Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Acknowledgments
Escape to Another World
More Books from HMH Teen
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Clarion Books
3 Park Avenue
New York, New York 10016
Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer San Filippo
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
hmhbooks.com
Cover illustration © 2020 by Jonathan Barlett
Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-328-48919-7
eISBN 978-0-358-33084-4
v1.1020
To Mom, Dad, and Rachael
Prologue
Five years ago
The hill they climb each year is steep. Father carries the straw rope, cooking pans, a faded quilt, but the two sisters are charged with heaving the large basket of kindling up the slope. In front, her arms full of vegetables collected that afternoon, their mother turns and hurries them with a wave.
“We’re coming,” Father says.
Miren, the elder sister, watches the other children scream and clamber up with only a twinge of envy in her stomach. Tonight will be her night; she knows it.
The sisters crest the hill and huff dramatically, dropping their basket with a clatter. The plateau shimmers green in the wind, cradled by whispering, rolling plains that reach past the edge of any map. Toward the east, Miren can see far beyond Crescent Bay, past the docks and over the shimmering Tehum Sea and even, on a clear evening such as this, the peaks of Avi’or: blue, snowcapped pillars of stone, their crags piercing the belly of the rising moon.
They are one of the last families to arrive. The fishermen and their wives chat with each other, sharing responsibilities. The blacksmith, flanked by his two burly sons, laughs heartily at a joke from the baker. And even the baron, whose motives and fashions are often a subject of gossip, chuckles with a couple of fishermen. Conversations are, as always, a blend of voices and signing hands.
Miren can’t stop smiling; warm excitement pools in her stomach and hums in her veins. She imagines opening her mouth as heat rises up her throat, her Voice ringing out with Song, catching everyone midconversation as the bundle of kindling bursts into flame.
The blacksmith’s elder son, only a year older than she, was able to Earth Sing at the gathering three years ago. Now he works with his father, apprenticed like most Singers his age, learning to Sing the more difficult Songs of metal. Miren sees him standing beside the blacksmith, his hanging arms and half-closed eyes part of a still, deliberate calm that she admires. Even his name, Jonath, feels like a cool stone in her mouth.
He catches her eye and grins, disrupting his stillness just for her. Her cheeks grow warm with a different kind of heat.
Mother, carrying a tray of sliced carrots and potatoes and sprouts, rushes over to the collection of food by the tall wooden structure: artfully arranged meats and vegetables and cheeses and bread of every shape—a spread fit for royalty, Miren is sure. She hopes her nerves will quiet enough to allow her to enjoy the food.
“Miren,” Father calls. “The wood goes over there.”
“Yes, Father.” Miren grins, and tells her sister, “We’ll put it by the fire.”
“I know,” Kesia says, but she’s smiling, her hazel eyes lighting up. She has a bounce in her curls and a spattering of freckles that Miren secretly envies, but her complexion is pale, her rosy cheeks a bit clammy. She hasn’t been feeling well lately, but she’s excited too.
The two sisters haul the basket toward the sea of quilts strewn around the edges of the plateau. On the far side sits a haphazard tower of wood twice the height of a man, branches of varying length stacked and tied together: the center beacon of the Skyflame ceremony.
The people look up and cheer as the family approaches. “The lightkeepers are here!” a fisherman cries. “Now Ami won’t have to cook!”
Everyone laughs appreciatively as Miren and Kesia set the basket down. Even timid Ami, huddled with her fellow fisherfolk, feigns a gasp of relief and brushes the front of her blue dress. Mother adds her tray to the spread and joins the group, signing excited greetings with her hands.
Beyond the adults, the children scuttle around the lush green. Those near the age of twelve are supposed to remain silent until the ceremony, but most of them scream and laugh, chasing each other or taking turns rolling partway down the hill. Kesia giggles as a girl flails wildly, her grass-stained dress billowing as she tumbles.
Miren spots one boy sitting on the grass alone, watching the other children with his head propped up in his hands. He is the baron’s son, though she can’t recall his name. He is about Kesia’s age, perhaps eleven years old; he may try to Sing tonight.
A twinge of doubt creeps up Miren’s neck. Already thirteen, her chances of finally Singing are slim. For the past year, there has been no denying that womanhood has come. The time to Sing—if there ever was one—is past. To attempt Song tonight would be childish, embarrassing.
But that can’t be, she reasons. Her parents have been only supportive. Every time her mother Sings, Miren pauses to listen, to catch every note, every breath, every bend in the melody. If it’s a Song she recognizes, one for lighting the fire or warming a pan, Miren will join in, her own voice nestling comfortably beside her mother’s. Mother will look up, surprised, and smile through her Song. Father will grin and sigh. “I feel warmer already.” Then Miren’s laugh will bubble through her concentration, and she’ll change notes, complementing the Song with harmony rather than competing with it. She will never bother to check if the pan is warmer than it should be, or if the wood in the fireplace smokes with promise.
