There were luckily a few older boxes, half-cracked and dirty, that could be pushed around in a show of cleaning. It would be less suspicious to be caught than to confront. As far as she knew he hadn’t laid direct eyes on her since she was a small and confounding thing, unlikely to recognise the young woman in grey fruitlessly trying to repair what was better thrown out. With a quiet apology to whoever had carried over the box in the first place, she picked it up and let it drop.
The wood splintered with a sharp crack and crash, and she braced herself as quick footsteps marched toward her. There was a startled violence in his eyes – she hadn’t considered the reaction a man newly back from war would have to a crash. But it softened.
‘Ah, a mercy girl. I didn’t think anyone was here.’
Csilla smiled, clenching her hand so there was no chance of him seeing the crossed cut.
‘Your Divinity.’ She took a deep breath, ready to confess, even if she couldn’t readily explain. With all of Asten’s grace behind him, he would know what she was, and what could be done. It would be wonderful to pass over some responsibility and feel less burdened. ‘I—’
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘There’s no work for you here. I need to survey the damage, not have it repaired. I have asked to be alone.’
The voice should be telling him to go to the Seal. They should be telling him who she was and why she was here. She waitedfor the light of recognition in his face, but all that came were further creases of impatience between his brows. He was a hair’s breadth from calling his guards, and there would be no hiding then.
‘I’m sorry, Your Divinity, but I have to show you.’ She reached out, but when small hands touched weathered ones, the Incarnate pulled back like she was something noxious. There was no spark of acknowledgement, much less divine fire. Her mouth only tasted of old spit, her skin only warm with the layers of wool.
He didn’t know her at all.
‘If you want a blessing, there are other ways to get it. Do you not understand what a dire situation we are in? If I took time for every single person’s individual prayers, I’d be here a thousand years and we’d be no closer to glory.’
Explanation of her miracles, already stuttering, died on her tongue. Csilla swallowed, hiding her expression with a bow. She wanted to say nothing, but it would be a lie. She was alight with everything, painful as it was. She couldn’t say it was nothing.
‘I can tell you’re new to this, so have faith. The city is suffering, but there is meaning behind it. We will overcome this, and be stronger.’
Her mouth twisted. That was what people always said when there was nothing they could do.
The platitude was another piece of dry kindling in her newly formed kiln of deep anger, and she opened her mouth when fresh commotion outside caused them both to turn.
Mihály. And Tamas beside him, not fighting, not speaking. He looked frighteningly calm for a man being brought for a trial he would never be able to defend himself in, looking at his pupil as proud as a father at his child’s first recitations.
Csilla’s heart skipped at the wrongness. Of everyone here, she was the only one who seemed afraid.
‘Who are you? Who let you in?’
Mihály’s smile was cutting as he placed a single hand on the plated door frame. There was no shift at first, but a shiver passed over and through Csilla, deep and cool and picking at the oldest-laid blessings of the Church. An answering glow ringed him in silver, pure as morning light and a painful contrast to his grim expression.
The Incarnate sucked in a breath.
‘You’re the Izir who has been causing so much trouble. I thought you were dead.’
‘Well, it’s a very good thing I’m not,’ Mihály said, pushing Tamas to stumble over the threshold. ‘I’ve just answered your prayers. This is the man who organised the fall of the city.’
Csilla waited for Tamas to speak up and say that Mihály was the man whose hands did the dirty work. He remained quiet, which was worse.
‘And you think this buys you pardon?’ The Incarnate shook his head and raised his hand.
Freshly drawn blades gleamed behind their backs as the guards strode in and surrounded them.
Mihály’s eyes found hers, widened and wild, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t let herself be seen by Abe, or defend Mihály and condemn herself. Guilty and sick, she turned and fled back through the small door as the Incarnate’s order echoed.
‘Arrest them both.’
34
Ilan
The Izir had accepted his imprisonment with uncharacteristic quiet. Ilan could see the weight of the truth Csilla had dragged out in the press of shadows on his cheeks and the sag of his shoulders. Wilting didn’t suit him.
