‘If I could.’ The clarity in her voice, the strength of that truth, surprised even her. ‘I would not see a single person beyond Brilliance or damn any soul. But that isn’t my forgiveness to give.’ Her eyes met Mihály’s, a warmth diffusing through her at the sweetness there. ‘Only this.’
‘You’re very right, my dear.’ Mihály moved to the front of the cell and spoke, loud enough that the man down the hall could hear. ‘As for Tamas... the bastard will hang with me.’
36
Ilan
Ilan knew precision. It was the difference between a shattered rib and a pierced lung, a gouge that would serve as a lesson learned and a fatal arterial stab. It had never mattered as much as now.
The rope chafed his fingers, splintered straw scraping Mihály’s chest and just strong enough to catch and stop him from his neck being snapped. Not enough to stop him from being strangled. But there would be a few minutes of graced time as he was cut, and the drink prepared would make his muscles lax. It was the same principle that made him not want to work on drunks; their bodies always took too pliantly to torture. At least this was a benefit.
‘You don’t look nearly as pleased as I thought you would.’ Mihály winced as Ilan wrenched the rope more firmly, testing the hook that would take the pressure and keep his neck from snapping. ‘I thought this was your idea of fun.’
Ilan tugged a knot into place, and gave it an extra pull for good measure, if only to see Mihály buckle and whine. ‘You’re not acting like a man who is about to die. A little respect, please.’
‘Maybe die,’ Mihály corrected as he righted himself.
‘Hopefully not, but no one else knows that. Try to look afraid.’ He held out the plain brown sackcloth robes of the condemned,the same ones Servants of the Road wore to keep knowledge of death in the forefront of the mind. ‘Here, put this on.’
‘Even if I do die,’ Mihály said as Ilan turned and listened to the smooth rustle of clothing being discarded. ‘I don’t have to worry. You can look, you know, I’m not particularly modest.’
‘Saints, you can’t stand to not have attention on you for a moment?’
But when Ilan turned again, he had redressed. The robe barely hung past his knees, his bare feet knobby and oddly vulnerable.
‘Before I go, is there anything you would like to confess? Properly this time. In case something goes wrong.’ His voice scratched on the words. Perhaps he didn’t actually want to see the other man die. A very small perhaps.
‘Confess? You’ve heard all of it by this point. But I do want to apologise.’ There was something like sincerity in those amber-brown eyes.
Ilan crossed his arms. ‘I’m listening. Or was that the whole of the apology?’ It would be rather like Mihály to sum the whole thing up in a vague hand-waved statement, let others fill in the absolving details.
‘I could have been less annoying. I could have thought, for one blasted second, before jumping into dark magic. That’s a big one. And I’m sorry for what I said about Csilla. You were right that she deserves better.’
‘I’m glad you can see that now.’ Ilan turned, eyes darting to the door. Without pretence or armour, too much of Mihály stirred sympathy. He and Csilla had both been badly used.
‘Do I get a final request?’ A teasing note had returned, and Ilan’s irritation with it.
‘A drink? I’m going to say no. You’ll get put out hard enough with whatever Csilla is making. Be patient.’ He certainly understood the desire; even he was tempted to blunt theknowledge of what they were doing. But the plan was risky enough without adding other intoxicants into the mix.
‘A kiss.’
‘A what now?’
So the man couldn’t even be reasonable for the night before his supposed execution. Ilan looked back, and Mihály caught him by the shoulders. Before he could move, the Izir bent forward and kissed him lightly on his cheek, at the corner of his mouth.
Soft, and warm, and not nearly as terrible as he would have expected, even with the scratch of his beard. It had been a lifetime since his few awkward teenage romps, well before he’d taken vows, and though he knew he should want to bite, he didn’t. Much. It had a feeling of finality, even more than his apology.
Ilan scrunched his nose, hoping the heat on his face wasn’t visible in the low light. ‘You’re awfully pushy for someone whose life is in my hands.’
‘I trust you. I’m showing you that.’ Mihály’s eyes turned distant. ‘And if it does go wrong, you will take care of her, won’t you?’
He’s not planning on coming out of this, Ilan realised. No matter what he told Csilla. It was a stupid waste, noble and horrific all in one.
Still, Ilan nodded. ‘I never intend to do anything else.’
Mihály gave a wry smile, one corner of his mouth turning up.
‘You’re in love with her.’
