I can do it, Davri signed. He picked up his Song again and pushed them east into open water.
Twenty-Nine
Kesia
Kesia woke to the hum of voices and the clattering of hooves.
She lifted her head, feeling an ache in her neck that was different than what she was used to. There was no collar in place to keep her from tossing and turning on the hard ground.
She sat up and coughed against the acrid smell of garbage around her. As the sky lightened, the mounds of refuse lining the alleyway were thrown into relief—rotted food, broken furniture, shredded clothes. She felt coated in grime, her hair matted and clinging to her cheeks.
Even at this early hour, the city was bustling. People, some dressed in tailored garb, others in flowing dresses or simple work clothes, shoved their way through crowds.
She closed her eyes and lay back down, willing herself to sleep a bit longer. She had been dreaming something pleasant.
In the months that had followed their mother’s departure, the sisters had had no word of her. They received letters from their father, but even those came only rarely.
The sisters didn’t discuss what the silence could mean. They avoided talking about the war as much as they could. The longest discussion they had was when they wrote a letter to Father, telling him where Mother had gone, and that Kesia, though she survived, had lost her Voice to cloud fever.
Kesia always felt Miren’s presence in a room. Her sister tended to hover.
At night, Kesia stared at the fire she had just lit for dinner with the small, dulled spark rocks that Haro the blacksmith had given them. The coming winter promised to be brutal. How would they survive, just the two of them? How would they make it without Song?
A faint noise, like someone inhaling. She looked up, but she was alone. Miren was tending to the lighthouse. Kesia listened but heard nothing. The first lesson Mother ever taught her was to listen. Before you Sing, you must first hear the Song.
Ever since the Singer Draft, the village had not celebrated Skyflame. It was a terrible, gut-wrenching decision, one that made Kesia want to weep, but anyone who might have led Skyflame was away at war. The villagers would rather live without Singing than risk losing their children to the draft.
Only when Kesia had lost her gift had she come to love it.
Kesia knew that the village had slowly grown used to life without the help of Singers, but the absence of Song had robbed them of more than just a means to work. People spoke less. They hardly smiled, and when they could be bothered to gather for a night of songs and tales, it felt forced—less of a celebration than a reminder of what they had lost. Even Miren’s voice, always bright and clear no matter what song she sang, had grown quieter and less certain.
I want to Sing, Kesia thought. I want to Sing.
There—she heard the Song. She hadn’t heard the Song since being sick but wondered now if she simply hadn’t been listening in the way her mother had taught her. She opened her mouth, willing the air to pull sound from her throat.
Notes drifted through the air. She felt a tugging inside her, and a candle was lit. Kesia stopped before the Song was finished, feeling winded, but the candle flickered happily.
“Kesia?” Miren called. Footsteps thundered down from the lighthouse, and the cabin door slammed open. “I thought I heard—”
Kesia smiled widely. She hadn’t really believed that she missed Singing this much, but the fire seemed to fill her with a warmth that she had forgotten.
We don’t need more spark rocks, she signed.
“You can Sing!” Miren gasped and opened her arms. Kesia hugged her. Miren was laughing, and it was a tight, desperate sound, but the sisters held each other. When they parted, there were tears on both their faces.
Write Father! Kesia signed happily, reaching for a pen.
“Wait!” Miren grabbed her arm. “We need to be careful. There’s still a draft.”
Kesia gasped. She had almost forgotten the war. Singers were still being drafted. They had heard rumors of new Singers being found in cities and taken to war as soon as their Voices manifested.
A sudden wave of loneliness caught her. She was the only Singer in Crescent Bay, except for Lord Darius’s reclusive son, but he hardly counted. Besides, he was exempt from the draft.
Miren said, “We can’t tell anyone.”
Kesia stared at her. Not even Father?
“What if Father’s letter gets intercepted?”
They won’t know who we are.
“What if the military reads them?”
Kesia frowned. You think they do that?
Miren bit her lip. “It’s possible,” she said.
Tell me what you know. I’m old enough to know about these things, Kesia signed angrily.
“I don’t know for certain. I’m just—suspicious.” Miren lifted her hands. “Please Kesia. Don’t tell anyone you can Sing.”
How can we keep this a secret? Kesia signed, glancing out the window. Winter is nearly here, and everyone is worried. The village will need me—
Miren sobbed. Kesia was shocked to see tears rolling down her sister’s cheeks. Miren never cried. Ever.
“Please,” Miren begged. “Please keep it a secret.”
Kesia’s chest ached. She sometimes forgot why Miren was careful, that protection was her way of showing love. Kesia might lose her life, but Miren could lose her reason to live.
Fine, Kesia signed. She came over to give Miren another hug.
“Thank you,” Miren murmured. They stood like that for another moment. When they stepped apart, Miren wiped her eyes and retrieved the spark rocks from the floor.
* * *
Finding the courage to leave her alley, Kesia walked along the streets amid the constant bustle of the city. On the western side, she found an open market, with booths full of piled fruit and bundled vegetables. She spotted a woman selling carrots. When the woman’s back was turned, Kesia tugged at a bundle and hid it under her coat.
