Why We Play With Fire, page 7
Without knowing where I am going, I back out of the suddenly menacing temple. Its rounded walls look like the arms of the gods reaching overhead, blocking out sunlight. My throat constricts with confused terror—and then I hear it, or rather, her.
“Left,” the female voice whispers loud enough to shake me just as I reach the edge of the temple. I look over my shoulder, already knowing there will be no one there, and pause for a moment in the threshold of the room, feeling the presence of something beside me.
“Left,” the voice says again, this time with more urgency.
Looking down at the burn in my palm, I recall the insanity of the past few days in a flash. Then, I turn left.
I follow it: the tug in the air pushing me down the hallway past the library full of Malachite voices.
“Down,” the voice says when I reach the top of the stairs. I descend with a light hand on the railing beside me. Somewhere far off I hear Reina’s voice like a river running through the chaos of the Malachites’ confusion. The farther down the stairs I descend, the less I can hear any of them, and the more I recognize the feeling of my own heart beating steadily.
“Right,” the voice says.
I turn right at the base of the stairs past a large iron doorway that looks melted shut. I walk through an ample archway to find myself on the opposite side of a wide room I briefly glimpsed during my tour of Malachite.
The den is rectangular and has the smell of orange peels heavy in the air. There are eye-level bookshelves lining the wall ahead of me. Nestled between them is a large fireplace holding a crackling blaze within the confines of a carved stone inlet. Above the fireplace is a mantle covered in seven smooth stone statues depicting the faces of whom I now assume are deities from myths I’ve never studied. There are many thick stuffed chairs and a worn pale-mustard couch along the wall. Overhead, an antique chandelier is alight, casting the room in an orange glow.
“What now?” I wonder, still cradling my right hand against my chest although the pain is already fading. The voice does not immediately return, and I wander farther into the den, feeling the dry warmth of the fire in the air around me contrasting the crisp cool of the hallway I left behind. And then, slowly, I hear it. Not a voice, but a sort of creak—the sound of shuffling metal or loosening wood. It is coming from the wall ahead of me. I follow the noise farther into the room, feet sinking into the dense carpet. Only when I’m inches away do I notice that over the fireplace is a groove in the wall, a shallow dent no more out of place than the hundreds of others in the wooden walls around me. But something about this dent, the warmth in my palm, and the flutter in my blood makes me pause.
“There,” the voice sighs.
I stiffen a little when I hear that voice again but still reach forward to press my finger into the shallow groove, instinctively pushing it upward, then pulling it toward me.
Out of the wall comes a narrow slice of wood, not broken, but built. It rolls from the wall to reveal a tightly wound scroll of paper wedged inside.
I pull the paper out of the wall with my breath caught in my throat. Ignoring the wince in my burned palm, I unfurl it. The silence of the room is broken only by the snap of this movement and the crackle of the fire to my left.
The square paper is old, but not so old it’s too brittle to understand. The paper depicts, in plain black strokes, what look like three maps side by side with crisp writing above them. The first map, showing a jagged landscape of harsh rocks and trees, is titled Jotunheim. The next, a fuzzy and dense forest with a pond of water in the center is titled Ginen. The third is a mountainscape with winding trails that crisscross over each other in so many patterns it’s hard to follow. This one is titled Kunlun.
But none of the maps, or the titles, are what really capture my attention—what does are the small initials in the bottom right corner of the piece: L.B.
My grandmother’s initials, penned in her brushstroke.
I nearly drop the map.
In a rush I realize why the voice in my head sounds so comforting. It’s Nana’s voice. The same way it was her voice warning me to find the keys when they went missing.
Why is she doing this to me? Where is she trying to lead me? I stare down at that L.B., with my heart sinking.
I have to do as she says, I realize.
I must leave this house and find those three keys, because as I stand here, looking down at this map drawn by a woman I now realize I never knew, I also remember the second thing Nana told me before I left her. She told me not to trust anyone in Malachite.
The marking on my palm burns hot as I roll up the map and slide it into my back pocket, clicking the wooden panel back into place a moment later.
8
PACING IN THIS BEDROOM only makes me feel like a rat in a cage. When I get like this, I know that nothing can stop me from moving. Mom always says my single-mindedness is my greatest weakness. I think my constant desire to move forward is natural and useful.
Wearing the loose jeans and shirt from when I arrived, I hastily pack a bag as a way to stall the truth: I have to leave. Mom and Nana planned all this—for me—but why? They knew the keys would go missing and they know who my father is. It’s all a test. It has to be.
It took me an hour of deliberation and silence to make up my mind. Now, I raise my hand up to the door handles and pause. I thought I was sure. A moment ago, I was, but with my hot hand on the cold metal handle, the bag on my shoulders suddenly strains and pulls me back, holding me in place. Of course, this is a mistake. Every move I make seems to become one. But I must do this. Isn’t that what Nana asked me to do? And when have either she or my mother ever been wrong? I pause, looking down at the door handle in my grip and see the warped reflection of my face, the hint of curled bangs, the rim of my old glasses. For a second I think Mom’s face is looking back at me. With that thought, I turn the handle and open the door.
