One
Miren
Five years later
Miren scrubbed the lighthouse mirrors, the polish smearing in greasy ripples and coating her hands. She was being sloppy, but she couldn’t bring herself to focus on the menial task. The merchant ships were likely to come soon; the seasons were warming, the green of the hills reaching its brightest hue. Miren wished she were excited.
She left the inside paneling as it was, frustrated at being saddled with this chore. She capped the bottle of polish and stepped from the lightroom onto the widow’s walk, noting that the door to the chicken coop nestled against the other side of their small cabin was closed. Her sister was nowhere to be seen.
“Kesia!” she shouted. “You have to feed the chickens before we go.”
An angry clap sounded from the cabin window. Kesia was likely just getting dressed.
Miren groaned. “Well, hurry up.”
To the north, Crescent Bay curved around a herd of crooked, creaking docks and well-worn fishing boats. A tilt in the land pushed the collection of homes close to the shore, where villagers busied themselves with booths and fish and crops. Things to sell to travelers who rarely came.
Against her will, Miren’s gaze drifted west, up a hill, where a fire had burned once a year, where Voices had bloomed. It had been years since the king had drafted Singers into the war, years since the remaining villagers had agreed to stop celebrating Skyflame.
Miren rounded the widow’s walk to face the sea and leaned against the railing, the wind weaving the scent of kelp and brine through her hair. The water glittered in the early morning, the sun rising out of the ocean. She looked as hard as she could, trying to spot the slight ridge of Avi’or across the Tehum Sea. She couldn’t decide if the world seemed large or small from up here, but she felt an ache in her chest if she stared too long.
It was so tiny that she nearly missed it: a pinprick of white floated along the horizon, heading for the bay.
“Kesia!” she shouted, nearly dropping the polish as she hurried down the stairs. “Kesia, a ship’s coming!”
She flew through the door at the bottom of the lighthouse and saw Kesia stepping from the cabin, a bag of feed under her arm, her long hair tied messily behind her.
“I saw a ship,” Miren said. “It looked huge!”
Kesia signed, Traders?
“I assume so.” Miren closed the lighthouse door and locked it behind her out of habit. Her heart thudded with possibilities. It could be a military ship, a wanderer from the Kaleon fleet. Or the Avi’ori fleet. Or pirates. Or a royal Kaleon messenger looking for Singers to force into the army to fight in the endless, consuming war with Avi’or.
It was most likely traders.
But still.
“I’m coming to town with you,” Miren said.
Her sister rolled her eyes. I’m meeting Davri, she signed.
Miren groaned. “Not before we sell a few things. And we’re out of eggs. And I’d like some bread from Etela.”
Kesia sighed voicelessly. And then I’m meeting Davri.
“We still have to make those apricot preserves.”
Miren.
“And you said you’d help me clean this place.”
Stop it, Miren. Kesia glowered, but Miren pretended not to notice.
“I’m just saying that chores come first, before . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say love, even in a derisive way. “Whatever you call it.”
Kesia narrowed her eyes. You’re afraid I’ll tell him.
Miren instinctively raised her hand to cover Kesia’s signs, but there was no one close enough to see—everyone was down in the village. “We agreed you wouldn’t, right?”
Kesia pointed at Miren.
“Because it’s dangerous and stupid and we don’t need to argue about this anymore.” Miren’s chest tightened in panic. “No one can know. No one. Please, Kesia, you agreed not to.”
I hate lying to him.
“It’s not lying; it’s keeping you safe.”
Let me tell him. Please.
Miren clenched her jaw. This conversation became more difficult each time. “Stop asking me that.” She headed to the cabin to make her escape. “Please, let’s not start this again. It’s a beautiful day, we might see traders, and I have some salted meat I’ve been saving. We can have it tonight, all right? I’m going to package the candles.”
Kesia was signing, but Miren closed the cabin door. Hopefully, Kesia would be cooled off by the time they left.
Their square cabin pressed comfortably around her, returning the world to its normal size. A large bunk bed, a table, a desk, and a fireplace left almost no room to walk. The cabin was far too small, despite the fact it only housed two now. With all four of them, it must have been oppressive, though she didn’t remember it that way. Of course, running under the table had once been an option.
She drifted over to the desk, pitted and smooth with use, where a few precious books were stacked. She lifted the cover of their mother’s book of recipes and slid out a letter. The seal of the King’s Army, a tower with a sword protruding from the top, was broken and crumbling, the paper soft from being read dozens of times.
It was the last letter their father had sent. They’d received it nearly four months ago.
Father had left at the onset of the war almost five years earlier, with the first draft that had called for all able-bodied men in Kaleo. The goodbyes had been long and tearful, with most of the remaining villagers piled on the docks as they waved at the departing ship. They had been worried but hopeful; surely neither country wanted a long war.
Now she opened the letter more from habit than anything; she had it memorized. Father had warned that he might not be able to write for a while, which was what Miren said every time Kesia expressed worry. But four months without word was concerning. Four months could mean anything.
Their mother hadn’t sent any letters. She’d been gone for four years.
After the men from Crescent Bay were drafted, the tide of the war had quickly turned against Kaleo; despite a protected northern coastline, the navy couldn’t stand against Avi’or’s superior steam-powered ships. So the king had decided that Singers would serve their country in combat and declared a Singer draft. Singers of all ages were called to report to the capital.
The village had been in an uproar. That was not what Singing was intended for. To use it for violence was sacrilegious, dangerous, evil. The Singers were needed in the village, and many of their number were far too young to be thrust into combat. At the time, Kesia had been twelve and sick with cloud fever.
Miren remembered screaming at the uniformed men who came to their door. They looked at Kesia sick in bed, her Voice likely lost to the illness if she survived, and instead took their mother, one of the most powerful Singers they would likely ever find.
Miren had run after them, still screaming, but Mother had marched willingly to the docks with the rest of the Singers. Miren could still picture her turning back one last time to sign: Protect your sister.
In the four years since that day, Crescent Bay had worked in silence. There was no one to Sing the fish into nets, to fill sails with a steady wind, to till fields, or mend horseshoes. There was no one to lead new Singers in the Skyflame ceremony; no new Voices were heard.