Page 65 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Sévren sneered. “You think you are the only people with mysticism? That only you can turn prayer into magic? No one owns magic or the way we extract it from the earth.”

There were many faiths with magic, Malka didn’t deny that.

But he had not erected it from his faith.

He had stolen it from hers. Even having read the Maharal’s scrolls, he misunderstood Kefesh.

It was not about sacrifice, not about the drawing of blood.

He bled and bled, and all it made him was sick.

“It is sacred to us,” Malka retorted. Despite the cuff of Nimrah’s hands around her wrists, she drew her knuckles into fists.

“I am the archbishop. Sacred belongs to me, and the Ozmini Church,” Sévren rebuked.

Malka attempted to hide her look of disgust. “So, you got what you wanted from her. Let Nimrah go.”

Behind her, Nimrah shifted.

I want no memory of you, Malka had spat.

She wished she could take it back. She wished so many things.

Sévren brought a hand to his abdomen and hissed in pain.

His sickness was worsening, the Kefesh rejecting him.

When he recovered, he said, “Oh, Malka. That was only the beginning. It is not only important for the Ozmins to see how the Yahad pose a threat to the continuation of the Ozmini line, but for the Yahad to see they are truly better off—they will be safer and more prosperous—if they convert. How do you change a person’s belief?

You take what they worship and make it a lie. ”

“Belief is not meant to be wielded as a political weapon.”

“Then why is it the most powerful sword, and the sharpest knife?”

She wanted to rip his fingers from his hand, pull vines from the walls and tangle his neck in their grip. But she could not command Kefesh, still. She hated him for manipulating her people’s magic when she could not even use it. Hated him in a way she had hated no one before.

The archbishop coughed and blood splattered into his palm. It did not seem to faze him. “Do you know why I cut off the Maharal’s hands?”

Sévren sauntered toward the gears and observed them.

His eyes were soft, as if he were gazing at an altar and not the Orlon clock.

“I’m not as naive as to think the Maharal would not find a way to command Kefesh again without the use of his hands.

I did not do it to stop him. I did it because I knew what others would think.

What they would say. They would lose hope.

They’d see the Maharal, crippled, and think if not even the great Maharal gets the grace of your God, there’s no hope for anyone else. ”

“You failed,” Malka said. “Because people still have hope.”

“Perhaps. But not for long.”

“Not if I stop you.”

Sévren guffawed. “I am not your enemy. Like you, my faith shapes me. It decides what I do, how I act, and the way I look at the world. It is my duty to protect that faith. You understand, don’t you? The need to protect your faith?”

“Faith is not an excuse for violence, or a shield to justify yourself. Do not speak of faith like it is a means to an end.”

He put a hand to his chest. Blood stained his robes right above his heart. “You are telling an archbishop what it means to have faith?”

“I am telling a man he cannot hide behind his faith. What is your goal, Sévren?” Malka asked plainly. “Even if you did destroy the Yahad’s faith, it would not cease the papacy’s failure to keep its hand in politics. You cannot stop a wave that is bigger than this city, than this kingdom.”

“That is where you are wrong. The plague has rattled this kingdom, turning people away from our guiding hand. We used to be revered, a beacon of hope and direction for the Ozmini people. Until we could not stop them from dying.”

“It is not the fault of the Ozmini people that you allowed your tithe funds to be spent on revelry and indulgence for your inner circle. You cannot blame your fall from grace on nature.”

Sévren snarled, making him look more animal than human. “And you’re sure it is nature that caused this plague? Because I do not think you nor I believe that.”

Nimrah’s hands had begun to shake again.

“With Ev ? en’s death, there is room for a new ruler. The people want someone to save them, and it is meant to be me. I am the one who learned how to command the earth, I am the one who can shape the future of this kingdom.”

Sévren dug his fingernail into his skin again and whispered.

When he finished, blood dripped from his nose and the corner of his eye.

He wiped at his face with his fist, but it only smeared the blood.

He brushed his hands along his robes and sat in one of the wooden chairs.

He settled into it like a throne, hands curling around the curved wood of the armrest.

Nimrah freed Malka from her grasp. Malka swiveled around, only to be met with Nimrah’s face of anguish as she drew the axe from the sling on her back. It trembled in her hand.

