Divided Fire

by Jennifer San Filippo

  For a moment, the men stood gaping. She willed the world to stop tilting, her whole body shivering.

  “She’s tired,” the captain’s voice drifted over the crowd. “Take her now.”

  A few men marched forward, pistols raised.

  Miren swung her knife in a flashing arc. The nearest pirate—a bald, portly man—caught her wrist and twisted hard, and the knife slipped from her fingers. She kicked him in the side, but he threw her to the ground and drew his pistol.

  “Don’t move,” he warned in a gravelly voice.

  The rest of the crew surged around Kesia.

  Kesia gasped for air, but she had no energy left for a Song. She sobbed as hands grabbed her, hoisted her up, slapped her mouth shut, and marched her back toward the village. She tried to dig in her heels, but her captors were far stronger.

  She had lost.

  Kesia couldn’t even turn to glance over her shoulder at Miren. Miren, I’m so sorry, she signed, though her hands were behind her and impossible for anyone to see. I love you. Tell Mother.

  The road flattened as it headed toward the docks. The villagers had hardly moved, watching the scene in terror. The pirates had overpowered a Fire Singer: they could all be slaughtered.

  A thump. A gasp. Footsteps pounded against the dirt road behind them, hard and fast.

  “Stop!” Miren screeched.

  Some of the pirates turned, and Kesia strained to see over her shoulder.

  A man lay on the ground, rubbing his head. Miren was thundering down the road, her knife flashing in her hand.

  How had she possibly—

  “Let her go!” Miren shouted.

  One of the pirates marched toward Miren, hefting his pistol.

  Kesia thrashed, struggling to keep her sister in view as her captors shoved her toward the docks.

  The pirate fired at Miren, but she swerved as the gunshot blasted the air. Before he could fire again, she ducked and swiped at him with her knife. He cried out and staggered back, a line of red blooming on his arm. She aimed her knife at his gut, but he was too fast. He brought the butt of his pistol down with a heavy thud, and she crumpled.

  A fresh jolt of terror shot through Kesia.

  The pirate standing over Miren pointed his pistol.

  Kesia sobbed voicelessly.

  A loud click drew everyone’s attention. The pirate paused and looked up into the barrel of Haro’s rifle.

  The other pirates immediately pulled out their own weapons, but Haro didn’t take his eyes off the man aiming at Miren. “Leave now,” Haro said. “Leave us alone.”

  The sound of the waves filled the tense silence. Kesia tried to struggle again, but her captors’ grips were like iron.

  The captain shouted, “Let’s go, boys! We’re done here. No need to waste bullets.”

  Miren’s assailant paused, his eyes trained on Haro while he holstered his own weapon. Blood trickled from the gash in his arm, and he turned away.

  The other pirates continued their march toward the ship. Kesia strained to see Haro, who had dropped to a knee over Miren’s still form. Is she all right? Is she alive?

  But the pirates shoved her up the gangplank, and Miren and the village were blocked from Kesia’s view.

  Three

  Miren

  Pain split Miren’s skull, robbed her of her breath, blackened her vision.

  Kesia Kesia Kesia.

  The world came and went. She blinked, and her eyes burned. Someone was shouting, holding her head. She made to push him away, but her arms weren’t her own.

  She blinked again, hearing the roar of waves and angry voices. She opened her eyes and looked up at a familiar beard.

  “Raila, get some bandages,” Haro said. “Gilad, help me get her inside.”

  Hands moved and scraped her back. Miren’s head lolled to the side. Through half-closed eyes, she stared at the sea, where a ship’s sail billowed against a bright sky.

  Tears flowed before she opened her eyes again.

  Kesia is gone.

  The pain of it almost overwhelmed the splitting headache. Miren wanted to run into the ocean, chase down the ship that had taken her sister. But she knew the ship was long gone now. There was nothing to do.

  Kesia was gone.

  She had imagined the royal fleet coming and stealing Kesia, following up on the Singer who might have survived that bout of cloud fever. Or perhaps the Avi’ori fleet would invade, looking for Singers to fill their own armies.

