Into The Crooked Place

by Alexandra Christo

  “And if they don’t?” Tavia asked.

  Wesley smirked. “Then you can threaten them.”

  KARAM LED Wesley through the labyrinth of her city.

  It was a maze entirely different to that of Creije’s winding alleys and sharp, hidden corners. Granka was a lush expanse of open space and bulging streets, with thick cobbles big enough to host prayers. The houses were small and dotted in clusters arranged to mirror the holy symbol.

  It was a city of wisdom and pilgrimage at its heart, with the bones of the first Crafters perched atop the temple, and there were days, even weeks, in the year still devoted to their worship. Here, magic was not a thing to be traded and fought over. It was a calling and, before the war, when Crafters passed on their tutelage and taught the faithful how to handle charms, they were teaching them how to be in harmony with the Indescribable God.

  It was peaceful in Granka and even with the constant thrum of people, a calm coated the streets like hot wax, sealing everyone inside. There was nothing wild or untamed about the five rivers. There was no danger in the sky or in the eyes of the crowd.

  Karam hated herself for hating that.

  They followed the path of Tebhi, the river of destruction, which was fitting to the havoc Karam was about to wreak. Each of the five rivers represented a facet of the Indescribable God—Cipa for grace, Tebhi for destruction, Suhke for protection, Bihi for wisdom, and the river Sirta for creation. People spent days on the banks of their chosen river, praying and drinking from the water as if it would bless them.

  Karam’s old home had not changed in all the years she was gone. It was small, but ornate, with black iron fencing and sand-colored walls. The windows jutted out like blocks from the face, each with a small balcony that was barely the width of Karam’s arm. When she was a child she would squash herself into those balconies, back pressed tightly to one wall and the soles of her feet to the other, and read books on the hei rekhi science of self-defense.

  When her father left home to teach at temple and her mother brought food to the poor, Karam and Arjun would practice in the garden with her grandfather’s old fighting stick. It was one of the few things her pehti jal left for her.

  She wanted to be a warrior like him. Her parents wanted her to be as far from that as she could.

  Wesley lingered behind Karam, letting her take the lead. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he had pocketed his cuff links. Karam sighed at his tattoos, which were now in full view up his arms.

  Her parents were going to have the time of their lives when they saw those.

  “Are you readying for a fight?” she asked, gesturing to his rolled sleeves.

  “Do I need to be?”

  Karam shrugged. “That would depend on whether you are planning to admit to my pehta who you are.”

  “I have a feeling he’ll know.”

  “You are infamous.”

  “These days, so are you.”

  Karam liked the sound of that more than she cared to admit.

  There was something about earning her place in Creije, rather than being handed it on a platter, that made her proud. She had fought her way to her position and hadn’t needed prayer or magic to do it. Just her fists and her smarts and the knowledge that she could.

  It was Karam’s mother who opened the door once they knocked, wearing a four-piece orange setwa and not a hint of surprise. She cast a look at the bruises that took up permanent residence on her daughter’s face, then to the dirt that clung to the edges of her clothing.

  She did not look at Wesley.

  “Mete,” Karam said. “I need your help.”

  They were the first words she had spoken to her mother in five years and Karam felt the shame of that fact.

  Five years since her father had told her to go and find a war if she wanted one so badly.

  Five years since Karam had run like there were demons chasing her.

  She wanted to return one day, with her head held as steady as her breath, knowing she had done the right thing by leaving, and proving that her decision to study the fighting arts was the right one.

  In all that time her mother’s face had remained like a painting, preserved forever. Karam could still smell spices from the kitchen and see the flour under her fingernails. When she saw her father, no doubt he would be as stalwart and stubborn as ever, with kind eyes and hands that always reached to clutch the pendant on his neck.

  Five years and nothing had changed but Karam.

  “Help.”

  Her mother repeated the word in Uskhanyan and Karam immediately scolded herself at having forgotten to speak in the holy language.

  It had been so long since she’d had someone to speak it to.

  “My help is always here, dila,” her mother said.

  It had been forever since anyone had called Karam darling.

  “But I will not help him.”

  Her mother looked at Wesley for the first time and her eyes hardened.

  “So you’ve heard of me,” Wesley said.

  “No.”

  Wesley’s smile fell. He wasn’t used to anonymity.

  “But I know you are an underboss,” her mother said. “I would recognize one anywhere.”

  She looked to Karam with a face full of accusation.

  “You should not have brought him here.”

  Wesley straightened his collar. “I get that a lot.”

  “Perhaps you should listen,” her mother said. “Men like you should be imprisoned.”

  “There aren’t many men like me.”

  “Yes. There are.”

  Karam cleared her throat. “Where is Pehta?” she asked. “I thought he would be back from temple by now.”

  “Your pehta is not at temple.” Her mother wiped the flour from her hands and onto the bright orange cloth of her legs. “He is with the Indescribable God.”

  Karam’s legs nearly gave way.

  Surely she hadn’t heard right. He couldn’t be—

  “It has been many months.”

  Karam put her hand on the wall to steady herself.

  Her father could not be dead without her knowing.

