Page 21 of The Maiden and Her Monster

“Pack up,” was Nimrah’s only response when they agreed to her deal. As soon as a new dawn appeared on the horizon, they headed north to the capital city.

Upon their arrival, they would find an old Ozmini laundress who owed the Maharal a favor. Nimrah seemed confident she would help shape their plan on how to rescue him from the dungeons, having insider knowledge from her years of service.

Malka supposed it wasn’t a bad plan, with what little information they had. Chaia used to hear all kinds of gossip while mending clothing as a seamstress. Perhaps this was also the experience of the palace workers.

Strange, that Malka would soon be in Valón.

She had consumed knowledge of the fantastical city like the merchants’ stories were sugar pastries and drunk with the Paja just to know even more.

And yet, it mattered little now. With the famous city nearly at her fingertips, all she could think of was Imma.

Five days had passed since they left Eskravé, each one a gut punch of lost time. She did not feel completely back to herself after her injuries, was not sure if she ever would. Nerves for the journey ahead began to sicken her worse than any frostbite.

Above, the sun pulled like a taut arrow in the sky, rays slipping through trees and onto plants like painted targets.

But it was just clear enough to track the sun’s position.

The ground was slick with blood, and it stuck to the bottom of Malka’s shoes like a stubborn stain.

The air was drenched in a foul odor, like blooming corpse weed, and suffocating like wood smoke.

Some part of her was glad there hadn’t been enough food for breakfast, for her stomach soured at the stench.

Through the gaps in the tangled branches clouding the sky, Malka could pretend she was somewhere safer, where crisping dough fragranced the air, and the wood was soft beneath her feet, warped over generations and creaking when she danced with her sisters.

Nimrah explained that no spell would be required until the end of the Great Oak’s reach, for the Maharal had written the command on a tip of the tree’s roots instead of its bole, intending for it to disappear into the earth over time, hiding it from anyone who wished Nimrah harm.

It did not matter to the Maharal that Nimrah could trace the path of the command on its root, for she could not change the spell on her own.

“How far have you attempted to venture this way?” Amnon asked Nimrah.

The Maharal had purposefully written the command on a root facing north, so that it would stretch toward Valón as a safeguard, in case he ever needed to reach Nimrah quickly. The golem could meet him at the end of the root if summoned through a command already written into her stone.

It was useful to them now, as they didn’t have to add much time to their journey for the diversion.

“It’s been a couple years since I last tried,” Nimrah answered. “A day, then. But it will be longer now that the roots have spread.”

Amnon nodded, though his lip quivered.

“What do you know of Kefesh already?” Nimrah asked, ducking under a particularly low branch.

“I know it’s performed using commands written in the Yahadi holy language,” Amnon responded, face ashen.

“Yes,” Nimrah replied. “But do you know why?”

Amnon shrugged, then looked to Malka. But she didn’t know much more than him. It was as unknown to her as the stars or moon.

Nimrah huffed. “You two have strong opinions of a mysticism you know nothing about.”

“And you have strong opinions of us, yet know why we were raised this way,” Malka jeered.

Nimrah ignored her. “Yohev first created the holy language to achieve the creation of the earth. They sculpted the first section of letters to represent water, the next fire, and the last wind and earth until They finished the alphabet.”

She ran her hand along her arm below her sleeve.

“It is a similar concept to how the holy magic is used now. As Yohev combined the letters representing those elements to create different facets of the earth, we, too, combine letters in a way that creates new meaning. As you’ve seen, the letters on my arm— shoresh , root.

The same command is scratched onto the Great Oak, rooting us together.

” Nimrah pointed to her forehead. “The word here— emet. It means truth, and it made my existence so that the carved words did not lie. Just as the holy language brought me to life, it can change other aspects of the world.”

Malka thought of Tzvidi and how men had tried to use Kefesh to heal, but since the shalkat had changed the letters around, the spells had become something different. Something they were not meant to be.

Nimrah, created to protect the Yahad, killing one instead.

“You will frighten the people of Valón with your return. They think you were laid to rest,” Malka said.

Nimrah was in front of her now, so Malka could not see her face, only the slight hunch of her shoulders. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to stay hidden in a trading city with a good cloak.”

As they walked, more glowing fruit began to appear low on the trees, pulsing in various shades of red, blue, and purple. The wind howled, loosening a pack of snow from one of the branches and scattering the flakes. One of the fruits began to wobble.

