‘And you, Izir?’
Csilla’s breath caught at the quiet in his gaze. They hadn’t discussed what he would say – if his pride would have his last words be in his own defence, or if he had a final prayer.
‘Forgive me,’ he said as he stepped forward. ‘You trusted me, and I used you badly.’ His voice was slightly slurred. Csilla wanted to touch her mark but she couldn’t; the comfort would turn into a beacon. She’d done her part of stealing, mixing, and a little helpless praying. Prayers were still instinctive, even after everything.
The roar that erupted from the crowd was what Csilla had always imagined of the screams of demons at their creation; joy not from the beauty of the world, but sounds of relishing in its ugliness. Violence was an appetite not sated by its like. The more the Church offered, the more the damaged Faithful demanded in turn.
Csilla had to stand on tip-toe to see over the crowd, and even then, shoulders and hats and hair blocked her gaze. Ilan was in place, standing by as Tamas was first led to the centre. If he was perturbed at his role, there was no outward sign. He could have been at service. Attendant and at peace.
Sandor stood to the side, his expression harder to read. The white around his collar was starting to grey with sweat. He could still turn on them. She squeezed her fingers until her ragged nails cut her palms.
An egg hit Tamas square in the chest, a viscous smear dripping from his heart. He blinked and swayed as if the blow had force.
Another egg landed next to Ilan’s shoe, and he looked out at the crowd. The gaze of the wolf was as effective a silencer as the Incarnate’s voice, the curses and screams dying as if he’d grabbed their throats. He slid the noose over and tightened the knot, no tremble in his arms.
Tamas’s knees half-buckled. Mihály bent for the rope, staggering slightly.
Ilan stepped in front of the man, pushing at Tamas’s shoulder.
‘The highest of holies has confirmed this writ sentencing you to death. You may still plead innocent and ask for mercy.’
A show, and the man knew it. There was no mercy for those crimes. He still managed to spit, the glob mixing with thrown rot at the toe of Ilan’s boot.
‘Very well.’ He touched the man’s eyes, not gently. ‘May you see the clear path to your eternal rest.’ His hand moved to the man’s lips, a hard knuckle against his teeth. ‘And may you speak only truth when brought before judgement.’
He pulled the lever.
There was a heartbeat second as the door held firm. Then it snapped and the man dropped, noose catching his neck as he gave a strangled groan. She held her breath for a moment until there was a sharp crack and he seized then went slack. The grim final jig of the hanged, all the more horrific for how the sound echoed the snapping of a chicken’s neck. Even people were just meat and bone in the end.
And now for Mihály.
The blood pounding in Csilla’s ears drowned Ilan’s words, and the second lever went down with a sharp creak.
Angyalka had survived such a hanging and come out wiser. This could also be redemption. They couldn’t have been more prepared. But she still wanted to vomit as he dropped. She watched his expression as he plunged, from resigned to pained. His hands clenched as if to scrabble at the noose, then they stilled.
Bile lurched in Csilla’s stomach as the crowd shrank from the swinging body, giving her an even clearer vision as they parted. Her own breath stilled. His lips were turning blue, eyes bulging beneath the lids. There was no fight in his slack body.
He looked like every other corpse she had ever seen.
We were wrong.
Ilan sliced the rope.
It didn’t give.
We were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong.The line between success and a dead man was hair-thin as it was. With every second Mihály looked more certainly dead, and Ilan’s slices against the fraying rope became more frantic.
Finally the Izir’s body fell through with a thud, crumpling between beams of the framework. Csilla pressed her lips thin as two other inquisitorial priests pulled him out with no more care than they would handle a sack of garbage. Her heart thumped at the chalk-dullness of his face, the stiffness of his lips, but it was out of their hands now.
Tamas was hauled to a cart, Mihály laid on the side of the platform. Sandor stepped mercifully close, partially shielding his body from watching eyes, all the while appearing appropriately sombre.
The Incarnate raised his hand again, his weathered face a beacon of calm. Csilla wished she could have that confidence.Even the smallest pains to creation ground on her, and he could stand before death and smile.
‘Holy judgement has been passed. Our terror has ended,’ he announced. ‘Take the body from our city as we celebrate Their ever-hastening return.’
As she tried to get close to the body cart, she found herself pushed away by others wanting to see him for themselves.You’ve seen enough death, she wanted to say.Go home and hug your loved ones.
But it wasn’t enough. One person ripped off Tamas’s boot, another grabbed at his hand, scratch marks streaking his palm as they pulled him grimly forward. One went for his hair, yanking a fistful of strands and waving them in the air like a thready banner. The guards made no move to stop the desecration as the fevered crowd stole talismans of safety.