Malka’s eyes widened. She held out her newly unbound hands to protect herself, though she knew it was useless. Nimrah had been commanded.

If anyone could tear her from her commands … it would be you. Chaia had said it so certainly when they had made this plan. But she didn’t see Nimrah’s eyes now—black like the cavities of the teeth they used for their games of split tooth.

A horn echoed from outside, and Malka’s stomach flipped. They were ready. Malka wasn’t.

“This is not you—I know that,” Malka said, though her voice wavered.

Nimrah swung the axe.

Malka sank to the floor to avoid the blow. Pain shot up her arms as she landed awkwardly. She had no time to recover before the axe swung at her again. Malka rolled out of the way, a few curls of hair falling to the floor where the axe had managed to cut.

The axe clattered to the floor and vines burst from the stone walls. Nimrah called them closer with the flick of her hands, and they slithered to Malka until they wrapped around her ankles and wrenched her quick and hard into the wall with a thud.

Malka blinked away the hazy spots covering her vision and put a hand to her head, which pulsed with pain. It came away red and sticky. She tried to stand but could not escape the grasp of the vines.

Nimrah put the heel of her shoe onto the blade of the axe and slid it closer to Malka, as if willing her to take it.

Malka didn’t have time to question the move as Nimrah stalked toward her.

She wrapped her hands around the axe’s hilt.

It was awkward to hold and reminded Malka of their sword fight in Mavetéh.

How the length of the weapon made the weight unbalanced.

The axe was lighter than the sword though, and Malka garnered the strength to send the blade through Nimrah’s vine, freeing herself.

The room spun as Malka ran from Nimrah, though there was not much room to escape. If she fled to the balcony now, everyone would see Nimrah’s attack.

Nimrah caught her, slamming her back against the wall. The axe was between them, blade held at Nimrah’s neck.

“Do it, Malka,” Nimrah said, her voice fierce. “I want you to. I will never be able to live with myself if I end your life. Plague me. Burn me. Strike me dead. But do not make me do this.”

Malka was reminded of the attic. Nimrah’s hands tight around hers as she pressed the dagger to her neck.

Malka had spent so much time blaming Nimrah for the destruction she had caused.

But Nimrah had been created to fight unjust violence—the type of violence Sévren held in his hands—with just violence.

What were the other ways they could survive in their faith?

They could not play into the hands of the Ozmini Church.

Change had to be seized, torn from hands that held power tight.

If anything, Nimrah was a symbol of hope.

A symbol of what it meant to keep a faith alive.

To protect a people who held their beliefs close despite the violence.

Who still had hope even when the world kicked them down.

She was made to give the Yahadi people what they deserved—a try at peace, a try at life.

Maybe Malka needed to let herself take part.

Let Nimrah be a sign of hope for her, too.

Maybe she could admit to herself Nimrah was important to her.

She had to survive and let what they had mean something.

“You once told me the story of your creation—how the Maharal made you to be a monster. To be violent. I had called you a monster, too. But I was wrong. I didn’t understand monstrosity then. You’re more than the commands etched into your skin.”

Something flashed in Nimrah’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and Nimrah tossed her to the ground.

Malka lost her grip on the axe and Nimrah seized it. She held the blunt end toward Malka, who dove before the handle could crush into her chest, pressing instead into the meat of her thigh. She grunted.

Nimrah rotated the axe blade-first and pressed it toward her, pinning Malka’s injured leg with her knee. Malka held Nimrah’s wrists, hands trembling violently from pushing against the weight of Nimrah’s blow.

Malka was not strong though, and soon her skin gave way to the blade, unfurling like a flower.

A gush of heat, a flash of red. The sharp pain seized her from head to toe.

Nimrah’s wrist moved with the axe, and Malka caught a glimpse of the words written into her arms. On the stone, the command which had once tied her to Malka.

On the flesh, the command which allowed the archbishop control.

So many commands on Nimrah’s body. Malka thought of Tzvidi’s story, of the dangers of Kefesh’s corruption. She thought of how the shalkat crawled into the Seefa Narach and changed the lettering of the prayers to become something different—something opposite to its intention.