Page 32 of The Maiden and Her Monster

“I thought the Paja brutish, but some of these people are just as bad.” Amnon shivered. “I’m not going back in there.”

Nimrah smirked. “If you think the regulars there are bad now, wait until you see one of them lose at darts. It’s better entertainment than any theater.”

“Did you find who you were looking for?” Malka asked, unable to keep out the bite in her voice.

If Nimrah noticed, she didn’t show it. “Eli?ka’s house isn’t far. Stay close.”

That request was harder than anticipated, as the afternoon had brought with it even more crowded streets than when they had first arrived.

Men towered over her with their wooden carts, similar to those wheeled in for Eskravé’s market day.

A woman carrying a bulky basket of bread dashed around her, holding it above her head to avoid clashing with one of the traders on his horse.

She jumped out of the way of a trotting horse and the wheat-laden wagon it pulled. Everywhere she stepped, she was in someone’s way.

Soon, she could no longer see Nimrah and Amnon.

Unexpectedly, a pang racked her chest. She felt dizzy, unmoored from her body. It struck her so suddenly, her legs trembled.

When someone shoved into her again, she was unable to catch herself. She stumbled into a mass behind her, toppling them both to the ground.

The clank of metal against cobblestone stunned the busy crowd into silence.

Malka climbed to her knees, legs still shaky. “Forgive me,” she said, distress misshaping the Kra ? ki words. “Let me help you.”

She froze, eyes catching on the sweep of a familiar wine-stained robe. Father Bro?ek.

But the man shifted in her direction, and he was not Father Bro ? ek at all. This man was older, with stark blue eyes and a peppered mustache hanging above his lips.

“The monstrance!” the priest wailed. Anger flushed his face like a ripe peach.

“The host, Father, is it still intact?” A man offered his arm to the priest, and he hobbled to his feet.

Malka paled. She had knocked a priest to the ground. An Ozmini priest. She knew what became of Yahad who fell in the way of Ozmini priests. She clenched her hand against the cold cobblestones, remembering the mangled chop of Minton’s fingers.

The sense of erring still plagued her—this wrongness tight in her ribs. But her mind had cleared from the shock enough to realize what she no longer felt: the cloying reminder of Nimrah’s nearness.

The priest’s gaze softened as he collected the golden box that had tumbled from his hands. It was beautiful. Golden lines sprouted from the dome top and curved around the base of the box in intricate patterns.

Malka was hoisted up by the back of her cloak, the clasp digging into her neck and choking. She tried to pry away the hand that held her, but it was no use. The man’s fingers were twice her size, and they wouldn’t budge.

“It was an accident!” she cried.

The man who had helped the priest to his feet stared at her, his expression hardening. He had sandy blond hair and a deep blue circle cap. His wool habit was the same jeweled blue, and his long neck peeked out of his stiff-hooded scapular. “You’re a Yahadi girl.”

Her accent—it was always her cursed accent.

“Father,” the sandy-haired man continued. “This might not have been an innocent mistake.”

The priest frowned and examined the golden box. “The wafer is still intact. Maybe it was an honest mistake. Or she failed at whatever she attempted.” He eyed Malka’s scraped hands and the cut along her cheek from her fall.

“You may be right,” the man continued. “But leaving her unpunished will show the other Yahad there is not a price to be paid for disobedience. Don’t you think that’s needed at a time like this?”

“This will show an enticement for peace, Brother Asak.”

Brother Asak opened his mouth in objection but closed it obediently. “Of course, Father.”

“Let her go, Ctihodny, ” the priest instructed the man holding Malka tight.

As his grip loosened, Malka sucked in a deep breath and fell to the ground.

Her throat burned; the impression of the clasp was embedded into the skin of her neck.

The sensation reminded her too much of almost drowning in the Leirit.

She dug her hands into the cracks of the cobblestone, feeling it rough against her knees.

“It would be mindful,” the priest said, his tone even, “to walk more attentively.” He motioned for the crowd around them to disperse and continued forward.

Brother Asak trailed behind the priest, but stopped as he crossed Malka, still on her knees. He bent to meet her eyes. He smelled like perfumed flora and smoke and Malka’s skin tingled as he leaned close to her ear. “Where is your rota?”

“My what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not from here, Brother, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Pain ruptured in Malka’s middle as Brother Asak kicked her. “You may have the Kra ? -Yadi accent, but don’t think I’m a fool. Was this a planned act of defiance? Are you another Balkisk puppet?”

