Page 64 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Is Malka separated from the group, the irony of the situation smothered her like midwinter’s dense, blanketed snow.

Every week, Abba and the other village men would take their weapons and hunt for the Rayga.

Malka would hope each time they left they’d come back with the Rayga’s head on the tip of their blades.

If the Rayga was killed, the forest would stop taking girls.

The plague on their village would end. It was so simple to her—an unquestionable fact, like the sun rising every morning.

Now, there was a manhunt for Nimrah, the Rayga, not so different from the ones she had wanted to succeed.

Yet Malka now found herself on the other side of the hunt, hoping they wouldn’t find her. Hoping Malka could save her first.

Out of breath, Malka reached Ordobav Square again. It was empty, save for the discarded masks and decor which lay forgotten on the ground. Though his body had been removed, Ev ? en’s blood still stained the dais.

She stared at the clocktower, searching for its entrance.

Finding a narrow stone door carved into the side of the building, Malka hoisted it open.

The door groaned, revealing a plain entryway to a spiraling staircase.

It was narrow with uneven stone. She tripped once, barely catching herself before she got hurt.

By the time she neared the top, she was heaving, the layers of her skirts sticking to her with sweat. In front of her, the wooden door was already cracked open, candlelight spilling onto the stairs.

As she entered, she studied the room. It was about twice the size of Chaia’s kitchen, which was bigger than she had expected.

But it made sense; the workers would need a large area to comfortably tinker with the clock and carry their supplies.

Metal tools and wooden beams littered the floor, abandoned by the workers for the holiday.

Above her, a lattice of metal beams held up the clock construction.

Along the back wall, which hid an alcove, were two rickety wooden chairs.

Malka wondered how many men worked on the clock each day with an apparatus so intricate.

The clock was grander up close, spanning the entirety of the front wall. The colored glass washed the room in blue, green, and orange light.

The gear’s inner workings stole Malka’s breath.

The hands shifted, gears grating rhythmically as the minutes pushed over the hour too fast to be accurate.

The gears were hulking, rugged pieces, interlocking in more circular patterns than Malka could count.

They ticked loud, in time with the racing of her heartbeat.

She noted the beams which led to the clock’s balcony.

On the wall to the right of the clock was a small window. It brought a soft breeze into the already freezing room. Without a hearth, the tower was icy, and Malka’s breath plumed in the air.

“Nimrah?” Malka called out while she searched for the bell. She scanned the walls and the ceiling until she caught sight of a dangling rope hanging through the roof near the window.

That was it.

She called out for Nimrah again.

“Malka?” Nimrah emerged from the shadow of the back alcove, her eyebrows tight with worry. The axe she had wielded earlier was now slung across her back. “What are you doing here?”

Malka relaxed as Nimrah approached, her breath slowing and heartbeat settling. “Trying to find you. Trying to find Sévren. Is he here?”

“Yes, Malka, but—”

At Nimrah’s confirmation, Malka sprinted to the bell and pulled on the rope once.

Then twice. Though the Yahadi man had said it was not a heavy bell, it had rusted from disuse and took all of Malka’s weight to ring it.

The clang of the bell echoed through the tower, shaking some of the rocks loose from the compact stone.

She hoped it was loud enough for them to hear.

Nimrah’s hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her away from the bell. “What the hell are you doing? You need to leave before he—”

“You always find yourself in places you don’t belong, don’t you, Yahadi girl?”

Nimrah’s hand tightened around Malka’s wrist. The cool, sharp stone of it tingled against her smooth skin.

Sévren appeared from the same alcove. Guile painted his face like holy water, his age lines pressing against his forehead with the raise of his eyebrows. But he was breathing heavily, like each inhale was a laborious and painful task.

“Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t expect you to come.” He cocked his head at Nimrah. “Just as she came for you at my palace.”

“Leave her out of this,” Nimrah demanded, her hand trembling so slightly, Malka would not have noticed if not for Nimrah’s iron grip.

“Oh, I can’t do that, Nimrah. Not after you embarrassed me that day in the courtyard.”

Sévren hiked up his sleeve, revealing the mangled skin of his forearm.

Malka’s intuition had been right.

The skin was inflamed where he had carved, dried blood revealing the shape of Yahadi letters. He drew his pointed fingernail along an unscathed section. The pale scratch lines bloodied as the flesh peeled away, clotting deep purple under his nails.