No guilt came with the action, nor when she took a loaf of bread from a bakery, or slipped a copy of a newspaper from a stand. She hadn’t yet untangled herself from last night’s violence against the elderly couple, Gemma and Axel, who had taken her in and then tried to collar her. The fury of it burned in her as she wove her way through the streets, flaring as passersby gave her a wide berth or a disgusted glance. Finally, a fire that didn’t steal from her.
She nestled into another alley and stuffed herself with stolen food. She fumbled with the newspaper, a bundle of thin sheets that left her hands smudged with black ink. The lettering was difficult to read, but she flipped through the pages until she came across a sketch of a faintly familiar, heavily charred house with bold words above it: “Couple Loses House in Mysterious Fire, Claims Singer Attack.”
She read through the article three times. The couple claimed they found a young woman who had broken into their shed. She had said she was Kaleon, and they had apparently assumed she was a member of the Kaleon military who had escaped Avi’ori custody. They had tried to apprehend her while she slept, but she woke and set their house on fire, then fled. The writer of the article, however, seemed disbelieving, highlighting the couple’s age and a few choice words from disgruntled neighbors.
Either way, the article was a sign that she was in the city. Which meant workers from the factory might be looking for her.
She needed to leave.
She continued exploring the streets and stumbled upon the train station, where a billowing steam locomotive waited for passengers. She risked a few moments to study the detailed map encased in glass on the platform.
She was in a place called Peladah City, a large port on the southern coast of Avi’or. She noticed some railways that wove through different cities, but it wouldn’t make sense to take a train, even if she had money for a ticket. She needed passage on a ship, but what vessel other than a pirate ship would be heading to Kaleo during a war?
She did her best to memorize
the map and then left the station, feeling exposed. If Nadav and Parviz were looking for her, then surely they would check the docks and train station. Her best option was to remain hidden and keep moving. Even now, away from Amos Steel and free of her collar, she was still trapped.
As she walked, the pieces of the collar clinked in her bag. She wanted more than anything to be rid of it, but the memory of the old man approaching her, collar in his grip, stopped her. Each time she spotted a dumpster or trash-ridden alley, she couldn’t will herself to pull it from the bag. She pressed her hand against the bag to keep the collar silent.
All day she wandered, afraid to ask questions or ask for coins, as she saw beggars doing on street corners.
The sudden scent of sugar and maple pierced the dirty air, and her stomach leaped in response. Her bag had emptied of food sooner than she had expected.
She noticed a wooden sign that read BAKERY. Just outside a painted window, a woman sold pastries and buns to a large, muddled crowd. Kesia eyed a glazed pastry, laced with swirls of white and brown, sitting on paper. Etela’s bread had never looked like that.
Kesia edged into the crowd. She slipped the pastry from the tray and scurried away.
“Hey!” the woman called.
Kesia kept on walking, the bun sticky and warm in her hand.
An angry hand pulled her around by the shoulder. The baker looked livid. “You didn’t pay for that, you little rat!”
Kesia cowered under her glare. Attention was the last thing she needed. She shoved the bun at the woman, who shook her head vigorously.
“I don’t want it back. I want money, girl!” the woman yelled. “Five coppers.”
Kesia backed away, trying to meld into the crowd, but the woman followed, dragging the attention of everyone else with her.
“No money, eh? Big surprise there. Bet you wouldn’t like the peacers finding you like this, would you?”
Kesia shook her head, confused at the word peacers.
“Here, here!” someone called.
A young boy jogged up and dropped brown coins in the baker’s hand.
The baker glanced at him, then back at Kesia. “Well, keep your friend’s hands out of trouble, then!”
The baker stomped back to her stand. Kesia stared after her, but the baker’s smile was in place as she returned to her customers.
The boy who paid for the pastry was a full head shorter than Kesia, his lanky form covered by an oversized, stained white shirt and crumpled trousers. He wore a bulbous hat that was so large for him that it covered his ears.
He smiled widely and held out his hand. “I’m Zuriel.”
When Kesia said nothing, he sighed and shoved his hands in his pocket. “Well, you’re welcome.”
She turned and hurried away, folding her hands in her coat.
“Hey,” the boy said, and she cringed. “You could at least say thank you.”
She shook her head, edging away from him.
“What, you don’t talk? Oh! Are you a Singer?”
Zuriel waited for her to sign an answer, but Kesia kept her arms tucked in her coat. Though his voice sometimes skipped deeply like a man’s, he couldn’t be older than twelve.
“You might as well eat that,” the boy said. “I paid for it.”
Kesia thought the pastry far more trouble than it was worth. She tried to hand it to him.
He shook his head. “I don’t want it. I don’t much like honey.”
Kesia bit into the treat. Warm, syrupy cream leaked from its center. She couldn’t imagine disliking anything about this pastry.
He frowned. “Why is a Singer living on the streets? You could probably get a hundred different jobs.”
She shoved the pastry into her mouth and quickened her pace.
“Your clothes are really . . . different,” he said. “You’re not from around here, huh?” He gasped. “Are you Kaleon?”
She broke into a run.