  Instead, it had been pirates. Greedy, irrelevant pirates.

  Something cool and wet pressed on her forehead. She flinched.

  “Lie still, sweet,” a woman said. Miren pried her eyes open and saw Raila leaning over her. “You got hit on the head pretty hard.”

  Miren remembered. The bald pirate that she had attacked.

  Attacked—she’d never attacked anyone in her life.

  How would she tell her mother?

  A sob grated her throat.

  “Shhh, hush now,” Raila crooned. “It’s all right, you’re all right. Haro!” she called.

  Miren heard footsteps and looked up at the wooden ceiling and walls. Pillows supported her throbbing head. Raila and Haro’s cabin was slightly larger than hers, or perhaps it was the carefully arranged wardrobe and the small wooden birds that Jonath used to carve that made the room feel spacious. He had enjoyed using Earth Song to control the knife. She remembered arguing with him about whether that was cheating.

  Miren had not been inside this cabin since he had left.

  Haro appeared, a steaming bowl of broth cupped in his rough hands. “Hey, girl,” he said, his voice low. “How do you feel?”

  She felt split open, raw, and bleeding, as though she’d fallen on a bed of rocks from the widow’s walk of the lighthouse.

  Kesia is gone.

  “Fine,” she whispered.

  Carefully, Raila helped her sit up. Miren took the broth from Haro and brought it to her lips, realizing what a horrid betrayal it was to eat. Tears clogged her throat. She pretended to take a sip and lowered the bowl to her lap.

  The couple stared at her, their eyes tight with concern.

  “Is Cari all right?” Miren asked.

  “Yes,” Haro said, as Raila answered, “She’s fine.”

  Miren nodded, and tears spilled from her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Miren,” Raila said, her eyes glistening.

  Miren wished she wasn’t crying. She wished she had lost a leg rather than her sister. She wished there wasn’t so much pain everywhere. She wiped her eyes. Kesia Kesia Kesia—

  A knock at the door startled them.

  “Skies,” Haro breathed. “Who would that be?”

  Miren leaned back and closed her eyes as Haro answered the door. It was probably Cari or Etela or Gilad—someone coming to offer condolences.

  The door creaked open, and the murmuring voices of men drifted from the other room.

  “How dare you!” Haro shouted. Raila jumped in surprise. Footsteps thudded into the room. A man appeared, dressed in a green uniform, his coat and trousers trimmed with bronze-colored thread.

  The baron maintained a few guardsmen—presumably from the king’s military—though Miren could not imagine a more inauspicious place to guard. She had seen this man in town on occasion, drinking with some fishermen.

  “Hello, Amuel,” Miren said.

  “Miss Miren the lightkeeper,” Amuel said in a deep voice, “the baron has summoned you to the Manor of Crescent Bay.”

  Miren fought a wild urge to laugh or scream. Now the baron would open the gates for her. Her thoughts drifted to Davri with a hiss of fury, like water over coal.

  “Tell my lord that his condolences are appreciated,” she said, “but I’m currently . . . indisposed.”

  Amuel shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid Lord Baron has insisted.”

  “She’s not well,” Haro cut in. “She’s injured. She just lost her sister—”

  “I’m afraid,” the gu
ard said, “that I have orders to take her in by force if necessary.”

  Haro’s eyebrows shot up. “By force?”

  This was not proper mourning. People should be bringing flowers, food, tears. The loss of Kesia was so great that surely the entire village should rally—even the baron.

  “I’m being arrested,” Miren guessed.

  Raila gasped. “What?”

  “This is absurd!” Haro said.

  Miren’s eyes still burned, but no tears came. “I’ll go,” she said. “It’s fine. I’ll go.”

  She would not fight this. She had already lost the one fight she couldn’t bear to lose.

  Haro and Raila stared at her. “This shouldn’t be happening,” Raila said. “Why would the baron do this?”

  Miren pushed herself upright, her head throbbing. “I guess I’ll find out.”

