Page 3 of The Maiden and Her Monster
Cold bit the air. Malka snugged close to Imma for warmth, having forgotten her wool cloak in her haste.
She blinked tears from the wind, attention drifting toward the priest’s accompaniment—a mix of knights, administrators, and peasants who made up the Order.
Her eyes caught on a tall man with bronze hair and golden eyes who held a horse’s reins taut.
Unlike Father Bro ? ek, this man was dressed plainly in a white linen tunic and trousers. A sheepskin cloak the color of drenched earth hung around his shoulders, matching his leather boots that were more mud than shoe.
He caught her staring and winked.
Heat prickled up her neck. She glanced away, embarrassed.
The priest continued. “It’s a harsh winter and it will be harsher still.
It is hard work for your landlords to maintain this village and keep your markets busy.
But our Heavenly Father, Triorzay, has given you shelter from the cold through the outstretched hand of the Ozmini Church.
He has watched over you despite not leaning to His will. It is time to give back.”
Two men rolled out several empty barrels from their wagons. The Ozmini bursar followed them to observe and count the transfer.
The villagers began to form lines, passing down their jars to empty into the bins.
They had enough to fill the first barrel, but not the second.
Bro ? ek’s yellow teeth came out again. A predator ready to strike in the shadows. His lips curved up, creases the sharp teeth of a portcullis. “Perhaps there’s been a mistake, Chotek.”
Despite the chill, the noble wiped a bead of sweat caressing his forehead. “I’ll see to it they are punished, Father.”
The gathered crowd of Eskraven villagers, hands empty of their herbs and spices, now held only a steeling breath. Punishment to the Ozmini lords meant eviction or criminal convictions, an upending fate for any Yahadi family.
From the silent crowd came a voice—Masheva. “Please,” she begged, shuffling closer to the steps. “I know the women and I have some more jewelry we can find. We can make up the amount.”
Malka’s hand fell to her chest, feeling the cold press of her own pendant necklace. She was grateful for its hiding place under her clothes, chain hidden by her thick, raven curls.
Father Bro ? ek raised his brow, the bushy white as untamed as his wily grin. “So, you admit you have purposefully hidden from the tithe?”
Masheva paled. Her mouth opened, but no words came.
Minton laid his calloused hand on his wife’s shoulder. “It’s not our fault, Father.”
“Fault?” Father Bro ? ek spread his arms, cupping the crowd between his palms. “There is no one else you can blame but yourselves.”
Minton worked his jaw. To his side, Masheva gave a timid shake of her head, her fingers digging into the underbelly of Minton’s wrist.
“It’s the woods.”
Masheva closed her eyes. A rush of murmurs from the villagers.
Imma set a protective hand on Malka’s arm.
In the Paja’s past visits, no one had mentioned Mavetéh. Maybe it had been the fear of not being believed, or the terror of legitimizing the curse with its public incantation. Malka didn’t know.
Despite the nervous energy of the crowd, Minton did not relent. “Inside the woods is a monster, evil and bloodthirsty. It has taken our women and corrupted much of the forest. That is why our resources have dwindled.”
Tinkling laughter glided its way around the Order.
“A bloodthirsty and evil monster?” the priest mocked, tilting his head.
Through the crowd, Malka sought Chaia’s parents.
In a moment she found them, huddled together toward the back.
The ache in her heart grew every time Mavetéh was mentioned, worsened now that Minton had given voice to it so boldly.
She could only guess Chaia’s parents were dealing with a similar pain from losing their child to Mavetéh—like a tender scab reopening.
Chaia had always been all sharp teeth when the Paja appeared to collect tithes, especially when their visits became more frequent.
One time, a knight had purposefully spilled over a wheat barrel, making a group of Yahadi villagers drop to their knees to pick up the grain.
Chaia had berated the knight for his vile behavior and earned twenty lashings as a result.
She took them in stride, only gritting her teeth.
She did not cry even when the rope split her skin and her dress spoiled deep red.
Her pestering didn’t relent after that, only emboldened. She had begun to question how the Paja delivered the tithes—where they went after the knights loaded the barrels into the wagon and whipped their horses into their speedy canter. She gathered more welts before the first were fully healed.
Malka blinked the memory of Chaia away, swallowing the tightness in her throat.
Father Bro ? ek raised his brow at Chotek. “Perhaps we should remind these Yahadi villagers what happens to those who disgrace and mock the Church, Ka?par?”
The priest motioned to one of the knights with a flick of his hand.
The knight seized Minton’s shoulders and jostled him forcefully to the steps, tearing him from Masheva’s grip. He fell to his knees, tripping on the stone.
“We do not steal from Triorzay. We sacrifice for Him. You live on Church-sanctioned grounds in Ozmini-owned houses and will follow our rules.” Father Bro ? ek addressed the crowd. “You all will do well to remember that.”
The priest nodded to the knight, who unsheathed a cleaver from his belt. He snatched Minton’s hand and splayed it on the ground.
Minton begged in a mix of Kra ? ki and Kra ? -Yadi. The two languages fought each other—the push and pull of soft and strong vowels. Tears rolled down his face.
Malka’s heart sped, pounding in her ears so loudly Minton’s cries dimmed. Imma left her side, moving instead to cover Masheva’s sobs and hold her back.
With one swing, the cleaver cut through Minton’s hand with a pop. He screamed, loud and guttural. Malka couldn’t forget that scream, the way it echoed through the square, shaking even the canopy of leaves in Mavetéh.
It was a dirty cut made with a dull blade and pieces of his fingers lay limp, held only by lingering sinew, the bone bloodied as it stuck out from his fingers. Spots of crimson decorated the ground. The wind blew, carrying the scent through the air—metal and rust.
Bile rose in Malka’s throat, and she moved in time to empty herself on the dirtied snow.