Where to start? I don’t know how to get to any of the places on the map. I try to put myself in the shoes of a person better suited to this task. I pretend that I’m Reina. What would she do? She would research where the places in this map are—but the library is chock-full of Godspring.
I walk through Malachite toward the foyer quietly, pausing when I reach the threshold of the kitchen. I look down at that thin line where tile meets wood, through which the stifling hot of the white painted room turns into the cool oxygen of the foyer. I stare up at the looming front door ahead and to the left of me. It seems to stare back. Balling my hands into fists, I take a step forward, immediately tensing when I notice that I am no longer alone. My hands spread out along the sides of my jeans.
Hunar sits where I first met him, curled up on the half-landing of a staircase I haven’t yet been up, with a book on his lap. He’s folded lazily into the corner, legs spilling down the stairs. Hunar notices me at the same time I see him. When he looks up, his eyes are almost amber in the morning light. I shift my body slightly to keep the edge of my bag out of sight. I can’t tell if he notices.
“Avoiding the crowd?” he asks.
I dip my head and take a step closer, unsure whether to divulge my plans. My mind screams to tell him, to tell anyone what I’m planning. Half of me wants someone to tell me to stop, to stay where it is safe and hold tight, and the other wants someone to light me on fire with passion and force me out that door. Instead of saying anything, I take another step into the room so that only the foyer table laden with a vase of red roses separates the two of us.
“It isn’t always so intense.” He gestures vaguely with an apologetic smile. “Sorry it was such an abrasive introduction.”
“What’s it usually like?”
“It’s usually Reina yelling ingredients to potions most of us don’t have her proclivity for, or Snail burning scones in the kitchen,” Hunar says as he closes his book. “Usually we’re learning how to use the magic in our blood—less for survival, more for understanding.”
“Snail?”
Hunar smiles at the ground, wipes an errant lock of black hair behind his ear. “Teal, everyone calls them Snail. It’s sort of a running joke.”
“Ah.” I incline my head and take a step back, reminded of how much I don’t fit in here.
“You’ll get used to it though. Most of us have known each other since we were little. Malachite tends to bring Godspring here in waves. Me and Marta arrived in the same week when we were ten,” he says.
A weird stab of pain arches up my stomach as I imagine Marta and Hunar arriving here together, learning about themselves and each other at the same time.
“So, this quest,” I begin, quickly changing the topic. “I don’t understand what it means. Can you explain it to me?”
Hunar nods and straightens up, “A quest is like a test from the gods or from fate. This one seems to be both. When someone is plotting to open the Malachite box, and has the means to do it, the keys eject themselves from the house. What you would have known, if you’d been here for longer than a day, is that it’s our job to retrieve those keys and prove that we’re still worthy of protecting them now that they’re missing. And we have to do it all before someone else has the chance to, because if someone manages to open the Malachite box, this whole house will lose its magic—the box is sort of like a battery for this place.” He gestures to the tall walls around us.
“But Reina said I can’t go,” I say.
“That’s just because you haven’t had all of your awakenings yet. You can’t even fully see the magical world until your second,” he says.
I bite the inside of my cheek. There’s so much I don’t know.
“And what do awakenings do, exactly?”
“Well, awakening number one basically affects the magic in the world around you—your fate—it draws you into your destiny and reveals your god lineage. Your second one gives you the ability to see the magical world and kick-starts the magic your body is capable of. The third is when you decide which deity lineage you want to pull from for the rest of your life—but that’s a lot of information. While we’re gone, Reina will talk you through everything,” he says.
“Gone?”
“Yeah. Me, Marta, and Ian are going to do the quest. We’re the only ones in the house, besides Reina and Snail, who have had all of our awakenings,” he says, and shifts his seated position to a higher step, so that we are eye to eye.
“When do you leave?” My heart is beating in my throat.
“A few hours.”
A rush of panic makes me take a step closer. “I thought it was bad to leave, that there were dangers outside.” I shrink back as I speak, half out of embarrassment at showing so much care to a near-stranger, and half at the actual prospect of bumping into those creatures I saw in the woods behind my house. They flash through my mind while Hunar seems to contemplate my question objectively, weighing the pros and cons.
“Yeah, they’ll come for us, but the three of us can manage ourselves. We should be okay, and we should finish before the winter solstice deadline too.” I can’t tell if it’s arrogance or confidence I read in his eyes, the glance is so quick.
“There you are,” a female voice calls from the top of the stairs.
I jump back, feeling caught, not realizing until then how close I had been leaning in, drawn in by Hunar’s too-low tone of voice. I look up and find Marta frowning down at us, leaning over the banister.
Hunar unfolds himself. “All right” is his short response to her.
A sudden surge of panic rises in my chest at seeing him go—strange since that’s exactly what I was planning on doing. But Hunar doesn’t immediately leave. He turns and walks toward me, stopping only when he’s mere inches away—the closest he’s been since I met him only twenty-four hours ago. Marta sighs and pushes off the banister, disappearing somewhere above. I struggle to keep myself still as Hunar stands so close. I wedge my bag behind my back and out of view.
