He had an accent.
An Avi’ori accent.
A new wave of fear set her heart hammering, though she didn’t know what his nationality meant for her. What would the Avi’ori want with a Kaleon Singer? Did the Kaleon Crown offer bounty to anyone who brought in a Singer, even Avi’ori pirates?
“Before you attempt escape,” the captain continued, “you should note that while the ship is made of wood, your prison is made of iron.”
She realized the surrounding cage was indeed slick, brown grime over coarse metal. Kesia saw dried fluids, including blood, and she heaved again.
“So,” the captain said, “if you attempt to Sing at all during our voyage, we will kill you. If you harm any of my crew, we will kill you. And if, miraculously, you set this whole ship on fire—” he grinned, “you drown with us.”
Kesia shivered, imagining the churning waters beneath the ship, ready to swallow her.
Captain Edom raised his arms in a grand gesture of welcome. “Enjoy your time on Darkcrest, Lady Singer!”
Five
Miren
Time skipped and compressed around Miren; it warped and shredded and pulled.
She had fled from Darius’s estate, through the town, and all the way to the cabin, blinded by unshed tears and the pain splitting her skull. A few people called out to her, but she didn’t stop.
She must have unlocked the cabin and stumbled inside. She sank to the floor and stayed there, a pool of misery.
When she looked up again, night had fallen like a heavy curtain. Her stomach knotted with a dull, nauseous hunger, and her throat was ragged. Her skin felt hot and dry.
Miren blinked, wondering why the world was suddenly so there. And then she heard it again: a knock at the door. She had always made it a point to answer the door. Another stupid, useless habit formed to shield Kesia.
Perhaps it was someone with pity for her, with condolences or a pie to convince her that they really did care, that they hadn’t watched idly while—
Another knock, more insistent.
Miren pulled herself slowly to her feet. Her hand seemed to open the door of its own volition.
A young blond man stood before her.
“You,” Miren said.
He winced, his gaze flitting to her and away. She imagined slamming the door, but she didn’t move.
Are you all right? Davri signed.
A stupid question from a stupid boy. “Why are you here?”
He flinched again, as if he expected her to strike him. Perhaps she would.
I understand, Davri signed rapidly. I understand why you lied to everyone. I would have done the same thing for Kesia. I’m not angry.
His sympathy made her hands curl into fists. “Why are you here?” she asked again.
Davri reached into his bag and handed her a sealed envelope. Absently, Miren took it, the paper rough and foreign in her hands.
“What is this?” she said.
Davri signed, The report my father wrote to the capital. He thinks I sent it with a messenger.
Miren stared blankly at him.
The report.
The report.
Miren gripped it in both hands and tore it down the center. The wax seal snapped off and fell to the ground between them.
She looked up, and Davri gave a single, conspiratorial nod.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded, dreading his answer.
To protect you, Davri signed. At least you have time now.
“Time,” she said. The concept felt particularly cruel. Time to sit and grieve. Time to wonder what she’d tell her father in her next letter. “Why?”
To leave, he signed. He looked close to tears. So we can find Kesia.
He paused, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Find Kesia,” she echoed. “You want to . . . chase after her.”
I want to go after her, he signed. I think we can save her.
Anger filled her stomach like bile; she felt sick with it. He wanted to save her. Was he hoping to be some kind of hero? Miren had been protecting Kesia for years, and yet this—this boy thought he somehow had an equal stake in her loss. As though his pain was anything close to Miren’s.
I am a baron’s son. Davri signed hastily, sensing her fury. I can say she is exempted from the draft.
Exempted from the draft, like he was.
The heat of her anger dissipated. “How can you do that?”
He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a ring. It was the baron’s crest, a collection of five circles arranged to look like a rose, used to seal his letters in wax. Davri must have stolen it.
He truly intended to go.
Miren’s pulse spiked. “Do you have a plan?”
Davri nodded. I know the duke of the province just north of here. He will likely have connections to find out exactly where she was taken. We may need to cut a deal, but it’s our best option.
“And you can just . . . ask him?”
He nodded once, his brow furrowed.
He believed it was possible. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.
There were holes, glaring uncertainties, a litany of ways this could go wrong. She didn’t know how Kaleon nobility operated, the rules or expectations—they might be set to fail before they began. She had never left Crescent Bay. She had very little money. She might be reduced to begging at some point. She might be arrested for breaking a law she didn’t even know. And the only person who was willing to help her was a soft, entitled baron’s son.
But how could she stay, knowing that in some way, there was a sliver of possibility that she might see her sister again?
Kesia Kesia Kesia.
Protect your sister.
“I’ll need time to pack,” she said.
* * *
A day of mourning had left her exhausted, but now everything was in sharp, pristine focus. She flitted around the cabin in search of supplies while Davri stood at the door, shifting his weight uncomfortably and asking if he could help.
“No, I just need a minute.”
The truth was that she didn’t want him here, in her house. He was here because Kesia was not.
Miren hated him. But he was the only chance she had.
