Page 31 of The Maiden and Her Monster

At Mavetéh’s end, the trees split open like a shell, revealing the glimmering pearl of Valón doused in a cloudy midday haze.

Malka bit nervously at her nails. She had expected to die in Mavetéh, just as it had been a death sentence to all the women before her.

Ten days she had spent under its ominous shade.

Ten days elapsed from her deadline. She pressed her hand against the cobblestone wall, the stone cool under her palm.

Moss crept between her fingers, damp from melting snow.

It made her choke up to see the sky again, unobstructed by the tree crowns.

Amnon smiled at her and pressed his makeshift cane back into the ground.

They had plucked it from a branch and shaped it with Abba’s dagger to fit Amnon’s height.

It wasn’t perfect, but it enabled Amnon to walk on his own without pressing his weight onto Malka or Nimrah.

It warmed her to see him up and moving again.

Malka had feared he would sleep forever, waking only for Malka to feed him and to relieve himself before falling back into a tumultuous slumber.

The southern entrance was an imposing tower made of stone so stark, it resembled brass against the gloom.

Giant spires rose from the structure’s head, in the same shape as the spiral staircases which trailed up both sides of the tower.

Rounded patterns were carved into stone and molded with the crest of Ordobav above each window.

She recognized the crest as the same one the Ozmini knights donned—the lion with its teeth and claws unfurled.

A sharpened arch had been carved out of the stone, where the metal gate doors were swung out, and people streamed between them.

Valón came into vivid focus as they flowed through the gate.

Streets lined with multi-story buildings spread from city squares like tree roots.

The buildings piled on top of each other, each capped with a red pitched roof.

The buildings in Eskravé were simple and earth colored.

But these buildings were every color she could think of, standing out of the snowy fog in shades of green, orange, and blue.

Most overwhelming was the odor; cloying potions of boiled cabbage, urine, and woodsmoke. She almost choked on its potency.

A blend of languages swirled around her—some she could recognize: Kra ? ki, Kra ? -Yadi, of course, and the Alga-Bak language of the Balkisk Kingdom, which she didn’t speak, but knew its sounds from the Balkisk merchants who came to Eskravé’s marketplace. Others she couldn’t place.

Someone knocked into Malka’s side, sending her stumbling.

She regained her footing and rubbed her shoulder, unbothered as she watched the waves of people making their way up and down the streets.

The clatter of horse hooves against cobblestone, animated conversations, and the faint ringing of a tambourine filled her ears.

Her heart pounded wildly, and she brought a hand to her chest as if to tame it.

In Eskravé, midday settled the rush of the morning into calm as it brought the village back inside for mealtime. Not here, it seemed.

Thinking of lunch made Malka’s stomach whine.

“I don’t know where Eli?ka lives,” Nimrah said. “But I know someone who does.”

As they walked, Malka stared at Nimrah’s cloaked form. She had been right—no one spared her a second glance in the crowd.

But Malka noticed her, felt her presence.

She blamed the spell, the command still a fresh wound on her arm.

It was not how she had imagined it would be.

Root, as if the bond between them would be as hard and unmalleable as wood, chaining them together like metal.

It was something much worse. This constant awareness, the maddening heat when she felt their tether.

What would happen if they stretched their connection too thin?

If she dared to test the limits? The thought almost brought a blush to her cheeks.

Saving Amnon had been life or death. This was reckless temptation; it should not have crossed her mind at all.

Yet curiosity had embedded itself there, reignited by this new connection.

Nimrah stopped short outside of an unassuming stone building, wooden doors hooked open by iron slats. Scrawled above the arch of the entrance, Malka guessed, was the name of the place. Like most Eskraven villagers, the only language she could read was the ancient Yahadi script.

She was about to ask Nimrah when a heady waft of braised meat came from the entrance, followed by the loud roar of conversation when the door at the bottom of the stairs opened and two drunk men stumbled out.

Ah. A tavern.

“The owner is a friend of the Maharal’s,” Nimrah explained, resituating her cloak.

“Another Yahad?” Amnon asked.

Nimrah shook her head. “An Ozmin, like Eli?ka.”

Before they descended the stairs, Malka’s eyes caught on a sign painted near the entrance. A crow slashed through with blood red. A warning of some sort, but Malka couldn’t linger on it any longer as she was motioned down.

