Page 22 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Malka did not like the prickle of satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.” Amnon said the threat full heartedly, despite how effortlessly Nimrah had disarmed him of Abba’s knife back in her hut.

But Nimrah’s eyes were on Malka, unstirred by Amnon’s threat. Malka hated being the focus of her gaze, those darkened eyes flaring heat inside of her. It was like taking a bite from the waral fruit, letting its poison seep inside of her until there was nothing left but the burning.

“If I wanted her dead,” Nimrah intoned, “I would have left her in the river. As you have said.”

“It’s okay, Amnon,” Malka said, fending off the flame in the pit of her stomach. “Let her.”

Malka gripped the sword at its hilt. When Nimrah released her hold, and Malka bore its full weight, the tip wobbled downward. She struggled to keep it level, shifting it in her hands until she adjusted to the unnatural feel of it.

She was in over her head. Amnon knew it, too, from the way he stood ready to pounce at Nimrah if she so much as moved the wrong way.

Across from her, Nimrah unsheathed her sword. “Hit me here,” she said, motioning to her chest. “Should be easy if you truly know the sword.”

Nimrah didn’t wait for her to ready. She swung out her own weapon. Malka lifted the sword to block her. Metal clanked against metal. Malka’s heart beat out of her chest at how narrowly Nimrah had missed slicing her skin.

“I will not kill you.” Malka’s labored breathing made her voice rough, deep. “Yohev forbids it.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing, though?” Nimrah smirked. “Bringing me to my death?”

“Last I recall, you proposed the deal. You’re going willingly.”

Malka swung high but didn’t come close to hitting her.

“You will not be the one who kills me when I am brought to your village,” Nimrah conceded. “But the Ozmini God also forbids murder. So, in the end, who will disobey their God for vengeance?”

Malka’s lips thinned. “It’s not like that.” She swung her sword again, ignoring the burning sensation in her arms. But Nimrah parried, elegant footwork following the way Nimrah moved her upper body to dodge the blow. “The Ozmini Church is not happy.”

“The Ozmini Church will never be happy when their only goal is power.” Nimrah slashed her sword low, and Malka yelped as she jumped.

Her cloak caught on her weapon, and she tripped onto her back. Nimrah kicked Malka’s sword from her hand, pointing the tip of her blade to Malka’s chest.

Amnon moved toward them, but Malka lifted her hand.

During her fall, her sack had spilled out, revealing the snare trap.

Nimrah smirked, eyeing the rope. “Was that for me?”

Her tone, which did not entirely read as displeasure, made Malka blush from her neck to her ears.

“I don’t know the details of your fate, Rayga,” Malka said, her breaths still laborious.

“It often seems like those who decide the fate of others never do know or care about the details.”

She lifted her weapon from Malka’s chest and offered her a hand.

“You are a liar, village girl.” Nimrah sheathed her sword. “You hold the sword like you are afraid of it, yet you did not hesitate to use it. What makes Kefesh so different?”

“Why do you care? We have agreed to your bargain. What difference do my feelings on Kefesh make?”

The wind swept through Nimrah’s hair, wrapping her in a black shroud. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

But it was the golem who didn’t understand.

Malka had not been raised on stories which cautioned her away from using weapons.

Only magic. Weapons were how Abba and the rest of the village men defended themselves during their Rayga hunts.

Weapons were what killed the animals who gave their lives to fill achingly hungry bellies.

Weapons were predictable. Metal could not bend, could not think for itself. Shalkat could not scramble their way into the metalworking and rearrange it to make it something vicious. A sword could not destroy an entire library with one blow.

Kefesh could.

“All my life, I have been taught to fear Kefesh. That the magic teeters too close to Yohev’s domain. That it has the power to make man a betrayal of his Creator.”

Nimrah’s lips thinned, but Malka was not sorry. The Maharal had created Nimrah using Kefesh, and Malka’s people suffered the consequences. Mavetéh. The Rayga. The sickness.

“Others will argue those who practice Kefesh are closest to Yohev. They are guided by Their hand in the process of creation. It is a practice birthed from the power of language: letters have the power to be shaped into words and those words take on meanings.”

Malka shrugged. “Such is the nature of any language.”

“Yes, but it is different in a holy language. One that is called forth by prayer and scripture alone.”

Malka’s eyes fell to the back of Nimrah’s hand, where the engravings of a Yahadi holy word peeked out from her sleeve. Then to her forehead, and the carving of emet.

Nimrah caught her stare. “The recitations of these words brought me to life. The engraved letters command me. Just as you could use words to control the plants around you to heal. The letters of the Yahadi holy script were created by Yohev and used to speak the world into existence. It’s something Yohev created for Their people. That is what the Maharal says.”

Malka let out an exasperated laugh. “And where exactly did that get him?”

Nimrah’s mouth set in a hard line. “Watch your mouth, village girl.”

“Or what?”

A pulse of silence coursed between them, heavy and blazing.

Nimrah’s eyes narrowed to slits, but it was not only anger in their black depths. Something else, too, unbidden. “My loyalty lies with the Maharal,” she said finally, “and it would befit you to remember just what I’m capable of.”

Malka didn’t need the reminder; she knew Nimrah’s capabilities. Knew what power corrupted her. And that was exactly why Malka feared Kefesh. She would not hold that power in her hands. Would not corrupt herself in the same way. She couldn’t bear it.