  * * *

  The devastation from the pirate’s attack was less than it might have been, Miren thought, as she followed Amuel to the baron’s estate.

  Cari was bent over her jewelry stand. She caught Miren’s gaze and turned toward her. “Miren,” she said, eyes brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

  Miren shook her head, her throat tight. She knew she should say something kind, but she couldn’t speak.

  The gates to the baron’s estate opened with a loud creak as they approached, and Miren saw two pristine guards manning their posts. Most villagers had never been inside. The gate surrounded a wide, simple lawn of grass with a few uneven flower bushes lining the path toward the mansion.

  Miren followed Amuel up the steps to the front entrance. The wooden double doors opened to reveal a parlor as tall as a house, its marble walls decked with paintings.

  The guard led Miren through the main hall and down a set of hallways. They passed a room with the door ajar, and her gaze drifted inside.

  It appeared to be an office. A shelf full of books—books, a luxury unto themselves—stood against the wall, just beside a desk. At the desk sat Davri.

  He and Kesia had been stealing away to see each other for months now, but Miren hadn’t seen Davri up close in ages. Even seated, he was taller than she remembered. Wearing trousers, a dress shirt, and slippers, he sat, head in hands, his hunched shoulders the most defined aspect of his soft bulk.

  He looked up at the sound of their approach, but Miren passed the door before their eyes met. Something hot and primal in her wanted to lash out at him, but the marble walls were oppressive, and she remained silent.

  Amuel led her to a set of double doors carved with intricate swirls and patterns. He opened one and stepped aside to let her in.

  Miren found herself in a heavily furnished office. Shelves lined the walls, and the floor was layered in carpets. At the desk, hands folded neatly and deliberately, sat Baron Darius of Crescent Bay.

  His plump waist nudged the edge of his desk. His remaining hair made a thin, dark crown tucked behind his ears. He looked at her with a carefully constructed distance. Or perhaps that was just the rich mahogany desk between them.

  The baron glanced past her and nodded to the guard. “That will be all.”

  The guard closed the door behind Miren with a click. Silence pressed down. Miren remained by the door.

  Darius gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please sit, Miss Miren.”

  She took her time approaching a chair. A piece of her wanted to flip the desk over or shove the papers to the floor—anything to upset the pretentious room.

  Darius leaned back slowly, the cushions sighing against his weight. “First, let me give my most sincere condolences for the loss of your sister. Truly, I’m devastated that such barbarians came to our city.”

  Your condolences mean nothing. You don’t know her name. You speak as though she’s already dead.

  “Thank you, sir,” Miren murmured. Her head throbbed.

  He leaned forward, his hands folded. “It pains me to tell you that you have been charged with treason against His Majesty for purposefully hiding the identity of a Fire Singer from the Imperial Military recruiters.”

  She shouldn’t be surprised. She had always known the consequences of keeping Kesia’s secret. She just had never considered living them. Losing Kesia had always been the end of the narrative.

  Darius continued, “I’m afraid I must send a report to His Majesty, explaining what occurred today.”

  Miren blinked, finally paying attention. “Why?”

  “It’s considered treason to avoid service to—”

  “No.” She kept her eyes on him. “Why are you reporting it? Kesia’s not here, and they wouldn’t dare punish my mother—she’s a Fire Singer, she’s too valuable. All this does is land me in prison. Or executed.” She leaned forward. “Do you want me dead, Lord Baron?”

  Her anger was boiling, threatening to overflow, filling her with movement, purpose. It was a fire—insubstantial, fleeting, costly—but she clung to it.

  His gaze turned hard. “We have laws for a reason, Miss Miren. Of course today has been tragic for all of us here—”

  “Not for you, though.” Miren hardly recognized her own voice. “You and your guards were safely locked behind your iron gates.”

  “These guards are a provision from His Majesty—”

  “To protect your people? Or just you? Because you must be a very important man—”

  “Miss Miren—”

  “—to govern this tiny fishing town so far south from the capital.”

