Sigils of the Giver: The Fireglass Duology, #1

By K. Michele Moseley

Everyone knows there are rules on Capelo Island:

Don't ask questions.
Never leave the island.
Obey the will of the Giver.

Since the death of her father, Lera hasn't obeyed a single one, and nothing bad has happened…so far. Lera tries to convince her sister, Niena, it will be fine. After all, the Giver isn't real, right?

Then Niena disappears.

Lera will do anything to find her sister, even playing a role in the culture she despises. But, under all the layers of deception, the truth might be darker than even she bargained for.

As they say, nobody survives outside the protection of the Giver.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Michele Moseley
• Release date: Oct 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223100843

K. Michele Moseley

K. Michele Moseley found her love for storytelling on a Tuesday at 10 a.m. in the third grade. Though she struggled with dyslexia, her passion for stories allowed her to overcome the challenges that came with telling them. While she writes in many genres, what she likes best is creating stories for young adults that place real-life obstacles into fantastic worlds. When not inventing new realms, she spends her time chasing after her two sons and playing "Netflix Roulette" with her husband.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I CREEP BACK THROUGH the window into the bedroom I share with my sister, careful to avoid the floorboards that could shift under my weight. My eyes take a moment to adjust to what little moonlight remains in the room. And tonight, I’m thankful Niena can’t sleep with the shutters closed.

I find the wash basin in front of the small mirror and begin to clean the soot and sweat from my face. Drops of water, dark with grime, slide down my hands. Behind the dirt, my cheeks are tight with a grin, and my eyes sparkle with mischief. 

I dry off with Niena’s still-damp cloth and struggle with shaking fingers to undo the ties at the back of my dress. Lifting my nightshift from its hook on the wall, I tiptoe to my bed beside Niena’s. Head and heart still pounding, I pull on the nightshift before reaching down to remove my stockings.

And that’s when I see her eyes shining in the moonlight. Niena, like our mother, has a soft, open face and rare blue eyes. But unlike Mother’s, Niena’s have not lost their delicacy or kind-natured air.

Sorry, I whisper, still catching my breath. I didn’t mean to wake you. I know she won’t tell Mother that I smell of forge-smoke or about the blood crusting over a cut on my hand. She stares at the ceiling, saying nothing. Her fingers fiddle with the glimmering black seashell that hangs from her neck, turning it over with her prayers.

I’m fine, really. We were careful, and we won’t— But she doesn’t click her tongue or roll her eyes or even begin to protest at how dangerous, how foolish, and even sinful it is for me to be learning swordplay. She keeps turning the shell, and I move into her line of sight. It takes her more than a moment to focus on me.

Nien?

She gasps as though she’s been holding her breath a long time, the sound she makes when she’s fighting panic. Her dark hair, the same color as mine but with far more curls and shine, spreads over her trembling shoulders.

You don’t need to worry, I try again. I’ve broken rules before. I talk back to Mother. They don’t even try to get me to the Sanctum for ceremonies anymore. I already spend more time with Orelo than I should at my age. But maybe my sneaking out and learning to fight with him is too much for her.

I can hear her say it without her having to say it. What would the Padros say?

The Padros can uncleanse themselves, I think. But instead of saying so— I won’t do it again, I lie, just wanting some kind of response from her. But she rolls away from me to face the window. I sigh and step forward, reaching for her, but then stop. The skin on her left arm from wrist to elbow is puckered and red, even in the darkness.

What’s this? I ask, about to brush my hand over the welts. I haven’t trained in healing as much as she has, but I know that pressing on a rash will tell you if the blood is still flowing into it. She jerks her arm away before I can reach it and finally looks up at me. Tears swim in her blue eyes, then trickle down her face. Her hands still clutch the sigil around her neck. I shake my head without meaning to, realizing her distress has nothing at all to do with me and my antics. The rash crawling up her arms like a vine may as well spell out the words guilty and condemned. I feel the question on my face fade to understanding.

But that disease is only a myth, only an old, meaningless tale to keep the daughters of the island under the control of the Padros and away from mainlanders. Can’t have any outsider telling a girl how absurd this place is and whisking her off to someplace better. Not to mention the mainland is run by pirates who ran our ancestors from their homes. To the Padros, being with an outsider would seem as evil as doing the same with a goat.