Can I save you? Miren thought. Can I bring you home?
Once she had her largest pack full of essentials—bread, jerky, candles, spark rocks, a change of clothes, money, rope, a topped-off canteen—she reached for her father’s revolver, still in the desk drawer. She located bullets and powder and the leather holster that went with it and suddenly found herself thinking of her father supporting her from behind as she practiced her aim, holding her arm, Kesia jumping impatiently for her turn—
Kesia Kesia Kesia.
She looked around the small cabin, trying to consider what else she should bring without letting the barrage of memories overtake her. Her eyes landed on her mother’s favorite book of recipes. She let her hand drift over the well-worn leather cover and heard the rustle of her father’s last letter underneath, right where she had left it.
What would he say? What would Mother say?
Father might still be alive, but Miren’s hope that Mother lived felt stale and poorly kept. Neither would be coming home soon, if ever.
Their crops would die. Their chickens might starve or be eaten by wolves. The lighthouse would never be lit.
“I have to visit someone,” she said to Davri. “I’ll meet you down at the beach.”
* * *
It must’ve been past midnight, the sky thick and dark. Not a single home flickered with light, not even the manor at the top of the northern hill.
She headed to the blacksmith’s house and found the bedside window in back. She tapped out the rhythm of an old fishing song her father sometimes hummed, one of her favorites.
Welcome brother, welcome home.
We’ve missed you these years three.
Welcome brother. Tell us of your
Love across the sea.
The w
indow opened, and she saw Haro blinking sleep from his eyes, the tufts of hair on his head sweeping in all directions. “Miren, what are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I need you to do me a favor. Can you water Kesia’s garden? Just once in a while, to keep the plants alive. You can have the fruit, and the carrots have been good lately. Also the chickens, just feed them once a day. Or you can take them—”
“Miren,” he repeated slowly, “what are you doing?”
She swallowed. To say it aloud would sound ridiculous.
“I’m going after Kesia.”
“Skies and mountains, girl, that’s a stupid thing to do! Are you going to leave your mother childless in one day?”
“Don’t do that, Haro, I swear—” She took a shuddering breath. “Don’t make this harder than it is.”
“You idiot girl, how are you expecting to get her back?” he demanded, and Miren found a strange comfort in his anger. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is? What are you planning to do?”
“You’ll know by tomorrow.” She didn’t think she should mention Davri’s involvement. “I shouldn’t have woken you, but I didn’t know who else—what to do.”
Miren couldn’t see Haro’s features in the dim light. She thought of what Davri had told her: I understand why you lied.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured again. “About keeping Kesia’s Singing a secret. I didn’t—I never thought—”
“Don’t apologize, Miren,” he said, and she thought he suddenly sounded much older. “If I were given the chance, I would’ve done the exact same thing. Anything to keep my boy alive.”
Miren’s eyes stung, aching for Jonath. She nodded.
“Perhaps if I were younger,” he continued, “I’d be doing the same thing you are.”
She leaned forward and placed a kiss on his bristly cheek. “Take care, Haro.”
She hurried down the road, quietly humming her father’s old song, its lilting melody plucking at the silence.
Welcome brother. Tell us of your Love across the sea.
Davri stood at the very edge of the surf. He turned at her approach, his blond hair silver in the light of the moon.
He was even taller than she’d thought; she came to his nose. But he was still soft. Little work and more food than most had given him a belly and a bit of extra chin. He would be useless on this trip. She couldn’t fathom how Kesia found him attractive.
It was too dark to sign, but Davri motioned for her to follow him.
“Do you have a boat ready?” she asked.
He nodded emphatically. They walked the shoreline in silence, Miren staying just a pace or two behind him.
It was one of those rare times when the sea was brighter than the town. The Southern Hills circled around the village as though herding it toward the surf, where the flat surface of water stretched out of sight.
Miren knew Kesia had dreamed of leaving. She had acted casually with her questions—What is the capital like? Or Avi’or? Don’t you ever wonder?—but Miren often saw her staring out the window, one hand cupping her chin, the other tracing something on the table.
Miren expected Davri to lead her to a boat at the docks, although she couldn’t quite convince herself that it would be right to take one of the villagers’ fishing ships. No one could afford such a loss.
But Davri passed the docks and continued on, down a dip in the shore that curved around the rise where the estate sat. The shore was soaked black from the high tide. Miren’s boots squelched in the wet sand, just behind Davri’s footprints.
“Where are we going?” Miren whispered, the surf loud in her ears. Then she remembered he couldn’t respond. “Never mind.”
Davri pointed around the turn, where a small cove had come into view. In her eighteen years, Miren had never seen this cove before; it would be impossible to spot from the village. She opened her mouth to comment, but Davri’s Water Song hushed her.
Water Song was different than Fire. Where Kesia’s Voice would leap and flutter, Davri sang low and constant, with fewer notes and syllables and slower changes in pitch. Miren wasn’t as familiar with Water Song, but she thought this one felt like reaching, or welcoming. Bringing something close.