Her scabbed shoulder began to itch where those same nails had been.

When he began to whisper under his breath, Malka pinched her brows together. What was he—

Next to her, Nimrah hissed. She jolted Malka forward with the hand on her wrist. Malka cried in pain as Nimrah twisted her arm, securing both of Malka’s hands behind her back. Capturing her.

Nimrah’s cloak shifted and Malka caught a glimpse of a new mangled word on her forearm—the only one etched onto her skin instead of stone. One, she imagined, Sévren had carved.

She stared at the archbishop’s arm, swelled red from his lacerations.

He smiled sardonically. “Do you like what I can do? I must thank you for solving this little puzzle for me. I had always wondered how the Maharal had given orders to his golem. I thought, from reading his research, one had to be the master of the golem to command it. But no, it’s as simple as carving into its skin. ”

So, he didn’t know about the rooting. Didn’t know how easy Malka had made it for him, leaving Nimrah rootless and vulnerable.

She bit the inside of her mouth, attempted to even her breathing.

Blaming herself wouldn’t fix anything now.

Luring Sévren to the balcony would. But Nimrah’s grip on her was too tight, her wrists growing sore as the blood flow to them slowed.

She had time, she reminded herself. Until she heard the blow of a ram’s horn from the Yahad below, she had time.

“You commanded Nimrah to kill Ev ? en. Why?” she pushed. “I thought he was like a son to you.”

Hurt crossed Sévren’s face, which had grown exceptionally pale after his command, almost sick looking.

Sweat now trickled above his lip. His eyes gaunt.

“He was. And I will treasure his memory. But this was bigger than any of us. He wanted the life Saint Celine gave him to have meaning. If that meant his life had to be taken, so be it. We are not the arbiters of our own fate.”

“How does it help you if he is dead? I heard you in his study. You said you needed him. That it was up to him to keep the future of Valón in the Valski line. Now, that line is over.”

“Ah. That’s always the problem with eavesdropping, isn’t it? You hear pieces not meant for your ears and assume you understand the full picture.”

Nimrah’s warning brushed against her ear. Malka ignored it.

Sévren’s sleeve fell back over his carvings. The blood seeped through, soiling the fabric. Something was not right about it—the way his skin rebelled against his commands. Why he had carved so many.

“Rulers and lineages come and go. They are overthrown, they die off. The one thing that has been constant over many years is the rule of the Ozmini Church. The strength the religion has had in guiding us into a new age. Valón is Valón because of the Church. Without Triorzay and the Church as His messenger, we would not be as prosperous. As revered.”

Malka shook her head. “The Ozmini Church’s control over politics is at its end. People no longer wish for the type of empire it has created. A stratified one, a corrupted one.”

“They have gotten inside of your mind.” His signature smile again, though it wavered at the corners.

Beads of sweat gathered at the crown of his forehead.

“Hajek. Sigmund. They’ve manipulated you with sweet words you wished to hear, but you’re naive if you think they don’t have their own interests. ”

Was this so new to her? Chaia had said herself the duke thought more of the empire’s strength than the equality of its people. These reformers were not saviors, only politicians.

“Maybe,” Malka conceded. “But people don’t want—”

“They do not know what they want!” Sévren shouted, his face reddening. He collected himself, breathing deep before he continued. “They need to remember who has been keeping them safe, what has given them the life they have built.”

Malka recalled Sévren’s hands firm on Ev ? en’s shoulders, how he held his fate above him as a constant reminder.

“You made Ev ? en a martyr. You wanted everyone to see his violent death. You wanted them to see it was Nimrah who killed him. She stared at Sévren’s stained sleeve. “All the while you were carving commands into Nimrah’s skin to do your dirty work.”

“He made his own choices. When you are born from a miracle, it weighs on every decision you make.” The archbishop’s cheek ticked, his eyebrows furrowing in distress.

“Sacrifice is the ultimate way to show commitment to your faith, to the life it has given you. It is how we all get into Vasicati. Saint Celine saved him from a death that would’ve taken him before his life even began.

This was how he furthered that miracle, by giving up his life for the greater good of the Ozmini religion. ”

“So, you took a power that wasn’t yours.”