

  You won’t give him a chance.

  “Let’s not do this here.”

  He’s considerate and kind and respectful—

  “And he’s young, and you’re young, and I really don’t want to discuss this in public,” Miren hissed.