Divided Fire

by Jennifer San Filippo

  She took note of the coastal cities, whispering their names to herself: Mishaliv, Vori’alis, Peladah, Ganav. The words felt strange in her mouth. She guessed this city was either Peladah or Ganav.

  But how could she search an entire country? What trails could she follow when the men who had taken her sister worked outside the law?

  A knock at the door. The light outside the window was still a bright afternoon yellow, though she felt that she had been sitting for hours.

  She pulled herself up and opened the door. She had expected Hana, but it was Liviya. The woman looked refreshed, her face cleaner. Her voice was soft as she asked, “How is he?”

  Miren stepped aside to let her see. “Still sleeping.”

  “Then that’s what he needs.”

  Miren nodded. Somehow, she felt responsible for his condition, but she couldn’t reason out how.

  “Come downstairs and eat,” Liviya said. “They have stew.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Liviya arched an eyebrow. “You can’t do anything for him now. He just needs sleep.”

  Miren bristled at her tone, then relaxed. She was too tired to be offended, and she knew Liviya was right. She followed Liviya out and gently closed the door behind her.

  Liviya led her downstairs and into a dining area of round tables crowded with patrons. Against the far wall, two musicians wearing yellow-trimmed red shirts sat tightening strings on lutes and tapping drums. A woman wearing a pale yellow dress, her dark hair arranged in impressive curls, held a cluster of clinking bells.

  Not far from the stage, Cale and Ori took turns flicking a long splinter across the table at each other while Arten and Hana chatted, each of them holding a glass of wine. Miren was struck with how relaxed they seemed, then realized—they were free. The odds against them had been incredible, but they had done it anyway.

  Why couldn’t she achieve her impossible goal too?

  They looked up and smiled as she took a seat.

  “Hey, you’re awake,” Cale said.

  “How do you feel?” Hana said.

  “Fine,” Miren said. Hana raised an eyebrow, and she added, “Tired. Worried.”

  “Davri will be all right,” Hana said.

  “I’ve never seen any Singer do half of what he did,” Arten said.

  “He’s always been talented,” Miren said, remembering the Skyflame ceremony when he had earned his Voice. Everyone at the table nodded in agreement.

  A server came by and took Miren’s request for stew with a brisk nod.

  The troupe of musicians began playing a quick, cheery melody. Miren turned to watch, surprised that the other patrons ignored them. She studied each table in turn, but no one gave the performers more than a passing glance. The performers didn’t seem bothered by this, either.

  Miren looked at the family and found them all staring at Liviya. “What’s wrong?” Miren asked.

  Liviya said, “I don’t like to owe debts.”

  “Mother,” Cale groaned.

  Arten sighed quietly. Hana gave a faint smile.

  Liviya shifted in her seat. “All right, I’ll say it another way. Thank you for saving my family.”

  Miren forced a smile. “Davri saved your family.”

  Liviya shook her head. “Arten and Cale told me what you did for Ori. I . . . I could never have imagined someone doing so much.” Miren nodded. “You’re welcome,” she said, and she meant it. As worried as she still was, she could be relieved for this family as well. She caught Hana’s gaze and smiled. “I’m glad you’re all safe.”

  Ori flicked the splinter in her direction, but she placed it back in front of him. “Maybe later.”

  “You might remember,” Liviya continued, “that you and I made a deal before all this.”

  Miren nodded numbly. Right. The deal.

  She didn’t want to ask the obvious question. It felt like too much effort even to say the words. “What information would you have given us?” she asked instead.

  Liviya looked startled. “What does it matter now?”

  “It doesn’t,” Miren said, surprised at the sharp words. “I was just curious.”

  Liviya slumped in her seat. “I would’ve told you of a few specific locations where I thought she’d be headed, and the most likely paths the recruiters would take.”

  It wasn’t a complete answer, but that didn’t matter. “Do you know anything about where she might be?” Miren asked. “Do you know about these factories?”