“Hey, wait!” he chased after her. “We don’t see a lot of Kaleons, is all,” he said. He had a bounce that added an extra tap to his gait.
She slowed back to a walk, already feeling winded. Running attracted too much attention, but this boy would not leave her alone.
“I mean, there are some here, but not many,” the boy continued. “You lot talk weird.”
Kesia glanced at him but said nothing. She hadn’t heard a single Kaleon accent since arriving.
“I hear you folks in Kaleo own people like property.”
She shot him a look of mute horror before she could stop herself.
“It’s true!” he said, though he sounded less certain. “I heard you trick people into signing contracts that force them to work forever. They think they’ll get money at the end, but they just get trapped in debt.”
Davri had mentioned the practice to her in passing, though his father had never done it. It was devious, but it surely held no comparison to the slavery she had experienced. Parviz had been telling the truth, she realized; the Avi’ori people truly had no idea what was happening at Amos Steel.
Zuriel looked smug. “Do you think all Avi’ori are stupid?”
Kesia’s fingers twitched to respond, but she kept her hands in her sleeves. She didn’t need to defend herself to a child, no matter how many coppers she owed him. She sprinted past him and down another street.
“Hey!” he called after her.
She gritted her teeth, wondering how terrible jail was compared to this. She could think of no way to rid herself of him without causing a scene.
She slowed. If he so despised the thought of Avi’ori workers being taken advantage of in Kaleo, would he listen to her about Amos Steel? Would he care?
Her hesitation had allowed Zuriel to catch up with her. “You Kaleons think you’re so much better than everyone else,” he sneered. “I did something nice for you, and you treat me like a scarffer sewer rat!”
Kesia took off running again. No, she decided, she couldn’t trust anyone. She swung around the nearest corner, looking for a place to hide.
She spotted an alley nearby and bolted for it. Just as she reached the entrance, the strap of her bag snapped, halting her. Something metallic clunked on the ground.
She whirled. Zuriel stood holding her bag. Between them, on the ground, sat the collar.
Kesia lunged for it, but the boy was faster. He snatched the collar up and studied it, frowning. “What is this?”
She reached for it, but he was stronger than his size suggested. He pushed her away with his free hand. “What does this do? Where did you get it?”
Kesia felt true panic. If anyone saw, or if this boy reported the collar, then Parviz and Nadav would find her; they would know she was alive and track her down, drag her back to the compound, slap on a new collar.
A Song would spark the boy’s sleeve. Not enough to hurt him, just to distract—
A smoking apartment, the sound of alarm bells piercing the night. A pirate clutching his blistered arm in pain.
Kesia stumbled back and caught herself on the alley wall, feeling sick. She pressed a hand to her mouth as though the Song might escape.
“Hey, are you all right?” the boy asked, a note of apology in his voice.
She waved him away. Go, she signed. Leave.
He gasped. “You are a Singer!”
She froze, but he looked confused, his fury melting away. “Are you part of the Kaleon military?” he asked.
Was there harm in telling him?
No, she signed. I escaped from Amos Steel.
He stared at her like he didn’t understand. “Escaped? Like . . . like you were a planter? Avi’or doesn’t have that.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you sign a contract?”
No! she slapped the word loudly, and Zuriel looked shocked. Her anger felt unstable, as if she might melt into tears at any moment. There are many Singers there who are treated as slaves, forced to work without pay, lighting fires and melting metal—
“How did they keep you there?” he asked.
<
br /> Her eyes flickered to the collar in his hand. She reached for the top of her shirt and pulled it back, revealing the raw skin left from the collar’s chafing.
Revulsion rippled across his face. “That’s . . . that’s not . . .”
He held the collar away from himself, as if he couldn’t decide whether to drop it.
He looked toward the street, then back at Kesia.
“You . . . would you come to my house?” he asked. “I want you to talk to my grandpa.”
Thirty
Kesia
Kesia shook her head. No, she would not go with this boy. She pushed past him and ripped the collar from his hand.
“Hey, wait!” Zuriel grabbed her arm and spun her around. Kesia twisted from his grip, drew breath for a Song—
He gasped and stumbled back.
Kesia snapped her lips together, shame washing through her. The Song twisted inside her like poison until she pushed it away. What is wrong with me? she thought.
“I—I just think you should talk to my grandpa,” Zuriel said again. “He doesn’t trust the big companies. He thinks they’re doing something illegal. We argue about it all the time. Amos Steel makes steel so cheaply.” He gestured at her. “I guess now we know why.”
Kesia slipped the collar in her bag. Zuriel shoved his hands in his pockets.
Not safe, she signed. They might be looking for me.
“Then you shouldn’t be wandering the streets,” Zuriel said.
I can’t trust anyone, she signed, swallowing tears. He believed her, but he was young. Older minds were more difficult to change.
“You can trust my grandpa!” Zuriel insisted. “And my mother will take care of you. We have food. At least just come for a little while.”
She had nowhere to go, and she was too scared to risk visiting the docks. There was no way for her to go home now.
“Come on,” Zuriel said, heading back toward the street. “Just stay close to me and keep your head down. No one will notice us.”
Divided Fire Page 23