‘That’s excessive,’ Ilan snapped. ‘She’s tiny. Ten would be sufficient.’
Csilla glared.Nonewould be sufficient.
‘Inquisitor.’ Ilan gave the title like a curse. ‘If Csilla says she doesn’t know anything, I believe her. Just talking to a former heretic is not a crime.’
Sandor gave him a measured look. ‘Lucky for you.’
The blood drained from Ilan’s face as the man continued.
‘You enjoyed hurting his other followers well enough. She’s no more innocent than they were. And if she won’t talk, you either make her or make her wish she had.’
Csilla shuddered. Her bones were close enough to the skin as it was; he’d whip her to ribbons.
‘That is ridiculous,’ Ilan spat, voice rising. ‘She doesn’t have a soul. It doesn’t matter what she does.’
To her surprise, Sandor didn’t even look askance at that. She narrowed her eyes. Someone had told him about her history, even though she’d left the Church before he came.
Pray that Sandor didn’t see fit to test whether she was still soulless after all.
‘Even if she can’t sin, attempted murder is a crime. She’s our only witness, and you know what to do with witnesses who won’t talk.’ Sandor grinned, flecks of spittle on his teeth as heheld out the whip from his belt, a coiled and braided lash that would make a nasty crack. ‘Even the best hound can’t have two masters. If you won’t do it, perhaps the Prelate would also like to know how you have been leaving the city with the heretic, spending time you should have been with me chasing fancies and this girl. Is she the reason you wanted the whole place to yourself? Certainly clever, though I don’t think the Prelate will think much of you whoring in the cathedral.’
Ilan turned a sick shade of pale, breath short like he’d been punched. Csilla took a deep breath and thought of Arany laying herself out for the world and pouring her blood into the earth. This wouldn’t even kill her. She’d seen Ilan’s kindness, she could bear his cruelty.
‘You’re right. I have listened to heresy. Perhaps I don’t belong here. But you’re not going to get anything out of me but the truth.’
Whatever was done to her wouldn’t be any worse than what she’d already been through, and they still needed Ilan to be above suspicion. They had to stay in the cathedral a little longer. She still needed to touch the Seal. Raising her chin, she glanced at Ilan and prayed he could read her gaze.
‘Beat me, then, if you think it will set this right.’
Sandor looked surprised, a look that deepened as Ilan snatched the whip from his hand, took Csilla’s, and pulled her down the hall.
The inside of the torture chamber was as awful as Csilla had always pictured it, dark and claustrophobic, with a lingering reek of copper and old leather. There were tables and instruments of twisted metal whose purpose she didn’t desire to know. While prayer halls and places of shelter had burned, this room was pristine. What that said about Asten’s inscrutable will was nothing good.
Ilan tossed the whip on a table, and for a moment the fear that had stolen Csilla’s moment of bravery dissolved. He wasn’t going to harm her. Then Sandor walked in, shutting the door like the closing of a tomb.
Ilan took a light wooden cane from the wall, swinging it with easy grace. It whistled as it stung the air.
Csilla clamped her fingers together, trying to press all her shaking into her hands. There were those who put themselves here willingly to cleanse even minor sins. Maybe it would make her feel better. Lighter. Clean.
‘You’re being soft on her,’ Sandor chided.
Ilan brought the cane down in another measured arc. ‘Shall I show you how soft it is?’
Csilla’s eyes darted to the strung ropes and shackles, the short lead he’d used to drag her in when she’d cost him his position in the first place. Then she set her shoulders and breathed the leather-scented air like sacrament. Saints and martyrs had endured far worse than a little beating.
But she wasn’t being punished for her faith. She wasn’t even the point of this. Her body was to be the battleground on which they fought, and Sandor had rigged it to come out the winner whether Ilan obeyed or not.
‘Where would you like me to stand?’ The words came from a dissociated place of calm, untouched by the dread ribboning down her spine.
The only real blessing was that Ágnes would never know about this.
He gestured to the iron bar set out from the wall. She stepped to it and offered him her back, and put her hands up without prompting. The cold metal chafed, and her fingers settled into worn grooves where countless others had stood and accepted gloried pain.
‘Take off her dress.’ Sandor waved down the length of her body. ‘She’s not going to remember it if you hit her through wool.’
She thought Ilan would argue, but he nodded as she clutched the cloth of her overdress.
‘You can leave your linens on if you like.’ He raised a hand at Sandor’s protest. ‘We don’t need to take her modesty, do we? They’re thin enough the blows will feel the same.’