  “A bit,” Liviya said. “There are dozens of factories in Avi’or. Far more than in Kaleo.”

  Miren winced. “Any that would need a Fire Singer?”

  She addressed the whole group, but they turned to Liviya. Most of them hadn’t seen Avi’or in nearly a decade.

  “If I bring my map down,” Miren said, “will you mark them all?”

  “I can certainly do that,” Liviya said. “Or I could just go with you.”

  Miren stared, not understanding until Hana leaned forward. “We want to help you find your sister, Miren.”

  All at once, Miren realized that she had never thought to expect anything from them. Their deal had been voided the moment they learned that Kesia wasn’t in Kaleo. The family was safe. There was nothing holding them here.

  Nothing, and yet every one of them was looking at her with more kindness than she could bear. Ori flicked the splinter in her direction again. Miren took it and stared at it, finding she couldn’t meet their gazes.

  “That—” She swallowed and tried again, her vision blurred. “That’s kind of you.”

  Hana smiled, but the others glanced away as though suddenly interested in the musicians, giving her a moment to collect herself. Miren followed their gazes and found herself humming with the performers; she knew this song: “Across the Sea,” one of her father’s favorites.

  Welcome brother, welcome home.

  We’ve missed you these years three.

  Welcome brother. Tell us of your

  Love across the sea.

  The drummer took the next verse:

  My dear sister, pleased am I

  To see you bright with glee.

  Lovely sister, listen while I

  Tell of ’cross the sea.

  It was easy for Miren to pretend that she was in Crescent Bay, that the village had gathered around a large fire as they often did in the summer to play the same songs. Miren and the other children would dance around the fire while the adults clapped. If there was a line of harmony unclaimed, Miren would pluck it out and sing as loud as she could.

  Miren had not sung like that in years. A part of her balked at doing so in front of strangers, but she was almost too exhausted to care: the song was familiar, and singing came naturally, offering warmth and comfort. With ease, she found the upper harmony and sang, letting her humming become words as the drummer continued:

  They sing of air and water, and they

  Whisper to the earth.

  But my sweet love, oh yes, she sings of

  Flame and fire and hearth.

  She’s fine and fair like fallen snow,

  Her hair like golden wheat.

  But, oh sweet sister, how it aches

  That she lives across the sea.

  The drummer and woman singer smiled at her, encouraging. The lute dipped with different chords than Miren was used to, giving the song a slightly more cheerful tone, but she had no trouble adjusting, harmonizing with the singer.

  Wait, wait, wait for me,

  My darling dearest, please.

  Hold your heart dear, hold it high,

  For your love across the sea.

  The lute gave a triumphant arpeggio for the final verse.

  Hold your heart dear, hold it high,

  For your love across the sea.

  Miren was startled when applause erupted around her.

  “Miren, that was beautiful,” Hana said.

  “I didn’t know you could sing,” Arten said.

  Miren clamped her mou
th shut. She felt like a dam was crumbling in her, a barrier she had constructed so slowly, she hadn’t even realized it was there. She had built walls in her mind. She had needed to focus on surviving. On keeping Kesia safe. Everything else had seemed frivolous, indulgent, selfish.

  She thought she knew the exact moment it had started: when Kesia had become ill with cloud fever. Miren remembered believing her sister would die, and her mother would be drafted, and she would be left behind, all alone. But Kesia had recovered, though her Voice had not. Or so they had thought for a time. She didn’t want to care about Liviya’s family, about Davri. She didn’t want to miss her parents or her village or the wonder of the Skyflame ceremony. She didn’t want to enjoy singing like this. She didn’t want to want anymore.

  But at least, she thought, she wasn’t alone.

  The tears were hot and fast, and she couldn’t stop them. Kesia, she thought. I miss you so much.

  Hana wrapped an arm around her, pressing her cheek against Miren’s head, and Miren let her.