“Listen, it’s weird, and it’s tough, and it’s not at all like the movies. But learning to control your powers—whatever they are—is worth it,” he says compassionately. “Being here is worth it. So, just keep your head on straight, listen to Reina, and here—” he extends his hand out, offering me the book he had been reading. “Tell me how this ends when I get back.”
“Oh,” I say, taking the leather-bound book.
No one besides Mom gives me gifts when it’s not my birthday. My hand brushes his when I take the book, and a dart of electricity races up from my fingertip to the edge of my earlobe before disappearing across my neck, the sensation paired with a thrilling sort of sweetness. Was that him or me?
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Thanks.”
I press the book to my chest, and the center of my body hums with warmth. Hunar smiles and says nothing else for a moment before turning to find Marta up the stairs.
A few moments later, I am finally alone, staring at the cover of a blue book with thick black letters: The Unspoken. I place the book in the side pocket of my bag and look around the empty foyer, feeling suddenly lost. It’s as if the room has doubled in size without Hunar. What once seemed cozy now looks immense. The carpeted road from where I stand to that front door seems endless. Hunar’s words echo though my mind: quests, awakenings, and fate. Am I in over my head?
“Not alone.” It is her again, Nana’s voice.
Does that mean she is with me, guiding me to her, or something else? Just as I think it, I hear something in the distance, a tap, tap, tap and a low humming voice. I realize it is the sound of a song threading its way through the hallway.
Something else Nana said rings through my mind, her guidance to be mindful of who I trust in Malachite, and when I trust them. The contradiction confuses me. How can it be that I’m both “not alone” and in a position to “trust no one”? Without really deciding on it, I follow the voice away from the front door and toward the courtyard.
* * *
TIANA IS SITTING under the low branches of a thick blossoming tree, tapping her hand into the side of a stone bench with her long-pointed nails while humming softly under her breath. She is wearing a long orange leather jacket and a pair of thick combat boots. Her braids are tied behind her neck and wispy baby hairs are slicked down in smooth waves around the sides of her face. Tiana pauses her song and presses a delicate fingertip to the tree beside her, then to the base of her cheek, clearly unaware of my presence. It’s an action she practices with such feeling that I freeze. I’ve trespassed into an intimate moment. While taking a step back into the dining room of Malachite, my foot creaks a floorboard. Tiana turns to face me immediately. Her eyes are red from crying. I feel caught for a second, but then my heart opens to her. Is it possible we’re feeling the same?
“What are you doing here?” Her voice is like a knife.
“I—” My confidence buckles.
“Listen, if you’re looking for Reina, she’s upstairs still. I don’t have time to show you where the bathrooms are.” Tiana waves me off. I see a carving in the base of the tree beside her where she just touched. T + Z. Then I notice the bag at her feet. I briefly wonder who the Z must be, when it all clicks together: the bag, her boots, her autumn jacket unnecessary for the balmy temperature of the courtyard, and the voice telling me I’m not alone.
“You’re going to do the quest, aren’t you?” I ask. The words come out unintentionally sounding like an accusation.
Tiana’s body stills. Her fingers pause, and her soft shoulders rising and falling with her breath become the only thing about her that moves.
Shit, I said the wrong thing.
“What do you care?”
“I want to come with you,” I reply boldly before taking a step forward when her face doesn’t become more hostile. I recognize a familiar hope in her voice—a hope that she too won’t be in this alone.
“Why do you even care?”
“It’s complicated, but I know I’m supposed to do this. You can trust me,” I say, pushing my jaw forward and standing as tall as I can. Trying to look as confident as I wish I felt.
Tiana’s mouth sours. “You’d only slow me down.”
“I’m much faster than I look.” This is a lie. “And you can’t do this alone.” No one could, I say the last part to myself.
Tiana weighs her options. For a full ten seconds she only stares, frowns a little bit, stares again, and finally exhales.
“You’re not Arcana, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m Canadian.”
She laughs just once, then stills, and looks me over top to tail. “Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” Tiana stands, picks up her bag, and starts walking toward the door behind me.
“So, where are we going exactly?” I ask. I debate showing her the map but decide it’s probably best to keep it to myself for now.
Tiana stops in the threshold beside me, looks at me, and doesn’t give an inch of what she thinks. “Ginen, Jotunheim, and Kunlun.”
While she rattles off the names of these places, I swallow as I remember those exact words written in my grandmother’s handwriting. I try to keep my expression plain and open while Tiana continues. “In the original tale, Malachite’s formation took three beings. One from a realm that reflected each of the three aspects of the self, the outer, the physical, and the emotional self. A similar pattern to our three awakenings. In the legends, the outer self was best understood in Ginen, a land of spirits and creatures all once known and forgotten to time, filled with mirrors. In the old tales, adventurers would go there to test what kind of person they were. The physical realm was characterized in Jotunheim, where giants rule and the earth is as direct and alive as any person. It apparently tests your strength.” She pauses for just a second to gauge my reaction. I keep as cool as possible. “If the legends are true, our keys are in the hands of their respective keepers, otherworldly beings with a sworn duty to steward them. If you know where to do it, a Godspring can jump from one realm to the other to get the keys back. And I know where to do it… mostly,” Tiana says with a slightly faltering but still proud smile.
