Page 39 of The Maiden and Her Monster

The merchants outfitted the streets with the vibrant colors of their goods. Wood trinkets painted with every color dye, silk scarves glistening in the rare glimpse of sun. Piles of fruits and vegetables balanced precariously in wooden baskets, shaded by a marketer swatting flies away and grumbling.

Malka’s eyes caught on a wood-framed portrait. It was a detailed rendering of a man striding confidently on his horse, garbed in slate-colored armor, holding a string of gilded prayer beads. On this merchant’s cart were several depictions of the same man.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“That’s King Manek,” Nimrah whispered close to her ear, face barely visible beneath her cloak. Her skin heated where Nimrah’s breath touched. “King Valski’s father and the Holy Imperial Leader.”

“Is it common to have a painting of a king in your home?”

Nimrah chuckled. “He’s romanticized. When he ruled, Ordobav became more powerful than it had been for centuries.

More people could afford to travel to the southern silk market and buy finery.

He founded the University of Valón—the first in the kingdom.

Elders miss that time, and have taught their children to miss it, too, even though they didn’t experience it. ”

Malka considered that. How it slotted into her own stories of Valón’s greatness.

They passed another vendor, their cart draped with furs. It reminded Malka of the Eskraven traders who would buy them in bulk for Eskravé’s shektal market. She scrunched her brows. “Chaia, how did no Eskraven merchants see you at all the past year?”

Chaia’s mouth dipped into a weak frown. “I was encouraged to purposefully hide from them, so I stayed home the days the Eskraven merchants came. Their visits had become so infrequent, I should’ve known something was wrong. I didn’t—”

The full-bodied roar of a horn pierced the air, drawing the attention of the street.

Malka expected to see a knight or an announcer, but it was just a man standing on an empty cart, forehead gleaming with sweat, instrument held to his mouth.

“Hajek is dead!” he proclaimed. “They’ve killed him!”

In the space of a breath, the man was knocked to the ground by a guard, then hounded by another. As more people ran to him, the less Malka could see.

A hand wrapped around her arm. “Come on,” Chaia said, her previous thoughts forgotten. “We need to hurry.”

In one last look back at the brawl, she saw red.

“What was that?” Amnon asked once they spilled into the shop Chaia carted them into. “Who is Hajek?”

“He’s a reformer. A preacher. He used to teach with Vilém at the university before he was expelled for his critique of the Church’s collection of indulgences.”

“And now he’s dead?”

“It would seem that way.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Nimrah added.

“I can’t say that I am.” She motioned to them. “Come, I’ll explain.”

The dress shop was filled with layers and layers of fabric covering every wall. Protruding from the corner, a roaring hearth with bubbling cauldrons. Tinctures of berries and flowers littered a worktable, most likely used for dyes. Clasps and needles were thrown haphazardly around the tinctures.

“You don’t have to hide yourself here, Nimrah,” Chaia said.

With a short nod, Nimrah lifted the hood of her cloak, her hair streaming out like a gush of spilled ink.

“Hello?” a voice called, appearing from behind a curtain. To Malka’s surprise, it was the same blonde woman she had spoken with at the tavern.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” she said, taking in the four of them.

“Katarina, these are my friends—Malka, Amnon, and Nimrah. Katarina is Balkisk, but she has lived here the last four years. Her family runs this shop. She’s a tailor.”

The woman—Katarina—smiled. “We’ve met.” Now that Malka knew she was Balkisk, the lilt of her Alga-Bak accent felt obvious.

Chaia raised her brow.

“At Bogumir’s tavern,” Katarina explained. “Merely a coincidence.”

She pivoted toward Nimrah. “I had a suspicion about you, golem. Though I was not here before your banishment, so I was not sure.” Katarina did not seem at all frightened or distressed by Nimrah’s presence, merely enthused.

“Did you hear about Hajek?” Chaia interrupted.

Katarina nodded grimly. “Some of the messengers came in early this morning to fix the tears in their trousers. Apparently, he was burned at the stake by the Council of Cussot in Agamere.”

Agamere was not part of the Rha?kan Empire, but King Valski had married an Agamerian Queen, cementing the relations between the bordering territories.

“The Council of Cussot?” asked Amnon. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“They are the same religious council that helped to settle the papal schism a decade ago by electing a single pope.” Chaia motioned behind the same curtain from which Katarina had appeared. “Come, we have more to show you.”

