Divided Fire

by Jennifer San Filippo

  “Over here, Fire Singer,” a worker shouted. She shuffled over to a set of rollers. “Heat these up.”

  This room seemed more bearable, though Kesia couldn’t think why. She Sang until her throat grew sore and her legs unsteady. Sparks left biting burn marks on her arms. Perhaps she preferred this room because the enormous furnace didn’t loom over her. Perhaps it was because Parviz never appeared in the doorway.

  But she didn’t waver in her work, because fear was a solid weight in her chest. There were times she forgot it, lost in the task at hand, in the steam and grinding of gears. The workers sometimes shouted over the din, reminding her of summer nights, fishermen gathered around a fire playing rocks for the last swig of wine.

  “Hey, we have a problem!” someone shouted.

  “You!” a man pointed at her from the doorway. “Get over here! Sing this furnace hot!”

  Kesia nearly tripped again in her haste to obey. She quickly returned to the room with the furnace, throwing her Voice at it. A leak near the top was spitting steam and bright orange and blue sparks. She could feel the heat escaping the furnace, pushing against the hole like a desperate animal. Kesia fought to replace it, but she wasn’t fast enough. Her legs shook with the strain; her vision tunneled. She fell to one knee, and rough hands yanked her back up.

  “Where’s the other one?” a man shouted.

  Another worker shoved Ayla forward, and she leaped in with her own Voice. The two Voices weren’t complementary—Ayla’s tone was thin and reedy, and her notes sometimes bent in the wrong places—but the furnace grew warmer.

  Air Singers swirled current around the bottom vent, increasing the pressure inside the furnace. Kesia knew it must be helping, but the strain of their Voices on top of hers threatened to topple her, until she felt only the air thrumming from her throat.

  She didn’t know how long it took the workers to fix the leak; she opened her eyes as hands dragged her limp body out of the way of a sheet metal cart. Ayla sat against a far wall, her eyes fluttering, and many of the Air Singers were on their knees. Kesia noticed that most of the workers were not trying to hurry the Singers back to the job.

  She winced as a shadow fell over her, but no hand touched her. A smooth, deep Song wrapped her in a cool mist, pressing lightly on her forehead and the back of her neck. She had heard this Song before, one afternoon months earlier.

  * * *

  She and Miren had fought. She couldn’t remember why—maybe it had been about chores, or their parents, or Singing—but cutting words had driven her to the beach, kicking sand and wiping tears on her sleeve and wishing things were different. She often wandered down here, when she needed to leave that small cabin or take a break from talking and just listen. Sometimes she could feel her sister staring from the lighthouse, but even ever-protective Miren did not bother her here.

  Usually she turned back once she reached the docks, reluctant to run into anyone or interrupt the fishermen, but on this day, she gave the docks a wide berth and kept going, not ready to return home. At the base of the small hill where the baron’s estate rested, she turned right, still keeping toward the water, where the beach curled around a sharp bend.

  She had never been this far up the shoreline. The rocks were tricky here and often half-submerged in surf, but she accepted the challenge and began to climb.

  It took only about two minutes to regret her decision. The rocks were slippery and uneven and sharp in places, and the encroaching surf had soaked most of her skirt. She clung to the rocks, winded already, the way back far steeper going down than it had looked on the way up.

  A voice rose against the roar of the current.

  A Song.

  Startled, Kesia nearly lost her footing.

  Perhaps ten paces above her, a blond head poked from above the rise. It was a moment before she remembered his name. Davri, the baron’s son. The Water Singer.

  She rarely saw him. He occasionally came to the village and bought bread or a trinket, but he and his family spent most of their days at their estate, receiving letters from the messengers or sending one of their servants to buy produce. They were generous with their spending but little else.

  She looked at him quizzically, too busy holding onto the rocks to ask a proper question, but he continued his Song. She watched as the rocks between them dried from top to bottom, a spreading puddle in reverse. He gestured for her to climb.

  It was still agonizing, her clothes freezing and clinging to her, but she slowly made her way up.

  He was seated on a flat shelf of rock that faced the water, his legs dangling over the side. He wore a pressed white shirt, dark trousers, and boots polished to a high gloss. He looked wholly out of place.

  He smiled. Hello, he signed.

  Hello, she replied. What are you doing up here?

  He shrugged, looking sheepish. I like to watch the sunset from here. He gestured to the great expanse of the sea, the afternoon sun gleaming brightly off the water.

  She nodded in agreement and sat down.

  Do you climb that too? she asked.

  He shook his head and pointed up. I come from the estate.

  She followed his gaze and saw a path winding up in the cliff face.

  He looked at her. I can dry your clothes if you like.

  You mean with Singing?

  He nodded.

  That would be very nice.

  He stared at her skirt, his brow furrowing. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. It was nearly a full minute before he started to Sing.

  She watched him quizzically. He seemed oddly unsure, sometimes pausing in his Song to find the proper note. She had never seen a Singer struggle like that.

  He glanced at her and frowned. Do you miss Singing? he asked.

  He must have misread her expression. Like the rest of the village, he believed that she had lost her Voice to cloud fever. She felt a pang of guilt at the lie, magnified because he was a Singer. She nodded.

