“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.
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.