And now, standing on the plateau, a creeping certainty tells her she’s wrong. She’s not a Fire Singer. All the heat of a moment ago drains from her.
“Want to go play?” Kesia asks, pulling Miren’s attention to the other children.
Miren blinks in surprise. “Do you feel well enough?”
Kesia shrugs, shy about her constant poor health. “Well, just for a little while.”
Miren glances at Mother and Father, but their attention is with the other adults, on the wooden frame for Skyflame and the
pots of food. In light of their work, the scurrying children suddenly look like children, a distinction Miren has dreaded for moons now.
“You go ahead, actually,” Miren says. “I should help Mother with the food.”
Kesia frowns. “I want you to come.”
“It’s all right, have fun. Maybe ask the baron’s son to play with everyone. He seems sad.”
Kesia turns to follow her gaze, and Miren takes the chance to slip away.
She shouldn’t be this nervous. This is a celebration. Miren heads for the adults around the food, chopping vegetables and sorting meats as they talk, but her eyes catch on her father, who is leaning over the pile of wood. He and the other men are tying the ends of branches together with string, securing the base for the Skyflame fire.
“It’s almost time to start,” a fisherman says. “We should light the torch.”
“I brought some oil.”
“Oil’s cheating, Haro.”
The men chuckle. Father reaches for a long, thick stick and searches for a cloth.
Miren darts over and grabs a rag from the pile of tools. “How about this?”
“Thank you, dear.” He wraps the rag around his makeshift torch as another fisherman secures it with twine.
Something gnaws at Miren’s stomach. “Can I light it?” she asks.
Father smiles. “Here.” He reaches in his pocket and hands her a pair of spark rocks, small but hardly used. Mother manages the cooking and the lighthouse entirely with Song, so Father rarely needs them. Tonight, however, Singers will only Sing during the ceremony.
He kneels and holds the torch out. “Hit the rocks together hard.” Miren nods, feeling the men’s gazes behind her. She takes the flint between her fingers and snaps them together. A feeble pinprick of light flashes.
“Harder,” Father advises, “and be sure to aim for the torch.”
Miren tries again, and again. She does it until a rhythm forms and the sparks flicker each time, many of them landing on the cloth of the torch, but a flame doesn’t catch.
“Maybe oil’s good for just this once,” the carpenter says.
The men chuckle, but Miren’s eyes burn. She hums quietly and imagines the wood bursting into flames, though this Song wouldn’t work for that. The melody is too slow, the pitch is wrong—
“Hey now,” Father says. “Wait until tonight.”
She groans. “I can’t do it the normal way!”
“You just need practice.”
She drops the rocks and stands, her face hot. “Never mind. I’ll help with the food.”
Perhaps it’s in the way he smiles, the way the skin around his eyes tightens, but she imagines that he will finally tell her that she is too old, that her worst fears are true; there is no Fire Song in her breath. For a heartbeat, she silently wills him to do so, dares him to prevent any embarrassment she will endure tonight.
But he says, “All right, then.”
Miren brushes grass from her skirt and walks away, not looking at the other men. Perhaps the women will be more understanding.
But there is little to do in the way of preparing food. Most of the meat is sliced, fresh beef and chicken arranged with chopped vegetables on platters. A couple of women glance up at her, but she turns, hoping to appear nonchalant.
“Did you hear of the influx of Avi’ori workers?” says one woman.
“Yes,” the other replies. “The last round of traders mentioned a sudden increase in farmers looking for work in Kaleo. Apparently Avi’ori farms are not doing well.”
“Hope they don’t come here.”
“No, it’s mostly northern lord territories.” The woman leans in and murmurs, “I doubt Darius could afford such help.”
“It’s strange, though, considering the tensions between the Crown and Avi’or, isn’t it?”
“My husband doesn’t think there will be war. The king is not so foolish.”
Miren wanders away from the group, bored with the conversation, and comes to the edge of the plateau. She gazes out toward the east, the faint ridge of Avi’or’s mountains just visible now, and waits for the tension in her throat to ease.
A flicker of light catches her eye. At first she thinks it’s a star, but the light undulates orange and yellow. A fire, she realizes, somewhere in the mountains across the bay. In Avi’or.
Miren stares, clinging to the well of delight, of promise, that stirs heat in her again. Why has she never seen this before? Do the Avi’ori celebrate Skyflame too? They must, she realizes, because they have Singers. She has seen their trade ships sometimes come to port, their sails full with Air Song.
“Lord Baron!” a man calls over the crowd. Miren turns to see a fisherman holding the lighted torch. “We’re ready for you.”