  “That’s enough!” Darius rose to his feet, and so did Miren. “I do not enjoy this, but His Majesty has given strict orders about hiding Singers from the army. I only meant to give you a proper warning so you could set your affairs in order.”

  “My affairs,” she echoed. “Do you mean asking someone to be the new lightkeeper, or do you mean sending letters to my parents, telling them that they have lost one daughter and are now losing the other?”

  “Get out.” Darius came around from behind his desk. “I won’t be insulted by the likes of you.”

  “By a peasant girl,” she corrected.

  “I could have you locked up here until the royal fleet comes to take you. I could execute you myself!”

  “Then do it!” she shouted, and for one sweeping, breathless moment, she meant it. Do it do it do it. Her mind echoed the words. Kesia Kesia Kesia.

  Darius opened the door; Amuel still stood outside.

  Miren slipped past the guard, her fury already dulled.

  “Davri,” Darius shouted. “Come here. I must write a letter to the king.”

  Further down the hall, Davri stood in the doorway of his own study.

  His eyes were blue—a stunning blue, like the sky. And swollen red. They caught her gaze.

  He looked just like his father, with the same full cheeks and sharp nose. Miren set her jaw and glared, willing him to read her mind, to flinch. He stared back, his gaze too open, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat.

  He didn’t look away until she passed.

  Four

  Kesia

  Kesia opened her eyes, her head pounding.

  Pirates taking Cari, Kesia herself Singing—Singing—and running, Miren screaming. Miren—crumpled and unmoving on the ground, pirates shoving Kesia up the loading dock onto their ship, stuffing her mouth with a gag until she could hardly breathe, choking on her sobs.

  She bolted upright and gasped in pain. Her hands were tied behind her, the rough rope cutting into her wrists. The rancid gag was still in her mouth.

  The floor was hard and filthy. The only light came from a slatted door above her. A chorus of men’s voices, shouting, laughing, and boots stomping, hovered over the opening. The stench was so strong that her eyes watered.

  Kesia fought the urge to vomit. She leaned back and kicked against the walls of her small prison. Voices shouted warnings.

  She pulled against her restraints, but they were tied so tightly that she felt the heat of scraped skin, the tingle of restricted blood flow in her fi
ngers. Every movement stretched and twisted her muscles the wrong way.

  It had finally happened.

  The pirates would turn her in to the army, and she was going to fight in the war.

  Nightmares of what military service would demand of her had haunted her for years—images of burning, dying men and women, the charred wreckage of a ship. Such thoughts were easy to ignore with Miren, with Davri, in the market or the lighthouse in Crescent Bay, but they always lurked in some corner of her mind.

  She knew most of the war was fought on the water, toward the northern end of the Tehum Sea. She had never been able to imagine what combat itself would look like, though, or how the Songs she had learned as a child would be useful as a weapon—yet that was exactly how she had used one today. She had aimed a Song normally meant to start a small cooking fire at a man’s arm. It was jarringly simple.

  And Miren—

  Kesia cringed at the memory of her sister falling onto the rough ground. The strike must have been hard—what if it had killed her? No, Miren had to be all right. She was strong; she could withstand a blow to the head. But Kesia ached with uncertainty.

  And Davri. Had he heard her Singing? Even if he hadn’t, surely he knew by now that she hadn’t lost her Voice. She pressed her forehead to her knees. This wasn’t how she had wanted him to find out.

  Her fear soured to resentment. Why hadn’t he come? How could he not have heard Miren’s shouting when he had been standing by the gate just a few minutes before? Had he gone indoors? Did he even know she was gone? Perhaps it was better this way. He might have tried to defend her with his own Song, and then they both would’ve been taken. No, it was better he hadn’t been there.

  A shadow fell over her. She craned her neck to look up the shaft.

  Captain Edom.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Singer,” he greeted her. “Welcome to my ship. I hope you enjoy the accommodations.”

  A few men chuckled, though Kesia could not see them. It took her a moment to understand his words; his speech pattern had changed. He pronounced certain consonants with an unfamiliar mix of harshness and subtlety, and some of the vowels were drawn out or flattened.