1
Csilla
There was an art to mercy. It was science, measured in the drops of poppy milk to ease pain, the days a child needed in the womb. It was faith, too. Everything was.
Csilla was as competent at tending the ill as anyone raised as a kindly hand of the Church, but faith was where she excelled. Faith that her service made a difference, despite its ceaseless demands.
Despite the fact that, no matter what she did, the Church would never care. Every time she touched a consecrated chalice or the iron mark of virtues worn by the Faithful and left it dull, she revealed the truth of herself: soulless, and darkly singular for it.
‘How are you feeling?’ Csilla asked, waving Elmere to the unsteady firelight of his hearth, hoping as always that her treatments had finally taken root and there would be no more work here, save a prayer of thanks. But dark-edged lesions still bloomed on his face and neck, and the wool over his elbows and knees had rubbed thin against his swollen joints. Bitter winter was hard on everyone in Silgard, but the old, sick and poor always suffered most.
Every day, new smoke carried the ashes of the dead through the air of the Brilliant City, from those delivered to their makerby illness, or hunger, or battlefront injuries that refused to heal as soldiers died cursing an absent god. It had been over three hundred years since They’d answered any prayers, and Their last response to humanity’s transgressions and pain had been to remove Themselves entirely.
Then there were the other bodies dragged out of the city gates before dawn, bloodless corpses swaddled and bound with ink-smeared strips of knotted scripture.
It’s not for you to worry about, dearest,Elder Ágnes had said when Csilla asked why they weren’t being blessed, and washed and burned.
But worry was the only thing that came as easily to her as care.
The lines on Elmere’s face deepened with a grimace. His teeth were loose against his thin lips.
‘Better than I was.’
Csilla poured blessed water onto fresh linen and dabbed at the open wounds. They did look cleaner, free of pus or crusting edges.
‘Surprised you’re working alone,’ Elmere continued, tilting his chin so she could continue her ministrations. ‘They’ve finally accepted your vows? Do I owe you more deference now?’
But they could both see her overdress was a grim stained colour that could charitably be called off-white, not the deep grey worn for mercy work. Even a Curate, the lowest rank of clergy, would wear the colours of their order of virtue.
Csilla held up her palm, pale and unscarred by the Prelate’s holy knife, and offered a smile she hoped looked less pained than it felt.
‘Not yet. The fevers have everyone busy. Ágnes is just next door.’
‘A treat for me, then,’ Elmere laughed, and Csilla’s smile turned more genuine, her cheeks flushing with the simple pleasure of being seen.
Her patients never minded who their care came from as long as it came with gentleness. Or if they did, they were polite enough not to mention it in her presence.
She pulled a bottle of distilled herbs mixed with just enough of their strongest syrup to blunt any pains from her leather sack, the final piece of today’s mercy. The glass picked up the fire’s glow, becoming almost a lantern as it bent light into the corners of the dim and dusty room.
‘Don’t drink it all at once,’ she cautioned as he eyed the bottle and its liquid hope.
The poppy syrup was almost gone. There were too many suffering, too little in the stores, and no way to get more of the precious pods to milk until the warmer months. She’d exhausted every text they had, cut recipes down to the bone and shaved off further shards in hope of extending them, studied miracles and history and come up with nothing better than that people would die.
But fewer of them than otherwise if she kept to her work.
‘I won’t,’ he promised, hands not stirring from his lap. Odd. Usually he poured a cup and they chatted while she boiled water for hot compresses and fixed up what she could to spare him trouble, sweeping rushes or mending oil-paper windows, and wishing she could give him better. It wasn’t like the Church was lacking.
‘You’re feeling that well?’ She grabbed the rough handle of his iron pot with both hands and heaved it up to the hook over the fire, breath short with the exertion. Being used to the work didn’t make the pots any less heavy.
When she glanced back, Elmere’s face was alight with a strange sincerity, rheumy eyes solemn and lips curved up.
‘What?’ Csilla asked, unable to keep the fondness from her voice. Elmere had been her patient since she was twelve, tolerant of gaping bandages and clumsy adolescent fingers as she learnedthe art of care. Eight years on, and he still sometimes slipped her pieces of rosewater candy on her way out, when he could afford them. ‘You look like you have a secret.’
He touched his lips in acknowledgement, and her skin prickled.
‘I went to see the Izir.’ Elmere’s voice slipped into reverence.
Csilla turned so quickly she bumped the pot, spilled water sizzling to faint mist in the flame. ‘Oh?’