The tavern was packed, the heat from bodies and torch lanterns bouncing off the curved stone of the underground room.

Men filled the wooden benches spread around the small space, the tables cluttered with half-drunk glasses of ale, sucked-clean bones of pork ribs, and plates of knedlíky stuffed with meat.

On the far side of the room, a large cauldron bubbled some kind of stew, which a barmaid ladled into bowls in exchange for coins.

“I’m going to find him,” Nimrah said to them. “I’ll be back.”

Malka gripped her forearm before she could leave. It was the first time they had touched since their rooting spell, when Nimrah had drawn her close enough to trace the command onto her arm. Nimrah’s gaze cut sharply to hers.

“How do I know you won’t leave now that you’re here?” Malka questioned, swallowing hard.

Nimrah glanced at Malka’s arm, where the command was traced under her layers of clothing.

“You’re not free of me yet, village girl,” Nimrah said, then disappeared into the back of the tavern, leaving Malka and Amnon on their own.

It was odd, this tether. Even as Nimrah left from view, Malka could feel her closeness, the ebb and flow of it dancing with the distance set between them. She hated it but recognized its utility. Nimrah truly could not run from her.

Another unfortunate truth: Malka could not run from Nimrah, either.

Amnon pressed his hand to Malka’s shoulder.

He was already sweating from the heat of the room, his strength most likely dwindling from the walk here. She searched around the room, but there were no open seats.

She leaned in close. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?”

Shuffling through the crowd, she scanned for a barkeep.

An eruption of bellowing laughs caught Malka’s attention instead.

In the back corner, a group of Valonian knights sat around one of the larger tables, decorated with piles of discarded bones, plates of picked-over dumplings, scattered crumbs of bread, and stacked ale glasses.

They had stuffed themselves, now drunk and rowdy.

Self-consciously, Malka began to play with her necklace.

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” a woman next to her said, tilting her head toward the knights. “Paying for their gluttony.”

Malka’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

The woman eyed Malka’s necklace, then threw back the rest of her drink. “We pay the Church’s tithes. The knights trade the tithe collections for Ordon coins. They use those coins to pay for barrels of alcohol. So, therefore, every drink of theirs is technically on us.”

Malka stared at the knights again, at how even since she last looked more food had appeared on the table.

Her stomach growled again, fierce and painful.

Malka recalled Chaia’s curiosity about the tithes the last few years before she had disappeared. Maybe Malka should’ve questioned it, too.

“They have competitions sometimes, on who can spend the most at once, whether on jewels or alcohol,” the woman said, the smile on her lips deeply unsettling.

She stared at the knights with hatred gleaming in her eyes.

With the anger loosening her tongue, Malka noticed her Kra ? ki was accented.

But it was not pronounced enough for Malka to place.

“Does the Church know the knights do this?”

The woman laughed. “Do they know? They are doing the same thing. The clergy is as bad as the knights. Perhaps even worse, using money to buy political favors. But you won’t catch them doing business in a seedy place like this.”

Surely it was blasphemous to say such a thing, especially to a stranger. Yet the woman didn’t seem to care.

Malka appraised her intently. She was by no means tall, but took up all the space she wanted, elbow leaned on the free end of the table next to them, legs crossed. She was a soft beauty, round cheeks and piercing blue eyes. Around her neck, a necklace that disappeared into the cusp of her vest.

“What brings you to a place so seedy, then?” Malka asked, still mulling over what she had said about the misuse of the tithes.

“Best beer in town.” The woman winked, then took in the shape of Malka’s clothing. “What’s got you all roughed up and dirty?”

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

Nimrah’s impending figure was still hidden by her cloak. She tilted her head up, a slice of light piercing her cold glare at the woman Malka had been speaking with. She made sure it was her flesh side. “Let’s go.”

Before Malka could say anything else to the woman, Nimrah was carting her to the entrance. As they approached the door, Nimrah wrapped her hands around Amnon’s cloak, dragging him away from what appeared to be an uncomfortable interaction with the men at the table nearest him.

“What was that about?” Malka demanded, the cold air hitting them as they spilled back onto the street.

Nimrah shrugged. “Don’t trust everyone you meet, village girl. Even if they’ve got a pretty face.”