Niena thinks the story is true though, that she’s cursed for finding love outside the island. Her fear alone is as good as a confession. And if she has sinned, no prayers will help her.

My sister with a mainlander? I’d be proud of her if she weren’t in terrible danger.

So this is why you were picking herbs so late after market with nothing to show for it, I stop myself from saying. Her face is twisting in on itself. Keeping the derisive smile at bay, I speak as gently as I can. Nien, it’s an old myth. Whatever you’ve done, you’re going to be fine.

I look again at her arm. We’ve both seen this before, years ago. But Mother wouldn’t treat the crying girl’s red, cracking skin. And we never saw her again, never knew her name. When I asked what was wrong, they all pretended I hadn’t. Niena’s face pinches, and I’m certain she’s remembering the same thing—the answer she had whispered to me in the dark. There’s an illness nobody speaks of, a nameless affliction set on wicked girls and false women. Nobody knows what happens to them. But everyone knows when they disappear.

It’s probably a nettle or something you snagged on while you were in the field. What will help with the swelling? I start to move toward the door, thinking of Mother’s cupboard and wondering if anyone but she could find anything in there.

Stop, Lera, Niena says. Her voice is so feeble. I try again to stanch my amusement. She thinks she’s cursed and, at least right now, won’t be convinced otherwise. She takes a long, shuddering breath, and I watch her face change. The drawn lines of strain and concern harden into a look of complete resignation and piety.

Niena, I say with firm assurance. It’s a rash. Nothing more. You don’t need to tell anyone anything. If you do, they will punish you. My sister found herself a nice young man, had she? And now she wants to confess her sins to the Padros. They will give her a lot worse than a nettle-sting if she does.

She doesn’t reply, but steady tears continue to fall down her stony face.

I’m lost for words of comfort. Niena is the one who lets the sun shine through the window in the morning, the one who says everything is just fine, the one who still prays for me when everyone else has given up.

Does Mother know? I ask. Stupid question. I may as well ask if she is dead yet.

She shakes her head.

Who was it? My curiosity eclipses any tact.

It doesn’t matter, she moans.

The Depths it doesn’t!

Her brow crumples in disgust. At nineteen, my sister is three years older than I and can’t stomach a simple curse.

He would not be recognized by the Sanctum, Niena says with a crackling voice. Not that it matters now. 

I sit up straight, making my voice strong, showing I’m not afraid. What’s it called? Halo leaf? Have you tried it? I head to the door again and almost miss her weak reply.

I’ve tried everything. It’s been happening for weeks.

I’m torn. Mother could probably mend this in a moment. But if she asks Niena how she got it or when it started, my well-behaved big sister will get herself into unimaginable trouble.

What can I do? I ask, walking back to her bed and planting my hands on my hips. She shakes her head again, eyes fixed upward. Then muffled, wracking sobs start to escape from her—first one at a time, then all at once.

I climb into bed beside my sister and wrap my arms around her, my mind running over what to do. There’s no other option. You can leave with him when he comes back on market day. We both can. I’m sure they can cure whatever this is on the mainland. I’ll come with you. It will be fine. Something in me lifts. This could be even better than the plan Orelo and I were building—if the man agrees, and if Niena isn’t terribly ill. I focus on her scrunched, tear-streaked face, hopeful.

She quiets and hiccups as she chokes out, But he hasn’t come back.

I restrain a wave of fury for my sister’s sake. What’s his name? Orelo could ask the other traders about him.

She only shakes her head and cries further. I give it up for now and rest my head on her shoulder, clutching my own sigil, the one that was Father’s. But I don’t pray, at least, not the way she does. For six years, Father’s sigil has been my reminder. It’s a memorial, a way to feel like he’s still with me, a way to never forget what they’ve done. What am I to do? I ask him. And as usual, there is no reply.