  Do you Sing often? she asked.

  He shook his head. Not much reason to.

  Kesia nodded, feeling sympathy for him. She didn’t know much about Water Singing, but perhaps she should explain some of the basics.

  But they didn’t discuss Singing that day. They shared stories of parents and expectations and frustrations born from the loneliness they felt as the last two Singers in the village.

  Kesia worried that she was boring him, but he was attentive and patient, his eyes—deep blue, she noticed—never wavering from her as she signed. Perhaps it was just politeness, she thought, but he would consider her words and respond and ask questions in a way that suggested genuine interest.

  The sun was setting when they finally climbed down that day. Though she hadn’t Sung at all that afternoon, a warmth had begun to unspool in her heart.

  * * *

  She looked up into eyes blue like the sea.

  Davri—

  Dark hair, though, and a gnarled beard that spilled over the collar. His face was full of crevices. His eyes were old. A fellow slave.

  The clink and hiss of molten metal filled her ears again. She was not in Crescent Bay.

  The slave’s hands moved. He was asking if she was all right. Nodding was impossible, so she closed her eyes, her head pounding, her chest aching for air. In. Out. In. Out.

  Seventeen

  KESIA

  Kesia had lost track of the days. It was easier to sink, to let time wash over and drown her. Sometimes her conscious mind would sleep for hours at a stretch; she would wake suddenly to find herself carrying tools or pushing carts of iron ore or Singing, Singing, Singing, burning, burning, burning, the collar tight around her neck.

  Her Voice rasped when she Sang, something her mother had always warned about, but there was rarely a pause during the day.

  Sometime after the midday meal on what might have been her fifth day at the factory, she sat and stoked the fire while the Avi’ori workers shoveled in more coke. Air Singers blasted currents through the bottom
of the furnace, and blue flames shot out the top as impurities were burned off. Kesia could feel the competing Songs increase the pressure and heat the furnace.

  The sound of voices pulled her attention from her Song: two Avi’ori stood ten paces away, arguing with a third man who was dressed differently than any worker Kesia had seen. He wore a tool belt and harness around his torso, and weird, green-lensed goggles were propped above his brow. Unlike the others, his arms were bare.

  “Hey! Quit Singing,” someone shouted. “The ore’s out!”

  Kesia cut off her Song and turned away. Every time she apologized for a mistake, the workers would either ignore her or grow frustrated.

  She glanced at the three newcomers. The man with the goggles glanced back at her, but she looked down.

  “Hey you!” he called. “Fire Singer. Come here.”

  The other two men crossed their arms, their expressions sullen. She glanced at Ayla, who was pushing a crate of coke up the ramp to the furnace opening. There were still rollers to be heated, and the back conveyor belt kept jamming—

  “Now, Singer!”

  Kesia hurried over to the men, feeling the lack of air in her lungs. Don’t panic, she told herself.

  “Parviz’s not going to be pleased, Katzil,” one of the workers muttered.

  The newcomer, Katzil, rolled his eyes. “He can take it up with me, then. Amos wants this tested before the Council sends someone to inspect it.”

  Amos. The name she had seen on the building, on the machinery throughout the warehouse. Her owner. Perhaps she should fear him more than Parviz, but she didn’t.

  “You’ll need an Earth Singer too.” The man glanced at her dubiously. “How’s Nadav going to be in two places at once?”

  Katzil shrugged his broad shoulders. “If this little girl grows to be too much trouble, then one of the men’ll shoot her in the leg.”

  Before the workers could make another offer, the newcomer turned and motioned for Kesia to follow. She glanced at the others, waiting for clear instructions, but the men left without looking at her.

  She followed Katzil out of the workshop and through the double doors. Nadav, the Earth Singer, glared at her with a silent threat, but her collar remained open, allowing a little more air.

  The day was muted gray; featureless clouds hovered over the walled factory compound. Kesia hurried to keep up, trying to spot something, anything, that might hint at how she could escape. But the buildings were monotonous, and she saw no opening in the wall.

  Katzil paused midstride and turned to her. “I meant what I said, girl,” he muttered. “If you hurt any of my men, I will shoot you. Are we clear?”

  Kesia swallowed, wincing as the collar grated her throat, and signed assent.

  Katzil led her past a half-dozen identical factory buildings, each humming with machinery and coughing smoke. She looked between them but saw nothing in the distance except an enormous brick wall, perhaps three men high. Angry metal spikes protruded from the top.

  Around a corner, they came to a gate.

  Kesia startled, but this was not the gate she had come through five days earlier. They were on the southern end of the property now, facing away from the city. The heavy, two-door gate made of solid metal stood on wheels. A couple of workers rolled it open to let Katzil and Kesia through.

  The back of the factory stood in stark contrast to the bustling city. Kesia saw a path from the gate to a cliff, with switchbacks that led down into a small, cragged valley, where tufts of green and gnarled trees clung to the harsh stone. To the right of the valley lay the sea. She dared a few extra steps toward the edge of the cliff to see the surf roar against the rocky cliffside. If she were to go far enough around the western wall of the compound, she would likely be able to see the docks.