The hum of conversation dips as the baron stands and takes the torch. Women call to their children, and everyone finds a seat among the quilts. Kesia sits on Father’s crossed legs, and he puts his muscular arms around her small frame, tucking her under his chin until she giggles at his coarse beard. Miren nestles next to Mother, who flashes a distracted smile. It’s not the comfort Miren was hoping for; her heart pounds in her chest.
The baron is plumper than most, his stomach protruding over a shiny belt buckle, his clothes made of a shimmering dark fabric without a single patched hole. Amid the grass of the plateau and the villagers with their plain clothes, he seems out of place.
He clears his throat. “Citizens of Crescent Bay,” he begins. Miren makes a face at citizens; it’s such an impersonal word, heavy with thoughts of the richer cities in the north where she has never been. Such a word doesn’t belong here.
The baron continues, “Tonight is a special night. Legends of Skyflame’s beginnings have drifted beyond our reach, but we still celebrate the beauty of Song that graces our community and all of our great kingdom of Kaleo. Once again, a few of our younger members will be gifted with a Voice. They will join the ranks of our great men and women who now serve our town as fishermen and blacksmiths and farmers and lightkeepers. It is an honor to be given such power, and a greater honor to use it for the good of the community.”
Movement catches Miren’s eye, and she sees the baron’s son shift uncomfortably. His mother slaps his knee, and he stills.
The baron raises his torch. “But before that, we feast!”
He slowly brings the torch down on the nearest beam of the structure, and the stack of wood bursts into bright, oily flames. Everyone cheers and hurries to the platters of food.
So begins Skyflame.
Before the children can spoil the spread, the women assemble food in small pots and place the pots carefully in the fire to cook. Some of the men skewer meat on thin sticks and hold them over the flames. Miren watches, waiting until the adults deem the food ready. Then she grins at Kesia and sprints to the front of the crowd, swiping a pot from the fire. She rushes back to the quilt, smiling wickedly as her family laughs.
Everyone finds food and settles down on their quilts. Mother and Father discuss the garden and the fishing boat, their conversation taking on the familiar rhythm of voice and sign. Miren and Kesia squabble over the last piece of chicken until Father grabs it and pops it into his mouth. Mother laughs silently and hands each girl a skewer. The baker stops by their quilt with a basket full of sweet rolls.
Just as the last light of sunset fades, when the horizon shows but a hint of soft pink, the crowd begins to quiet. Miren scans the circle, taking a quick head count. There will likely be a dozen or so others participating tonight, besides her and Kesia.
Miren watches as Mother stands and goes to the center of the plateau, holding kindling from the basket that the sisters had carried. The three other Singers each present their own elements: the carpenter has a pile of stones; the fisherman, a pail of water; and the seamstress, leaves from an oak tree. The fire silhouettes them as they place their items in a square and wait. The rest of the village forms a lopsided circle around them, with Skyflame at the northern tip.
&n
bsp; The Water Singer Elij turns to the circle and raises his hands. Who would like to go first? he signs.
It is customary for the boys to begin the ceremony with Songs of Water and Earth, though part of Miren would like to make her attempt now and be done. After years of anticipation, she almost can’t bear another minute.
A boy steps from beside the blacksmith: Etham, a leaner, taller version of his older brother, Jonath. The blacksmith pats him on the back as he walks to the center, smiling nervously.
Elij signs, Which Song would you like to Sing?
The Song of Earth, Etham signs.
Miren straightens, and a few villagers share looks of excitement. Earth Song is even rarer than Fire; few boys bother to try. But Etham’s voice has dropped to a rumbling bass in recent months. If he were to be gifted a Song, it would be Earth.
The carpenter steps forward, lowers his head, and hums a note. Miren feels the ground hum with him. Earth Song is nothing like the other three. While most Singers place the Song in their mouths, the sound reverberating in the Singer’s head, Earth Song comes from the stomach, the bones. The sound doesn’t drift through the air, but through everything else. Miren shivers as she feels it hum in the ground beneath her.
The piled stones vibrate and lift into the air, swirling around each other in a windless tornado. Etham joins his voice to the carpenter’s, but the notes are wrong, and he soon stops. The carpenter grins through his Song, and the rocks slow and settle on the grass. Etham glances at his father and shrugs, but the blacksmith smiles and signs, It’s all right. It would have been an incredible stroke of luck to have three Earth Singers in Crescent Bay.
The rest of the boys follow suit, all of them asking to Sing the Song of Water with the fisherman. Every child on the cusp of adulthood, even those with non-Singer parents, partakes in the ritual, though they rarely have a Voice. When the boys don’t have a Voice, or simply can’t sing a single note correctly, they shrug or lower their heads and take their seats. Sometimes they decline before they utter a note, recognizing an absence within themselves. A fisherman’s son manages to splash water from the pail, but otherwise the night is silent.
Eventually, the baron shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Davri,” he murmurs.
Divided Fire Page 1
