‘There you are!’
Csilla grabbed the cat despite the claws catching her arm, dropping a kiss on the dirty fur of her head. Erzsébet squirmed, jumping from Csilla’s arms and then twining against her legs as if to say there was no harm done.
A catch rubbed in her throat at the normalcy in this broken place. The cat didn’t know what had happened, save that Csilla was no longer around to slip her dinner. And even that she forgave. Csilla reached to give her another scratch, for a moment absorbed by the illusion of the life she had wanted: meaningful service and her cat.
Bells sang across the city, calling joy in the blue sky. A quick tolling pattern she hadn’t heard in far too long – not horror, but celebration.
Finally.
Asten spoke in whispers, but the Incarnate came with a gale. The gold of his carriage caught the shafts of sun breaking through billowing clouds, tossing off light that people leaning out windows raised their hands to like coin. The hooves of his horses, a gleaming team six strong, cracked against the cobblestone with hammer-strike precision as they approached the cathedral courtyard, and he was followed by a half-dozen of his militant guard, the oddly cheerful jostle of their armour joining the ringing bell choir. It was enough to make anyone believe in a coming judgement.
Csilla stepped back against the stone, watching from behind an outcropping. Prelate Abe was in front of the sanctuary, in his High Day vestments, the billowing robe embroidered with silver thread marks of four and Arany’s golden hands and wings. The picture he made was marred by the dark shadows under his eyes and the weighted slump of his shoulders.
Ilan stood at his right, lips pressed in a thin line. Sandor was on the left, slightly back, equally grim. The horses pulled so close to the stairs Csilla’s breath caught.
The Incarnate stepped from the carriage onto ground that seemed too filthy for his feet. Prelates and Elders were allowed a white on their robes to show how close they were to Brilliance, but the Incarnate dressed in white so bright it hurt to look at,embroidered with silver words of holiness, such a contrast to the scattered dirt stone that he almost appeared to hover. The head above the robes was wizened but strong, grey hair closely cropped and the warm brown shade of his eyes not matched in the judging look in them. He was an image of Church authority that could have easily joined the ranks of painted angels in the cathedral’s heart, and Csilla dipped in a habit-born pointless genuflection.
‘It’s a joyous thing to have you back in the city,’ Abe said, but the Incarnate was eyeing the damage to the Cathedral and Arany’s dry gold. A shamed pang grabbed her chest at the contrast of his gilded splendour and the sorry state of the grounds.
‘A necessary thing, by the look of it.’ His disapproval radiated. ‘Why was I not informed of how much damage there was directly? I had to hear from pilgrims and lay priests from our stops. What is there left for us now?’
Abe and Ilan exchanged a glance, and Csilla bit her lip at the simmering anger there. He would leave them, too, and then there would be nothing. She wrapped her arms around herself, a metallic taste filling her mouth as the nameless ocean washed her again. It was the same sensation of being passed through.
A metal splash echoed, followed by another and another. Abe gave a soft cry of praise as dripping gold beaded on the courtyard, falling from each of Arany’s dozen eyes.
‘She weeps again. Your presence gives us hope, Incarnate. A sign not all has been lost.’
The drops condensed to a puddling sheen on the stone, the clear sky and spires above reflected in perfect gold.
Sandor coughed, and the Incarnate glanced at him, looking between him and Ilan in puzzlement as if seeing for the first time. ‘Who is this new High Inquisitor?’
Abe stilled. ‘You sent him to us, Your Divinity.’
Csilla pressed her hand harder against the wall, leaning forward to hear.
‘I can understand his confusion,’ Sandor said. His voice was placid, no stress on his face. ‘The man I replaced broke his leg near Mitlosk. Word was sent to you, but we decided it was better if someone went than no one at all and far better than waiting the months it would take him to recover, if he did. Was the message missed?’
‘He had your writ, stamped with your mark,’ Abe confirmed.
‘I thought you said you came from the front,’ Ilan said, a trap-hook look in his eyes.
‘It’s certainly near enough the mountains to be considered a front, and one of the most precarious spots at the moment.’ Sandor offered his hand to the Incarnate who inspected the signet ring, twisting it with narrowed eyes. ‘I was on the pressing front two years ago trying to reclaim the southwest, yes. After spending time with the Servants of the Road.’
At this, the Incarnate stepped back with a slight nod.
‘Your face does look familiar.’ It seemed like a lie, if a polite one.
‘It would be an honour if you remember, Your Divinity. There were many of us there.’
Ilan’s gaze found Csilla’s even in the shadows, and she could read the suspicion, though there was nothing to be done for it at the moment. If the Incarnate was satisfied, they could hardly argue.
The Incarnate gave a slow nod.
‘Then let me see the sanctuary. I can pray for your dead while I look over this disaster.’
He entered alone, his faithful guard with their backs to the door as it shut. What would he make of it? Perhaps Asten’s voice would soften the horrors for him, though they wouldn’t for her.Perhaps he had enough experience that he could make sense of the dim nausea that came with enlightenment of the eternal.
She couldn’t get past the guards, but that wasn’t the only way in. She sprinted around the side, to the smaller door where novices carried in the boxes of candles and incense for the altar, an unobtrusive door for the endless menial work that kept the fires of holiness burning.