  Men like him didn’t die quietly. They perished in front of crowds, preaching peace. They were killed on days when the heavens wept and time stood still among the thunder of the Indescribable God’s anger.

  He could not just be gone and she could not just have spent months without knowing.

  “You did not tell me,” Karam said.

  “You were not here to tell.”

  Her mother walked back inside the house, leaving the door open for them to enter.

  Karam followed her into the kitchen, incensed. “You did not even send word.”

  Her mother continued cooking. “How would I know where to send it?”

  “You told me to leave.”

  “You and Arjun had that plan yourselves.”

  “You said to go,” Karam repeated.

  Her mother rested her hands on the counter and sighed. “Sometimes, words spoken in anger are not words spoken in truth, dila.”

  “I do not need your proverbs.”

  “Just my help.”

  “Mete, please,” Karam said, with a shaking voice.

  It was so far from her own in that moment, in that single word, that Karam almost felt like a girl again. Like all those years she’d spent on the streets of Creije, cutting through the city, leaving the past like it was dust and ash, and building herself anew from it, hadn’t happened at all.

  She was here, home, just like before, coming undone in front of her family.

  Her father was dead. She would never get to see him or make amends. She’d never get to feel his arms around her and have him say he was proud of who she’d become, even if it was different from who he wanted.

  He was just gone.

  Karam had set the flames to her old life and Creije had helped burn it away. There was no chance to piece it back together now, because all the parts were cinder.

  Karam f
ell to the floor.

  When the tears came, they were silent and hot. Her chest ached, the room fogged, and Karam felt like maybe she was the one who was really dying.

  And then her mother knelt down on the floor beside her and placed a steadying hand on Karam’s shoulder. From somewhere, she found the strength to look into her mother’s eyes and she saw tears there, too.

  “Dila,” her mother said. “You wanted to be a warrior. Warriors do not cry.”

  And then she hugged her.

  For the first time in five years, Karam hugged her mother and felt safe.

  And then someone cleared their throat.

  Wesley had followed them into the house, as silent as death. He looked ridiculously uncomfortable at the sight of Karam, crying in front of him. She considered if it was a mistake being vulnerable with Wesley there, but as awful as people thought he was, Karam knew there were few things Wesley saw as sacred, and one was family. Loyalty.

  Perhaps not his own, but he at least respected those traits in others.

  “I can wait outside,” Wesley said.

  He was trying to look anywhere other than at Karam.

  “You live such secrets now,” her mother said, wiping away Karam’s tears. “With so many demons around you.”

  Wesley’s face didn’t change.

  If anything, Karam guessed he took it as a compliment. She supposed it was better than being called the Kingpin’s lapdog all the time.

  “Mete,” Karam said.

  Her voice was finding its footing, still too breathy, but it was there and it was hers.

  “The work we are doing is important.”

  “Violence is never important, dila.”

  Karam threw her hands up. She had forgotten that her stubbornness was hereditary. It was practically the only thing she was passed down from her parents.

  “Are you doing the Indescribable God’s work?” her mother asked.

  Karam nodded. She got to her feet and her mother did the same.

  “Do you really believe that to be true?” her mother asked.

  Karam nodded again. “The Kingpin of Uskhanya is planning something awful and he is using magic to do it,” she explained. “Their realm is in danger.”

  Her mother shook her head. “Those criminals are not kings and the sooner our Doyens put them in prison, the better.”

  Wesley took a seat at the small wooden table in the corner of the room and rolled his shirtsleeves back down. “The Kingpins have lined too many pockets for that to be possible.”

  Karam’s mother stalked over to him and swatted his legs, to indicate he should stand up. Karam blanched.

  “Mete,” she warned, but Wesley stood without fuss.

  “The will of your people to corrupt is endless.”

  “So is the desire of your Doyens to be corrupted,” Wesley countered.

  “The Kingpin of Uskhanya has Crafters,” Karam said. “He is using them to create awful magic and wage war.”

  “The holy conduits are not to be used.”

  “Which is why we want to stop him,” Wesley said. “To save the holy conduits. And all we need is to meet with the Grankan Kin.”

  Though it was Wesley who had spoken, it was Karam her mother hit across the back. “You dare request such a thing? You would endanger innocents for him? Innocents like Arjun, who you grew up with!”

  Karam’s heart lifted at the mention of her old friend. At least he was safe, then.

  “Arjun would not be the only Crafter on our side,” Karam said. “We already have someone.”

  Her mother paused. “You have a Crafter with you?”

  “Her name is Saxony,” Karam said. “And she wants to help put a stop to all of the madness. You should see the power she has, Mete. It is like nothing I have ever known. She is glorious.”

  Her mother smiled knowingly. “There is a light in your eyes I have never seen, dila. Your father would be proud of it.”

  Karam swallowed.

  “Saxony will make sure any Crafters who join us are protected,” Karam said. “You and Pehta taught me that Crafters should be protected at all costs. Pehti Jal and Meta Jil were killed trying to do just that. By stopping the Kingpin, I am honoring our family. I am finishing their work.”