Chapter 2

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WHEN MY EYES CRAWL open, I’m still lying beside Niena, who frowns in her sleep. I ease off the bed so as not to wake her and squint against the harsh beam of light streaming from the window. Standing, I stretch my cramped arms and legs, and Niena shifts and opens her eyes. I can’t remember the last time I rose before she did. Her arms rest on the faded quilt. In the daylight, her skin looks even more angry and swollen, and she makes no move to get out of bed.

What are you going to do? I ask her. Mother will storm back into the house any moment now, wondering why her assistant never turned up. A bird chatters outside, but Niena is silent. Fine then. I march to the cupboard that holds my own red robe and belt. It’s been a long time since I bothered hanging them on the hook. I have to shake off a thin layer of dust and am hit by a stale, unworn smell.

What are you doing? she asks, her voice too thin to be hers.

I’m going to help Mother, to give you time to pull yourself together. Cover your arms. I throw her the shift with sleeves down to the wrists that she packed away for next winter. Then I fetch a handkerchief from the vanity table Father made for us. She stares at it, confused. Make it look like you have a bad cold. The red cloth of my cloak is thick and stiff. When this is gone tomorrow, you’ll realize nothing is wrong, and you won’t have to tell anyone anything. I finish cinching the belt around the rough wool, realizing I ought to add another notch when I have a chance. Keeping my eyes on the floor, I say, Don’t do anything stupid, Nien. It’s all going to be fine.

Without waiting for her reply, I close the door. Mother’s room is just outside ours. She always has the door closed, as if reminding us of her presence even when she’s gone. After the few steps to our front room, I plant myself in one of the four—still four—little chairs at the family table. The only other seat is Father’s chair which sits before the shelves of books he collected. It’s silly. A poor miner doesn’t need books. But that didn’t matter to him. He liked having a storehouse of information he could buy for a shard or two at market, even if he lacked the time or energy to read after so many hours in the mines. I stare at the old, peeling spines as I pull on my shoes.

That done, I put the kettle on the small stove and watch it, willing the water to boil faster. It doesn’t. While I wait, I cut some bread and toast it above the flame, as Niena showed me. I open the crock of butter and see there is a little left. After scraping it over the toast and pouring some tea, I let a slice of bread dangle out of my mouth as I bring a plate and cup to Niena. But she’s asleep again, so I leave the small breakfast on my bed for her.

On the wall beside the front door is a portrait of Diento, The Giver—which could be any old man with long gray hair and a white beard—hovering over blue water. I’m supposed to bow my head, lift my sigil—my own shining black shell that hangs around my neck—and then press it to my lips as Mother and Niena do each time they leave the house. Instead, I stare hard into Diento’s sea-reflecting eyes before I walk out the door.

I don’t believe in Diento, god of the sea, or probably any other god. But I still like to offer him a little disrespect as I go. On opening the door, a gust of strong, salty air washes over my face. It’s the one thing I truly love about the island—a promise of somewhere else.

Our houses are built a few hand lengths off the ground so the wind doesn’t blow in as much sand. The steps, made from bricks of hardened clay from the mines, still shine with flecks of black glass dust.

Eyes on the dirt before my feet, I hear branches waving and turn my head away. But there is no grit of sand in the air today, only a cool, clean breeze. A few steps down, I smell the forges before I see them, and the fiery smell brings me back to last night.

Somehow, Orelo managed to trade for a real training scroll, and he and I snuck into the still-hot forge to practice with the unfinished swords. Stifling our laughter and cries of pain when we made a mistake, we stayed there for hours. Then the forge grew cool, and Orelo’s master was in danger of sleeping off the majority of his newly traded wine, so I had to sneak back out.

The mainlanders call the stone fireglass, and their stories tell of it bursting from the sea like dragon flame and cooling into shimmering black islands. Stronger than steel, it’s smooth and glimmers like a smoky diamond when heated properly. Our people mine the fireglass, craft it into weapons, and sell them to the pirates who control the coastal mainland. But fighting, or even learning to fight, is against the laws of our god. But so is planning to one day leave the island—so is not believing in Diento at all.

I find Mother at the weavers, buying the kind of cloth she uses to wrap up her expecting mothers’ bellies so they don’t feel as heavy in their later months. It never appears to work very well. Mother pinches the cloth between her fingers to examine the quality.