Malka shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you think we are fools—that Archbishop Sévren is a fool?”

Another hard kick.

Malka’s breathing trembled as she wrapped an arm around herself. “Is violence what Triorzay demands of you, Brother? To kick a woman already on her knees because she is ignorant?”

“How dare you—”

“Brother, good morning!”

A man only a few years Malka’s elder appeared beside them, with a curly golden beard which gave him all his age. His hair was a shade lighter and fell messily around his frame, cascading from his black hat. He nudged his small, wiry glasses up his nose, which sat round on his angular face.

“Good morning, Odborny, ” Brother Asak responded, annoyed. “Now is not a good time.”

“Actually, it’s a great time. You see, this woman is my betrothed’s cousin. We were supposed to meet at the square, but… well, you know how it is trying to get anywhere on Trader’s Day!”

Brother Asak crossed his arms. “Your betrothed’s cousin, you say?”

He nodded, pointing a thumb in Malka’s direction. “Yes. Coming from out of town. That’s why she’s ignorant of Valonian rules. We planned to sew a badge for her as soon as she arrived, but we couldn’t find her in the crowd. You’ll have to forgive us for our slip up.”

“And why exactly are you here, girl?”

Malka opened her mouth to speak, but the curly-haired man interrupted.

“How could you ask that, Brother, when you know my wedding is around the corner!” He said it teasingly, and Malka wondered how familiar they were to each other. Brother Asak did not look convinced.

“Yes, Brother,” Malka added, playing along. “I’m from the countryside. I’m unaccustomed to the fast-paced nature of the city. I don’t know anything about the Balkisk, I swear.”

Brother Asak’s lips thinned. “Get her a badge, immediately.” He made a face. “And a bath.”

“Of course, Brother. May Triorzay bless you.”

“May Triorzay bless you, Odborny. I will see you at church.”

When Brother Asak disappeared into the crowd, Malka sighed in relief. She regarded the man who had saved her—a scholar she gathered, from the honorific Brother Asak gave him.

“Thank you, Odborny, you did not need to do that,” Malka said, picking herself up from the ground.

“Of course, I did.” He handed her sack to her, which she had dropped in the collision.

His smile fell as he regarded her, eyes darting from the cuts on her cheek to the blood and dirt spattered on her clothing. “My, you look like you have been through it and back again. Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I was separated from my group in the crowd.”

The thought of Amnon alone with Nimrah made her already unsettled stomach churn.

Out of imminent danger, Malka allowed herself to process the unease which struck her.

She could only imagine it as one thing: a symptom of the rooting spell.

It was strange, how Malka could sense Nimrah’s distance.

When they were near, it was cloying, distracting in its potency.

As space between them grew, a queasy malaise took over.

As if she were caught between a battle of waves in a stormy sea, her reaching hands able to grasp nothing but the slithering water.

She recently dared to think about testing the limits of their rooting. Now they’d truly find out. And Malka was beginning to fear she might not survive it.

She swallowed hard. “I have to find them as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” the man said, though his forehead creased. “It’s only, well—I mean you no harm, but others might, if you continue to walk around Valón without a badge.”

Malka’s hand dropped to her side. She winced in pain.

“I live around the corner. Please, my betrothed will be home soon. She’ll be able to sew a badge onto your cloak. Have some tea in the meanwhile.”

Malka bit her lip. Her instinct was to reject his offer and find Nimrah and Amnon as soon as possible. But what good would it be if she kept having run-ins like the one with Brother Asak?

“Only to re-dress my wound and get this rota,” Malka agreed. “Thank you for your generosity, Odborny. ”

“Please, call me Vilém.” He extended his hand.

She shook it. “Malka.”

“Peace and light, Malka,” he said in Kra ? -Yadi.

A smile curled her lips as the familiar greeting put her at ease. “Peace and light. Are you Yahadi, as well?”

“No, but my betrothed is. I have studied the Yahadi language for many years but find the best practice with the language is her witty quips.”

Malka chuckled. “I imagine those are endless. My grandmother used to say Yahadi languages are made for complaining.”

Vilém beamed. “Ha! She will like you.”

Malka had ached to have a normal conversation, to joke and be jovial. A temporary escape from the pressure of Imma’s fate, which rested delicately in the palm of her hand.

Malka examined the crowd around them—the women carrying baskets, the men towing along their market stalls. She did not see a badge among their clothing. Vilém did not wear one, either.