  Thirty-Four

  Kesia

  Relax, Kesia signed. Nothing will happen that you don’t intend.

  Zuriel nodded, his lips tightly pressed together. They sat crosslegged in the middle of the parlor. All the furniture had been shoved to the edges of the room so that only a small pile of stones stood between them.

  After earning his Voice last night, Zuriel and his family had been swarmed by onlookers. Kesia had retreated to the far side of the crowd and waited, watching. People asked him questions and congratulated his family and offered him positions at various businesses. The ceremony wasn’t finished, however, so the fanfare had died down quickly, leaving Zuriel looking dazed.

  “Be patient, honey,” Tisa said now from the kitchen. Both she and Zuriel had been given another day off from work. “You won’t get it all in a single day.”

  Zuriel signed, I know, his hands clumsy, but Tisa had her back turned.

  The most frustrating part, Kesia signed. Eventually, they will grow used to it.

  Zuriel shrugged and bit his lip.

  Kesia smiled. Also, your skill will grow more quickly than she knows.

  When the crowd had finally dissipated last night, Tisa and Dar had congratulated Zuriel with hugs and two bundles of sweet fried dumplings. Kesia learned that Avi’ori Singers had a good future ahead of them as factory workers. They could do the work of ten people, so their skills were in high demand and they could earn better pay.

  But this morning, there was tension in the way Tisa scrubbed dishes and Dar held his newspaper. Perhaps Kesia was a reminder that there were far more dangerous futures for Singers too.

  Per custom, an Earth Singer from city hall was scheduled to come by today and teach Zuriel, but Kesia had offered to give some advice before the Singer arrived. She separated one stone from the pile and placed it in front of her. Lift, she signed. Listen and lift.

  Zuriel stared at the stone and waited, but his focus seemed too deliberate. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Nothing, he signed, rubbing his forehead.

  Kesia let out a breath. Let’s take a short break.

  A knock sounded at the door. Dar’s newspaper drooped. Tisa fumbled with the last of the dishes.

  “He’s here,” she breathed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Kesia.”

  Kesia nodded and left the room. They had all agreed that an Earth Singer employed by the city shouldn’t know of her presence here. She took a book from the couch and hurried into the back room.

  She pressed her ear to the door and heard a click. “Hello, thank you for coming!” Tisa said in greeting, her cheerfulness sounding forced.

  Kesia curled up on the bed and opened the book.

  A few minutes later, an Earth Song rumbled through the walls.

  The book slipped from Kesia’s hands as the Earth Song filled her mind.

  It wasn’t the same Earth Singer from the factory, of course, but her body sweated with the memory: the grating work Song in her throat, the constant heat of the fires, the clanging metal. She was there in the factory, her metal collar pressed against her neck and shoulders.

  She buried her face in the pillow, fighting the feeling that she was about to fall from a cliff. She thought of Miren and Davri.

  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

  These past few days had felt like another life. A pretend family, a celebration of Singing. Even with the threat of discovery, she had been as close to content as she ever expected to be again. She had stopped worrying about Miren and Davri and home.

  She wasn’t even sure if her sister was all right; she couldn’t wrench her mind from that image of Miren’s limp form on the ground. She thought of Davri locked up in his father’s estate for the rest of his life, bent under the heavy gaze of his father and the silent judgment of his mother.

  Thoughts of home were no longer a comfort, as they had been in the factory. Now, in a warm house with food, the memories were excruciating. Even free from the collar, she was still trapped here.

  Miren, I’m sorry, Miren Davri Miren . . .

  * * *

  Kesia must have fallen asleep. When she opened her eyes, the patch of sunlight from the window had moved across the floor.

  She heard voices.

  “. . . hasn’t been trained. He hasn’t even had his voice for a full day. Why would you do this to him?”

  Silence followed, perhaps the Earth Singer signing a response. Dar’s voice added something, though Kesia couldn’t make out the words. More silence.

