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.
The hunched blond boy beside him stands. He is nervous; Miren sees it in his trembling hands, his tight lips. His mother, an angular woman with milky skin, watches her son with a sharp frown.
What Song would you like to Sing? Elij signs.
Davri looks at the two elements before him. Water, he signs. He quickly corrects himself, The Song of Water.
Elij nods and begins to Sing. The water swirls in the pail as though draining from a hole in the bottom.
Davri wipes his hands on his trousers absently, his eyes darting to his father and quickly away. Miren grimaces in disapproval; he should be far more excited about the prospect of earning a Voice.
Elij continues his Song, an expectant look on his face. Davri leans in and sings.
His voice is so strong that Miren gasps. Elij isn’t ready for an addition of such power, either; the water sloshes in the pail.
Davri’s Song shifts.
His tone, light and crisp like a bell, latches to the swirling water with a sudden chill. The water slows to a stop and gleams in the light of Skyflame, frozen.
The group stares in silent wonder. Turning water to ice is a difficult task, particularly for a younger Singer, when his Voice is still unruly. A few adults in the circle smile widely and sign, Well done. The baron does not, and Davri does not look at him as he returns to his seat.
Miren signs congratulations with the other villagers, though the message is clumsy in her hands. She wants to impress, but she can’t imagine how she could outshine such an accomplishment.
It is time for the women, the keepers of Air and Fire. The two men step from the circle as Isha and Mother take their places.
Who would like to go first? Isha signs.
Before Miren can decide if being first is a good idea, the seamstress’s daughter jumps up and hurries to the circle, signing Song of Air without waiting to be prompted. A few villagers laugh quietly. After a quick attempt, however, she slumps and returns to her seat, unable to replicate the Song.
Miren watches the girls enter the circle one by one, each of them attempting to Sing Air. Only two girls leave the circle having joined Isha, who swept the leaves into a whirlwind. The people sign Well done eagerly. Air Singers and Water Singers are more common than Earth and Fire Singers, but they provide great service in fishing, sailing, and irrigating crops.
And then it is Miren’s turn.
She stands and enters the circle, her mind suddenly full and empty at once. The flames dance, chasing and stretching shadows across the grass. Isha asks what Song Miren wishes to Sing, and mercifully her hands know what to do: The Song of Fire.
Mother, her brown eyes shining, steps forward and parts her lips.
Miren listens intently. Her mother’s Voice doesn’t draw from the world like the other elements; her Song is warmth, a heat that comes from within her. Miren waits, letting the notes set the stage, just as a painter would wet her brush with orange and yellow. She will wait for Mother to provide the colors and warmth. Miren will add shape.
As the notes rise and blend into something tangible, the small pile of wood begins to glow. Miren expects an explosion of heat, but the flames grow slowly, climbing the sticks as if Mother isn’t even Singing.
Mother tilts her head in invitation, and Miren nods. She opens her mouth and sings a note.
The syllables are nonsensical, and meaning is illusive—it is not until a Singer finishes her Song that she realizes there were no words—but the melody weaves like a single strand of light through the air, bright and easy to follow. Miren lets her voice rise next to Mother’s, willing, begging the fire to grow. She sees the people’s eyes pivot to her with excitement, just as in her fantasies of this night, but she suddenly wishes they weren’t here. She needs to concentrate, to follow Mother’s lead, her tempo and volume.
A breeze drifts through their circle, a cold gust from the bay. The fire flickers dangerously, and Mother’s Song shifts to catch it. Miren’s heart lurches. She doesn’t know this Song—she hasn’t practiced it. The string slips from her grip, and her notes are sour.
The faces around her wince at the tone, some with pity. The spell is broken.
She does the only thing left to her: she stops.
Mother lets the Song drift away, like ashes from the small pile of kindling that no longer glows. Mother smiles and signs, I love you, daughter. Miren looks away, feeling the future drop from beneath her. She is not a Singer; she is not special. She is not important like her mother, like the young fishermen and sailors who have been made tonight, like Davri, who will never need to use his Voice to work as the other boys do. He has been given his gift for nothing.
She returns to her spot beside her father and sits, the weight of the village’s stares burning her skin. Father hugs her, kisses her head, and whispers, “Love you.” She will not cry—she won’t. Her sister, still in Father’s lap, frowns. Miren winces as the word pitiful spikes in her mind. Kesia offers a smile and signs, It’s all right.
It is not, but Miren gives a little shrug, her eyes stinging.
Father pats Kesia’s shoulder.
The group’s attention shifts as Kesia stands, and her knees tremble so much that Miren feels a pang in her chest. Kesia takes her place in front of Mother, who smiles and signs, Which Song would you like to Sing?
Kesia raises her shaking hands. The Song of Fire.
Isha steps back, and Mother begins to Sing.
As the kindling glows again, Kesia takes a deep, steadying breath, and her own thin voice drifts into the air. It doesn’t catch; Miren can hear her reaching for the thread as she tries to align with Mother’s Song. Her voice quavers, more breath than sound.
And then it blooms.
Miren inhales. Kesia isn’t strong or loud like Miren, but she has whatever Miren lacks—a level of control Miren never mastered, perhaps the occasional trill or slide to another note, or the instinct of knowing when to take a breath. Miren feels the pleasant heat that Kesia is somehow weaving. The stack of kindling flashes with the additional power.
Kesia’s knees give way.
Mother abandons her Song with a gasp, and murmurs of concern from the audience break the rule of silence. Father rushes forward. Miren follows, her heart hammering in her chest. She stares in the direction of her sister’s pale face, but she can’t see past the imprint of bright flame behind her eyes. She thinks to check the wood this time and sees only ash.