“The Church has never quite recovered from the schism,” Chaia said, sparing them a glance as she led them down a narrow hallway, Katarina in front. “After a hundred years of multiple popes vying for the position and denouncing each other in the process, Church rule has lost legitimacy.”

They approached the end of the hallway, marked by an antiquated wooden door with a lock system stuck in the past. “Are you sure, Chaia?” asked Katarina.

“I trust them with my life.”

“Okay then,” Katarina slipped a key from her pocket and opened the door.

The room was shockingly large given the narrowness of the hallway.

A small slit of a window lined the back wall, ensconcing them from view to anyone ambling the streets and providing the barest strip of light.

The lanterns were already ablaze when they entered.

Katarina must’ve been here when she heard them arrive.

In the center of the room stood a long wooden table as cluttered as the one in the shop. Only this one with papers and books, not tinctures and needles.

“What is this place?” Malka asked.

“It’s an old meeting room for the Qehillah, but it was left abandoned under King Manek’s rule when they moved to the current municipal building,” answered Katarina.

“Feel free to sit, Amnon,” she said, motioning to the table. He nodded, resting his cane against the back of the chair. As he sat, his attention drew to one of the open letters. His brow dipped and he scowled. Like Malka, Amnon couldn’t read any language but the ancient Yahadi script.

“Does the Maharal know about this?” Nimrah asked, taking in the room. She bent close to a substantial piece of parchment affixed to the wall. Whatever she read made her lips thin.

“Who do you think kept it up all these years?” Katarina said with a wicked smile.

“The rabbi knows better than most that Ordobav is on a precipice of change. The last decade or so, he spent a lot of time traveling around the empire and throughout the border cities of Agamere talking with religious leaders and feudal lords to understand the shifting opinions of Church rulership.” She seized a book from the table and flipped through some pages, tipping it toward them so they could see the scribble of the Maharal’s handwriting. “He documented everything.”

“You didn’t know about this?” Malka asked Nimrah.

“I knew he travelled,” Nimrah responded with a scowl. “But he did not confide in me with this.”

Malka had a strange desire to wipe away the crease between Nimrah’s brows with her thumb.

Chaia pointed to a map nailed to the wall, decorated with many ink circles that resembled the spots on dairy cattle. “We’ve kept track of Hajek’s movements. Where he preaches, to whom. He’s had a lot of success in Vigary and Balkisk.”

“Is that because of Duke Sigmund?” Malka recalled his robe of bones and the strife between him and King Valski.

“The duke is not a radical,” Katarina answered, “but he does see the disfunction of the Church as a practical issue. He doesn’t care how the Church oppresses, only that the lack of legitimacy the schism has garnered devalues the power and wealth of the empire.”

“What’s the purpose of all this, Chaia?” Amnon asked, fingers tapping anxiously on the table. “Not all of us have a scholar husband to teach us the ways of politics.”

Chaia’s gaze drifted toward the rota embedded into her cloak. “How ugly is this patch?” She disrobed, throwing it with disgust onto the back of a chair. “I’d rather a bullseye painted on my back. At least then I’d know the arrow would always strike true.”

She cut across the room and picked up a scroll from the far end of the table.

“Each new ordinance, each demarcation or rule the Yahad have to follow. That’s how you know they’re afraid.

When we hold sway, we become threats. Something other than human, like a stain to be scrubbed clean.

The Maharal is not the first prisoner they have taken unfairly.

It’s been happening for years. We’ve been keeping track.

” She unrolled the parchment, revealing a grid of lines filled with words.

Names, most likely. “Everyone who advocates for the Yahad, or holds any sway with Valski, ends up a target. They suddenly become thieves or corrupt patrons.”

“Sévren orchestrated the Maharal’s arrest,” Nimrah said, studying the paper intently. “I’m sure of that.”

Malka stared at each scroll, each book, each feather dripping ink onto the table. The stories had always illustrated Valón as a sanctuary, somewhere the Yahad could go to escape persecution. These papers chronicled a much different tale.

“Manek’s rule left Ordobav strong, and Valón a prominent actor in the empire. But Ordobav remains the papacy’s strongest connection. If Ordobav begins to sway away, the Church will have no stronghold left in Rha?ka. There’s an opportunity for real change here.”

Chaia pointed to the door. “That outcry we saw? That isn’t new. People are losing faith in the Ozmini Church. No one is happy in Valón, especially with the Mázág sickness worsening. The Church cannot save them from the disease. It cares about no faith.”