  “Hey!” Katzil called. “This way.”

  Kesia hurried over to join him, and the two began the trek down the cliffside. As the incline steepened, Kesia found it difficult to watch her step. Because of the iron collar, she couldn’t angle her head to see her feet. She stumbled often and at one point fell to her knees. Katzil merely waited as she struggled to stand.

  She knew this was the opportunity she needed. She was out of the compound, away from Nadav. But where could she go? She wouldn’t be able to outrun anyone going downhill, especially in the collar. Even if she managed to get around the compound to the other side, they would be able to see her well enough to shoot her.

  The path flattened out as they reached the bottom and curved left, winding around the uneven valley to the east. Soon after, they turned into a wide, flat clearing.

  Kesia nearly stopped in her tracks. In front of her was a building larger than any she had ever seen. She almost didn’t understand the scope of it until she spotted figures walking around its base. It looked like a hill made of metal, the curved roof standing at least four times higher than the lighthouse in Crescent Bay, perhaps more.

  Katzil led her into the building without stopping. Inside, the walls were ringed with metal walkways that led to hallways, as though someone had hollowed out this part of the building just to make room. Workers buzzed around, sharing tools and hanging from the ceiling in harnesses, all intent on the project in the center, which was . . . difficult to understand.

  It was an enormous oval structure that easily filled most of the space. Kesia thought it looked like an enormous balloon, stretched lengthwise, its outside covered in crisscrossed metal beams. Beneath it was a smaller structure that looked like a boat made of metal.

  The entire thing was floating, the metal boat knee-high off the ground, heavy tethers connecting the balloon’s metal frame to thick anchors on the ground.

  It was floating.

  She had heard of hot-air balloons. Davri had once explained to her how they worked: a fire heated the inside of the balloon, which somehow made everything float. She hadn’t understood how hot air made anything float, but he had seemed excited about it.

  Though she had never seen such a balloon, she believed they were far smaller than this structure. A balloon this size didn’t seem possible.

  Katzil waved for attention. “We got a Singer!” he shouted over the din.

  Nearby, a few men huddled around a desk. Two of them smiled in response but gave Kesia only brief glances before turning back to the papers that littered the surface in front of them.

  “The furnaces are ready,” one man said. “We’ve got as much coal in there as the thing can handle.”

  “It’ll have to do,” Katzil said. “You ready?”

  Kesia nodded, but he was talking to the workers.

  She followed Katzil to the boat-like compartment under the balloon and stepped inside at his prompting. It was a small, cramped space. To the left was a long, circular dashboard covered with dials and levelers and buttons. Handles and gauges hung from above what could only be a steering wheel, set in front of a curved window. To the right, a small metal door led to a room filled with four huge furnaces, with bins of coal right beside them.

  Dozens of pipes lined the ceiling and walls. This machine was more complex than anything Kesia had ever seen, but what did it do?

  “This way,” Katzil said, motioning her to the furnaces. She thought he might be smiling, but she was afraid to look at him.

  “Here’s what you’ll do,” he said. “When I give you the signal, you must light all four of these furnaces at the same time. They heat the boilers that power the propellers. These dials here measure the pressure and heat. They all have to be consistent, especially on each side. These two can’t be too much hotter than those. The boys will shovel coal if needed. You understand?”

  Kesia nodded, scrambling to comprehend this impossible contraption. What does it do? she signed.

  He stared at her, and she looked away, her heart thumping at her own daring.

  “It flies.”

  She looked up, baffled. This? This whole thing?

  “This is an airship.” He pointed up at the huge, bulbous structu
re. “The ballonet is filled with a special kind of air that’s lighter than the outside, so it wants to float. The fire powers the engines to the propellers so we can steer and regulate altitude. Stay here and wait for me.”

  Kesia watched him go, her mind tripping over engine and propellers and ballonet. A few men milled about, bringing in coal or checking gauges or tightening screws. Her escort seemed to be the leader, and though he was quiet, the other men’s quick movements and focus suggested a shared excitement.

  And why shouldn’t they be excited? If what Katzil said was true, they had created something incredible.

  A younger man, perhaps in his early twenties, climbed into the craft. “Excuse me,” he muttered, not looking up. She pressed against the door to let him pass.

  He ambled to each furnace in turn, checking the gauges and sometimes hitting the pipes with a wrench. He seemed to be listening for something.

  He caught her staring. “What?” he barked.

  She looked away and shook her head.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, sounding irritated, then continued his work without explanation.

  Katzil returned. “All right, engines are ready, pulley system looks good, and the hatch is open. Where’s our pilot? Gauge-watcher, are you ready?”

  There was a scramble as everyone found their places. Kesia stayed near the door as two young men filed in with shovels.

  “We’re ready for launch.” Katzil pointed at Kesia. “Start the fires!”

  She took a breath and Sang.

  The furnaces were enormous. She could feel the cool space inside eat at her Song, resisting the heat she created.

  “Keep it even!” the captain shouted.

  She nodded and added more breath to her Voice. Without being able to focus on one at a time, bringing the heat high enough was slow, arduous work. But it was rising, if she could just maintain her Song.