  A minute later, Tisa cried, “He’s twelve years old!”

  More silence, murmuring. Kesia pressed her ear to the door but couldn’t hear more than a random word or two. A few minutes later, the front door closed.

  In the living room, Kesia saw Dar hunched in his chair, his elbows on his knees as he stared blankly at the floor. Tisa stood by the door, her expression tight, as if she were holding back tears. Zuriel sat on the floor in the center of the room, the stones scattered in front of him.

  He glanced up at her as she entered and handed her a sheet of paper.

  Dear Mr. Zuriel Eichel,

  On behalf of the High Republic Council of Avi’or, we would like to offer our deepest congratulations on your receiving a Voice. Such ability is greatly prized and cherished throughout Avi’or.

  Considering the great gift that has been bestowed onto you, the Council has summoned you to report to the Peladah Bureau of Military Affairs by tomorrow afternoon.

  The Council thanks you in advance for your service.

  Sincerely,

  Bureau of Military Affairs

  Kesia cupped a hand over her mouth. Zuriel was staring at the floor now, his expression blank like his grandfather’s.

  War. This boy was going to war.

  In her mind, she heard gruff men calling orders on the deck of a navy vessel, the boom of a cannon firing mere paces away, the scream and stench of dying soldiers, the sudden roar of the surf. From her time on Edom’s pirate ship and in the factory, she could picture the burn of rope around her wrists, the ache in her jaw from the gag, the terror of drowning.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Tisa said quietly. “All right, Zuriel? We’ll think of something.”

  Zuriel just stared at the stones.

  Kesia realized with a jolt that though the family was distraught, they weren’t surprised. Does this happen often to Singers? she signed.

  She was looking at Tisa, but it was Dar who answered. “In order to work in Avi’or, a Singer needs to go through a test and get a license to practice from the government. It’s illegal to hire a Singer without a license.

  “There isn’t a Singer draft like you have,” he continued, “but the military can basically stop you from getting your license unless you agree to serve for a number of years. Or they can at least make it very, very difficult. Zuriel has to go to war, or he can’t work. He can’t even go to school, even if we could afford it.”

  “It was always a possibility
,” Tisa said, “but I’ve never heard of a Singer being pressed into service right after getting their Voice. Earth Singer or not, he’s too young.”

  Dar nodded firmly. “Much too young.”

  Kesia didn’t know what to think. It sounded like the Kaleon Singer Draft, only with more steps. At least the Kaleon king had been blatant with his cruelty.

  “Then he’ll just stay home,” Tisa said. “He won’t go to work or school. We’ll figure something out.”

  But Kesia could hear in her voice that she didn’t believe it, and Dar didn’t speak up in agreement. Kesia knew that Zuriel’s pay made up nearly half of their budget.

  Kesia remembered how the Singer draft had gutted their village, how it had torn the gift of Singing from them in a single day. Even through the haze of her cloud fever, she remembered her sister shouting at the men who escorted her mother to the ship.

  “I’m going down to city hall.” Tisa marched across the room to retrieve her bag. “They can’t do this.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Dar heaved himself up.

  Tisa pulled Zuriel into a hug and kissed his forehead. “Don’t be scared, Zuriel. We’ll figure this out, all right?”

  Zuriel didn’t respond; he continued to stare at the floor.

  Tisa gave him another kiss and glanced at Kesia. “Stay with him?”

  Kesia nodded, and the two adults left, the door slamming behind them.

  Kesia glanced at Zuriel. She thought of asking if he was all right, or if there was anything she could do, but everything sounded more insulting than helpful. So she just sat.

  He gestured for the paper. Kesia watched him read over the words.

  Finally, he looked up. This is wrong, he signed.

  Yes. Hopefully your mother and grandfather can change this.

  He shook his head. The Earth Singer who came by today. He told me of all the amazing things I can do. I can help build things. I can patch ships. I can help crops grow. I don’t want to kill people.

  She nodded.