I will take ten arm lengths, she says, her voice firm and abrupt. For The Giver. As always, the vendor packages and hands her the goods without receiving payment. That is one perk to the deception of our religion. Mother, working in The Giver’s service since Father died, gets all the clothes, food, and respect she doesn’t have to earn. The villagers care for their people or risk a curse if they don’t. 

Mother addresses me before turning around, still packing her parcel into the comically large satchel which almost always hangs from her shoulder to hip. Sanor Marlo’s burn is not healing. I need you to go to him and see why.

Yes, ma’am. She spins on her heel, surprised to hear my voice instead of my sister’s. Giving me an up-and-down with her eyes, she seems too startled to ask what I’m doing here. If Niena is a slender version of Mother, I’m the shorter, thicker version of Father with his narrow brown eyes. I’ve often wondered if seeing him in my face is part of why Mother has such a hard time looking at me.

Niena is feeling ill, I say, and Mother nods, her disappointment plain. I watch her face as she thinks, already trying to find time in her day to pick up whatever mess I’ll make.

Take him this. Now that she knows she’s speaking to me, there’s a change in her tone. Or maybe I just expect to hear one and so I do. She takes out a jar that she somehow fishes easily from the nearly bursting bag, and I recognize the sweet smell of the salve.

Yes, ma’am. I take it and bob off to my duty, feeling her suspicion linger as I go.

The only people more surprised to see me than my mother are her patients. Still, I’m let in without much fuss and manage to get Sanor’s burned leg dressed and his wife resting with a cup of tea. Task done, I move back into the rising heat of the day.

Mother didn’t bother giving me any other instructions, and I feel no need to seek any out. Sanor Marlo’s house is to the north, the opposite side of town from ours. I walk a little way farther, but not so far as the mines or the path up to the Sanctum. Only far enough that I can almost hear nothing but the chattering birds and the wind in the tall grass. I will have to check myself for ticks later, but right now, I don’t care. I look out at the sea which is calm and still. A distant shadow of the mainland and the gray outlines of ships swim in and out of the fog on the horizon.

My hands clench at my sides. There must be some way to convince Niena to leave this place. If we can find her young man and trail over to the mainland with him... But doubt swims in my mind when I recall that young woman from before, sobbing on her bed, my mother closing the door.

No, I think, before my thoughts can settle there. Niena will be fine tomorrow. She won’t tell anyone. And at least now I know she’s willing to break some rules.

If Orelo and I could leave the way we want to, she would miss me, and I her. But still, with me gone, Nien would be free to follow The Giver, serve the Sanctum, and be just like Mother, without me mucking about and causing harm. I have even imagined sending Niena letters from my new home and her writing back in secret. I hope I can—

As the tide flows.

I stiffen, recognizing the gravelly voice that breaks the silence behind me. The traditional Sanctum greeting means neither good will nor bad, but simply as The Giver wills. His will, however, never seems to bode well for me. I turn from the sea to face Padro Soro—the new head of the Sanctum, or at least new to me since I haven’t attended a meeting since Padro Cerelo was deemed too old to continue in his position.

As it flows, I say, because I’m not interested in hearing the Padro’s response to anything else.  I notice two other white-robed men behind him. They’re young, only in their twenties, probably new, and just learning how to harass villagers going about their business. While Padro Soro’s face remains smooth, his knobby hands, blue with protruding veins, show his age. He stands with them folded before his white robe. Fewer sprouts of silver hair cling to his scalp since I last saw him.

And what errands are you on this fine morning, Lera?

Assisting Sanor Marlo, I say, as though all is ordinary.

And have you completed your service? His voice is tinged with amusement, at what I don’t know.

I have, sir, I say, feeling my nails bite into my palms. 

"Then, best you be getting off to your next service?" On the last few words, his voice rises like the trill of a bell.

Yes, sir, I say with a pasted smile. If anyone else were caught standing and doing nothing, they could account for it with prayer. But that’s not something anyone would believe I was doing. Still, I make no move except to turn back to the horizon. I feel his eyes on me for a long moment and only move when the footsteps have faded.

To the Depths, Niena, I think, watching them glide away toward town. Please don’t say anything.

