Page 7 of The Maiden and Her Monster

“I prefer to spread my wings than tie myself down.” He raised his brow. “Well, at least in this context.”

“Didn’t you talk about going to Lei?”

Malka squinted. “Where?”

“ Lei, ” Rzepka said again, but slower. “The capital of the Vigary Kingdom?”

Right. Malka didn’t know much about the other kingdoms in the Rha?kan Empire.

Vigary sat too far northeast for local trade and didn’t promise enough specialized materials to warrant the strenuous journey for Eskraven merchants.

Malka only knew the northern cities in the Balkisk Kingdom, including its capital Vy?, as they were closest to Eskravé from the south.

“Maybe I’ll go to Vy? instead,” Aleksi said. “See what the king’s brother is all about. I heard he wears a robe embroidered with human bones. That, I would love to see.”

“I’m sure in Duke Sigmund’s dreams he wears a robe of the king’s bones instead,” Rzepka teased.

“What do you mean?” Malka asked.

Aleksi quirked a brow. “You don’t get out much do you, Malka?”

Malka played with a loose thread on her cloak. “I’ve never left Eskravé.”

In her village, letters addressing political matters went straight to Lord Chotek; any other letters were read to them by a handful of merchants, like Micah, who were literate in the spoken languages. Mostly, though, news traveled by mouth. And rarely did it reach Malka’s ears.

“The king and the duke disagree on many things. Sigmund doesn’t like that the Church plays an important role in the empire.

Valski sees the vitality of keeping God close to the law.

But there is a reason Valski is king, and Sigmund is not.

If Triorzay wills it, it will be true. And Valski’s only son was born a miracle.

You’d be hard pressed to find a clearer sign about who’s right and who’s wrong. ”

Malka scrunched her brows. Separating the Ozmini Church from the empire felt impossible. They had been entwined for generations. The idea of someone as powerful as a duke—the king’s brother, no less—critiquing the Church’s role in politics shocked her.

Most of what Malka knew of imperial politics had come from Chaia. She wished her here now to make her less foolish.

Rzepka swatted Aleksi. “Enough about politics, Aleksi. The poor girl is growing paler with each word you say.”

“Then let’s finish this bottle instead,” He stretched out the wine to Malka again. “Drink, Malka. To celebrate new friends.”

Her head buzzed, a lazy smile decorating her face. The wine had relaxed the ache in her bones, her face flushed warm despite the chill. Malka leaned back on her palms, her legs folded on the snow-damp blanket.

“So, Malka,” Aleksi prompted, drawing Malka out of her languid haze. “The things the Yahad say about the forest.” He stared beyond her to Mavetéh’s impending canopy. “What do you make of them?”

The blood drained from her face, the warm coat of wine fading, causing her to shiver. “Minton spoke the truth.” She recited to them the nursery rhyme Eskraven mothers had created to teach their children of the forest’s curse:

The forest billowed awake, leaves like teeth and blood for sap, and swallowed its first woman whole. Beware the blanket of darkness, for the forest always demands its toll.

“That’s so silly, Malka. A children’s rhyme! If the forest was eating women, I’m sure we’d know. Valón borders the same woods, just on its northern side instead of the south.”

“It isn’t a lie,” Malka responded, wine emboldening her. Imma would surely swat her if she were here. But she couldn’t help her defensiveness.

She thought of Chaia, her death bruised by these Ozmini travelers who denied Mavetéh’s power.

Who could not even speak the language of the village from which they demanded payment.

Her own people, upended by the tragedy of Mavetéh’s souring.

The women whose lives were taken by the same forest that had once given them life.

“It’s hard to tell with you Yahadi people, I must admit,” Aleksi said.

“Why do you say that?” Malka asked.

Aleksi shrugged. “Your Maharal, for example.”

“What about the Maharal?” Now the wine less-so emboldened her, as it did make her queasy.

“What came out about him six months ago…”

Malka shook her head. If the merchants had brought back news, it never got to Malka.

“Huh.” Aleksi kicked around the empty wine bottle with his foot. “Well, a Yahadi woman came to confession with a long-held secret. She had witnessed the Maharal kill an Ozmini bride right before her wedding to use her blood for his spells.”

“He claims he played no part at all,” continued Bori. “But as we Ozmins say, a witness’s eyes tell no lies.”

“When they searched the rabbi’s house, they found her blood bottled in his basement. He was supposed to have a trial, but he fell ill. They’re holding him in Valón Castle while he recovers.”

While the Maharal had not escaped Kefesh’s corruption in his creation of the golem, he himself was never depicted as murderous, not even by Baba—he didn’t steal blood for spells. He was too venerated, too sacred.

But she had learned men could snap like twigs and become something unrecognizable. All it took was a night hunting for the Rayga. Perhaps Mavetéh had lured the Maharal inside its nefarious thickets and changed him like it had Abba.

Only, if what the Order said was true, Mavetéh’s curse had not touched Valón in the same way. She began to pick at the skin on her nail, troubled with this new information.

A breeze riffled through the air. Malka crossed her arms to keep her warmth close, but the sun barely held beyond the horizon, making space for the clouds to pull in the night.

The night. The Rayga’s awakening.

Reality pummeled her.

She stumbled from the ground, palms sinking into the damp earth as she balanced herself, slightly dizzy. “It’s almost dark, we have to leave.”

The three exchanged an impetuous glance.

“So?” Aleksi asked.

Bori elbowed him, understanding dawning. “Ah, remember, Aleksi, the woods will eat us if we don’t!”

“Aleksi, you must understand I am not lying,” Malka pleaded. “We must go.”

He winked again, like he did when she had first caught his eye. “Very forward, Malka.”

“You’re not listening.” She focused on Rzepka. “Please, leave. You have not seen what this monster does to the women it takes. Go back to your tent for the night.”

Rzepka was silent for a moment, eyes darting from Mavetéh to Malka, uncertain.

“I appreciate your concern, Malka. But as you said, this… creature has only taken Yahadi women. We are protected by different Gods, and mine has not let me down yet.”

Malka knew the implication of her words—that Yohev was a false God. It was the same story many Ozmini travelers spread when they remarked on their synagogue. When they criticized the shape of their symbolic flame necklaces.

Rzepka could be stubborn, but Malka wouldn’t. She ran.

She arrived home out of breath and cramping from the wine. Imma was waiting for her, and pulled her close as soon as she crossed the doorframe. Imma’s warm scent of chickweed and spiced honey enveloped her, and a hot tear fell to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry I stayed out so late.” Fear crept its way up her neck, and Malka shook in her mother’s arms.