  Karam’s mother placed her hands flat on each of Karam’s shoulders and let out a long sigh.

  “Even if I help you,” she said, “there is no guarantee they will. Perhaps Arjun will choose to trust you and convince the Liege to do the same, but if he does, it will put Crafter lives in your hands. If you cause them harm, fleeing to another realm will not save you from the Indescribable God. I will not be able to protect you from its wrath, dila.”

  Karam placed a hand on top of her mother’s. She wished she could hold her father’s hand too.

  “I promise you, I will win this battle and finish the work our ancestors started,” Karam said. “I have never needed your protection, Mete. Only your trust.”

  KINS WERE LIKE GANGS.

  There was one in every city in every realm and their Lieges were a little like underbosses, except without the murder. Usually.

  Ever since the war, Kins didn’t talk to other Crafters outside of their own. It just wasn’t safe. Nobody could be trusted, risks were always too great, and so they kept to themselves, never swapping secrets or trading spells. Each Kin had their own traditions and not a one of them wanted to share.

  Yet here Saxony was, about to meet the Grankan Kin and see other Crafters outside of her own for the first time.

  The forest surrounding the holy temple was a little over three hundred acres and birthed trees the color of kiwi, right down to their trunks. They had leaves of clovers and roots that lay above ground like strands of seaweed. The soil was magic dust and covered the dirt until the brown beneath was barely visible, and the magic atop looked like wet sand in the afternoon sun.

  When they walked, it lit beneath their feet, leaving footprints for them to find their way back.

  Saxony couldn’t help but think that if this were Creije, the buskers would have had it collected and sold in half a second.

  The Kin was not inside the holy temple, but beneath it, and Karam’s mother was very specific about them not approaching the steps of the ancient monument unless they wanted to meet their doom. Which they decided quickly not to.

  Instead, they were to approach a secret entrance under its roots that allowed safe passage to allies.

  The four of them scoured the forest, with Falk by Wesley’s side, ready to pretend he would be any use in a fight.

  It was sudden when Karam stopped walking and drew an X in the dust with her foot, lighting up the ground to mark their position.

  Her father’s old necklace was in her hand, given by her mother to act as a beacon, though Karam gripped it more like it was life support.

  “It’s here,” she said.

  The necklace glowed brightly.

  Karam crouched low.

  “All I see is sand,” Wesley said.

  “Of course.” Karam studied the spot, waving her hand over the ground. “The likes of you are not meant to notice such things. It would not be a secret passage if you did.”

  “The likes of me,” Wesley repeated.

  Saxony crouched beside Karam, close enough that their knees were touching.

  The warmth of her being this near was mind-numbing.

  “I can sense the magic,” Saxony said.

  Karam took her hand and placed it on the ground in the center of the X she’d drawn. There was heat. Fire the same as that which Saxony conjured from within herself. It pulsed, and as Saxony’s palm began to sweat, specks of the magic dust glued across her lifeline.

  When Saxony withdrew, Karam allowed her own hand to hover over the magic for a few seconds before clenching it into a fist. The dust floated up to meet her in a rope and when Karam stood, pulling the new thread with her, a sheath rose like a doorway, revealing a staircase.

  “You go first,” Karam said to Saxony.
“It is best they see a friendly face.”

  “I’m not a friendly face.”

  “It is best they sense you are like them.”

  “I’m not like them,” Saxony said.

  Karam sighed in that no-nonsense way that only she could ever seem to make equal parts threatening and seductive. Or maybe the seductive part was just Saxony, because Tavia only looked bemused and Wesley just looked like an asshole.

  “I will throw you down there in a minute if you are not careful,” Karam said.

  “Any excuse to touch me.”

  Saxony winked and stepped down into the passageway.

  The gunshots were sudden.

  The sound rang in Saxony’s ears and she was flung quickly backward, out of the safety of the Grankan passage and back through the forest, rolling and turning like tumbleweed.

  Saxony caught only the blurs of their strange new attackers, before she was thrown against a tree by their magic.

  Saxony counted the gunshots, felt the scraping of blades in the distance, but she couldn’t stand.

  The Kingpin couldn’t have known to follow them to the holy land and no Crafter would draw blood in this sacred forest, especially from those entering as allies.

  Saxony tried to make sense of it, putting her hand on the ground to steady both her body and her mind.

  Her palm fell through the earth.

  The forest began to fade.

  Saxony blinked and she could barely make out the foggy sight of Karam running toward her, screaming, before everything went dark.

  The world shifted.

  Great towers rose in the distance, dripping with vines and flowers. The ground was suddenly grass, ready to be plowed, and in the quiet beyond she could smell the orange tree farms.

  Saxony wasn’t in Granka anymore.

  She was in Rishiya.

  It was like a dream, only she was aware and wondering how in the fire-gates to wake up.

  Tears rolled from her cheeks and onto the collar of her shirt so that Saxony’s neck felt damp. She didn’t know why she was crying, or why she felt a sudden pull of emotions, as though there was a great energy tugging at her senses. But it didn’t make sense for her skin to be wet, because Saxony’s staves were burning. Inside, her fire tore through bone and sinew.