And then she saw the boat.
It was smaller than the fishermen’s boats, with a single mast in the center built for a triangular sail, which was now furled.
Set in motion by Davri’s Song, the boat drifted close to them and turned to face the ocean. Davri grabbed the stern and pulled it up on the sand. He motioned for Miren to climb aboard.
She hesitated. There were a rudder and paddles—she didn’t know why she was so surprised—and even some packs. Davri must have spent the whole afternoon preparing for this.
She realized she hadn’t lit the lighthouse. She whirled and stared in shock. Sure enough, the tower was nearly invisible.
She had forgotten.
She had never forgotten before. She was occasionally late, but when she was, Kesia would take care of it without comment.
She looked back at Davri and found him staring at the lighthouse too. He turned to her and waited, his expression impossible to read in the dark.
Miren stepped forward and climbed into the boat, thinking it small and brittle against an entire sea. This was so foolish, so reckless. Her mother would set her shirt on fire for this.
It’s for Kesia, Mother. I’m going to save Kesia.
Miren found a seat near the bow and tucked her pack underneath it. Davri pushed the boat forward into the surf. Too late, Miren realized that she should’ve done that. Not out of politeness, but because she didn’t want his help.
He jumped into the boat, his trousers sloshing, and began a new Song.
This one was faster, if Water Song could be such a thing. Miren grabbed the side of the boat as she felt the current surge. The boat tipped forward, then back, then steadied. Water churned against the hull as the air brushed past her.
Miren watched the wake, surprised at their speed. The dark line of the town grew small and indiscernible from the mountains. The baron’s estate sat still and bloated on its hill. The lighthouse did not glow. Before them, the Tehum Sea filled the horizon.
Six
KESIA
Miren, I want to go home.
Kesia breathed the stench of fish and grime. She cringed every time she heard a crew member approach her cage. She had caught a few cautious glances from above, brief and fleeting, but the men otherwise left her alone.
They were afraid of her.
She knew that she should use that fear. She should terrify them somehow, so she could . . . But no second step came to her. She couldn’t Sing. She was trapped in a large metal box on a pirate ship, with her arms tied so tightly behind her that her shoulders screamed with pain. Her jaw ached from the gag.
She had no way to escape.
Everything Miren had worked so hard to prevent had come to pass. Her sister would live in the lighthouse, alone, waiting for her and for parents who might never come home.
Davri.
Sweet, loving Davri with the most honest face she had ever known. Even Miren kept secrets from her, but Davri was never patronizing, never lying, never cruel. His honesty was kind. She was surprised at how much she ached for him.
But he hadn’t come. How could he not have known what was happening? How could he not have heard Miren’s screams or her own Song? The wall of fire she had Sung had been enormous, and she knew his room had a window overlooking the bay. Where had he been?
Her thoughts drifted to her mother. As far as they knew, she was still alive. Fire Singers were rare and valuable. Perhaps Kesia would get stationed somewhere near her.
But with the thought of military service came a twisting anxiety. She had never been healthy. She had trouble breathing when she worked too hard, and her appetite was small. Miren could run and work the whole day through without pause.
She knew Miren’s secret too: Miren loved to sing. Kesia remembe
red her sister sitting by the fire with their mother, practicing the Songs that her voice wasn’t quite ready for. When she went fishing with their father, she would come back humming some new sailor’s tune that he had taught her. Her voice was beautiful and rich like their mother’s, except that it never made flames dance.
Kesia cried until her gag tasted of her own tears. Sleep was impossible. She tried standing once, just to stretch, and found that she could see some of the sailors shouting orders and pulling ropes. One caught her gaze, and she ducked out of sight.
Her stomach felt bitter with hunger, and her throat grated from so much crying, and she needed to relieve herself. How long would they be sailing? Days?
Toward the end of the day, a shadow fell over her cell, and she nearly choked on her gag again.
It was a boy. No older than nine, she thought, with a long, dark face and unwashed rags hanging over his lanky body. He held a block of cheese and a misshapen loaf of bread. His lip trembled as he looked down on her.
“I’m—I—” He swallowed and tried again. “I’m going to take your gag off so you can eat.”
He tucked the loaf of bread under his arm and produced a ring of keys. “I’m coming down there, all right?”
Kesia nodded.
He shuddered. “Please don’t kill me,” he whimpered.
She ducked her head and backed into a corner as best she could to give him room, trying to look submissive and composed. The boy struggled to unlock the latch, until the door swung open with a gritty whine. His bare feet dropped down in front of her. He put the food on the floor, next to a canteen. Her throat itched in anticipation.
“I’m gonna untie your bindings now.” The fear in his voice made her heart ache. “Do you promise not to burn me?”
She paused, so she wouldn’t look too eager to convince him, and nodded.
“Turn around,” he said.
She slowly shifted so that her arms were facing him. She heard the whisper of a knife being drawn and felt cool metal press against the skin of her wrist.
Divided Fire Page 5