Chapter 3

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I NEARLY FORGET THAT it’s a meeting day, but I wake to the chime of bells and see Niena pulling a white robe from its hook on the wall. As she smooths the sleeves over her arms, my stomach turns. Mother stopped asking if I was going to the Sanctum years ago—after she learned that neither pleading, dragging, nor starving would get me to go back up that hill. Today, I consider putting on my own white robe and going with them—only to keep Niena from confessing her ruin.

At first, people understood. They said things like, The girl has lost her father, and, She is still young, or, Her faith is small, but she will learn. Later, though, they saw how upstanding Mother and Niena were in their grief and began to whisper about me—their pity dwindling to curiosity and, later, suspicion. 

Still, I throw off my quilt and follow my sister into the kitchen, trying to get her attention with my eyes. What are you going to tell them? Her gaze meets mine and she frowns, wanting me to let it go. But I can’t read an answer from her face, and my palms begin to sweat. She sits at the table, hands folded in her lap, waiting for Mother to be ready to walk with her to the Sanctum. Go back to bed, I whisper, pleading.

She shoots me a familiar look—devoid of hope for her wayward sister.

The Giver is good, she says, as if she hadn’t spent all of yesterday in anguish and fear, as if she isn’t clenching her hands to keep them from shaking. Before I can ask her what that means right now, Mother comes bustling into the room. She’s also clad in white and pretends to take no notice of me as I sit in my nightshift. Without a word or expression, she smooths her hands over her robe and moves toward the door, knowing Niena will follow, which she does. The bells ring, and they fall to their knees before the portrait. Though I don’t hear the words they whisper to Diento, sigils raised to their lips, I know them anyway.

The Giver, Our Father,

The one who rules the sea,

Who gives our fish, our bread, our wine,

We walk to meet you in the clouds.

Cleanse us that we might be worthy.

Once, when I was too small to know my age, we were sitting in the meeting, and I thought they said farter rather than Father. I asked if farts came from The Giver too. Father’s face contorted as he bit the inside of his cheek trying not to laugh. Mother glared in horror at the two of us and then up at the speaking Padro, who had probably heard but kept praying anyway. I wonder if Niena remembers. If it still makes her laugh.

My heart is pounding with dread as Niena turns to offer me a tiny, forced smile and a wave of her hand. Then the door closes behind them. Perhaps I’ll wait until I hear the bells that signal the end of the meeting and rush down to market early, see if I can stop any private conversations before they start. On meeting day, the traders from the mainland come to sell their goods and collect weapons from our smiths. Mother and Niena almost always spend some time in the market before returning home. On the rare occasion that Niena and I have any shards saved, I meet them there. The only things I want I can’t afford, or am not allowed to buy. But I enjoy the way the others, with their white attire, back away from me in my brown.

But it’s only been an hour when the door flings open and my head jerks up from the boiled egg I’m eating, panic rising. Mother’s hand is on Niena’s back. But Niena stares at the floor, and I can’t see her expression. I swallow hard, yolk catching in my throat. Did she tell? But the warmth in Mother’s gaze suggests not. Without a sound, she guides Niena to our room and closes the door.

Is she all right? I cough, trying to keep my voice calm.

She is still ill. Mother comes back into the front room, swinging her red cloak around her shoulders. See to it she drinks some water, and give her a bit of that bread.

Yes, ma’am. But she has already lifted her sigil and probably doesn’t hear. It’s only after she leaves again that I realize I have been holding my breath.

Evening comes, and Mother still isn’t home. I sit in the reading chair, knees pulled to my chest. The book in my hands is useless in the dim candlelight, but the feeling of the pages on my fingertips offers something like comfort.

Mother hated when Father would read these stories to us. She said they were unholy, that he wasted The Giver’s providence on a volume of lies—stories of mainland demons. I run the edge of my thumb over an illustration. A woman’s head and arms fade to the bright scales and gleaming tail of a fish. She rests on a rock, waiting for a ship to pass by. The tale says she was tricked by a spirit and stolen from the land. But she doesn’t look stolen. The faded lines that make up her mouth curve in almost a grin. Her eyes hold a secret.

Niena shuffles around in our