Nimrah flung her arm out, stopping them short.

The glowing fruit fell from the tree and splattered in front of them, sizzling as the glow faded into the charred ground beneath. A few more steps and the charred ground would’ve been Malka’s head.

“What was that?”

“Waral fruit,” Nimrah said. “Highly acidic fruit that began to grow on the Great Oak soon after I was rooted to it. It’s germinated to most of the forest now. Some colors are more poisonous than others, but many can burn straight through skin and bone.”

Malka took a shaky breath. During a Rayga hunt, one of the village men had lost his arm from a serious burn. She wondered if this was the culprit they wouldn’t mention. The men did not like to speak about their hunts.

“You could practice on one of the fruits, if you’d like,” Nimrah said to Amnon. “Little commands, like getting them to shine again or change color. To get a handle on Kefesh. They are not as dangerous once they have ruptured.”

Amnon’s face greened where the cold hadn’t already reddened. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Fools,” Nimrah whispered under her breath. “Absolute fools.”

They paused their trek while Amnon disappeared to relieve himself.

A glimpse of black caught Malka’s eye, and she bent to pull the plant up by its roots, stuffing it into her satchel pocket.

“You keep collecting black perphona. Why?”

Nimrah’s breath plumed against the frigid air like chimney smoke.

She looked like a myth, half earth and half human, her black hair the mane of a wild animal.

The smoke around her mouth reminded Malka of the Yahadi myth of Tannin, the dreaded water dragon with scales as green as moss and a body like a serpent.

“To bring back. Eskravé has been in short supply, seeing that every maiden who walks into the forest comes out dead. Let alone the sickness which has begun to spread.” Malka’s spite seeped into her response, and it was fueled by Nimrah’s tight-lipped reaction.

She couldn’t help herself. “It’s not the only way you’ve made Eskravé suffer.

Without that herb, many are dying of infection.

Innocent people who had the misfortune of getting a nasty cut. ”

If Malka had garnered a reaction from Nimrah, it was gone now, replaced with indifference. Nimrah began to rock her leg on a nearby log.

Malka bit back the twinge in her throat.

Plants made her think of Imma, of the hours they had spent side by side treating ailments.

She breathed in the harsh odor of black perphona and closed her eyes, picturing Imma.

Her broad nose and twisted golden curls, risking her life to find this exact plant in the woods.

Nimrah watched the movement of the log underneath her foot. Back and forth. “I did not make the conscious choice to terrorize your village. I didn’t demand for every plant to die or for hungry creatures to arise with my presence.”

Her green veins pulsed under her skin. Malka was reminded how quickly she had commanded the vines from the earth, which squeezed Amnon the same way the tree creature had squeezed her.

“I don’t believe you.”

Nimrah kicked the log away. It flew into a tree, shaking loose the compacted snow on its branches. Malka watched the white fall to the ground and join the dirt-caked snow below.

“Fine. Make me into the monster you want.” Nimrah stared at her, jaw clicking. “But if you wish to speak of monsters, then answer me this. You walked into these woods, knowing it craves women like you, yet you know neither sword nor magic. How exactly did you plan to survive?”

She hadn’t thought she would. Entering Mavetéh had been choiceless for her. A necessity. But Nimrah did not deserve to know that.

So, instead, Malka brushed Abba’s dagger at her side. “What makes you say I don’t know the sword?”

Nimrah lifted an imperious brow.

Malka straightened, ignoring the unfamiliar curl in her stomach evoked by Nimrah’s expression. She was not used to the intensity the sharp angles of Nimrah’s face awarded her. Human and not, at the same time. Each emboldening the other.

When Amnon appeared, Nimrah grinned. “Amnon, toss me your sword, will you?”

Amnon gave her an incredulous look. “Over my dead body.”

“Is that a promise, lover boy?” With the stretch of her arm, a root erupted from the ground at Amnon’s feet. It wrapped around the hilt of his sword and pulled it from the sheath. The root receded, releasing the sword into Nimrah’s grip.

“Hey!” Amnon started toward her, but Nimrah held up her hand.

“Relax.” Nimrah offered the sword to Malka. “It’s for her anyway.”

Malka’s eyes traveled warily to the weapon. “What are you doing?”

“You said you know how to use a sword. So, prove it.”