A few moved towards Mihály, wanting bodily tokens or a sliver of their own vengeance, torn flesh for torn flesh.
The hanging was supposed to quell their violence. Csilla’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird in her chest. She stepped back, foot finding a rotten potato peel and nearly coming out from under her.
Stop. She edged backward to the fringes of the crowd, pressing against the wall of the cathedral.
The air thickened, suddenly hot and humid, droplets beading on her skin. Violet-tinged clouds rolled across what had been perfect sky, and drenching rain came down as if buckets were being freshly dumped. Electricity like the sizzle before a lightning spark danced on her skin, transformative and keen.
The Incarnate bent for Mihály, and a flash cut through the air, sending him stepping back. The light didn’t stop. It danced between the onlookers, not burning, only bouncing and sparking.
As she stepped away from the platform, her eyes caught on water pooling on the stone, glinting with rain-diluted gold. Arany was weeping, not just a few drops, but a stream of tears.
Good. She should weep to see what they were doing to her kin. What her Church had become.
Sandor gestured to Csilla, and she pulled her head covering further to shadow her eyes.
She could see the signs of life in Mihály. Or at least that’s what she told herself. The eye twitch was life, not a final spasm. That his skin was not quite so pale, the bruises darkening to the colour of browning apple on his throat no sign of anything permanent.
Sandor wasn’t looking at Mihály. He watched the cart with Tamas’s body leave, ready to be dumped for the Servants he’d once found a home with. Maybe there would be someone he knew, and he could be sat for. That would be a mercy that even Csilla couldn’t offer.
The Prelate and Incarnate stood before the body and Csilla bent forward, hoping to look awed. When she glanced up through her eyelashes, Abe’s look was knowing.
The Incarnate bent forward, touching Mihály’s forehead. Nothing happened.
She hadn’t even known a little part of her still wished something would, to let her hold onto the last tatters of safe belief. All the people here had been deceived by what they’d believed in. But they’d also been fed by it. Brought joy from it. Found purpose in it. Nothing one man had done could make any of that less true. And she would still try to give them back their hope.
The Incarnate raised his hand, a vision of divine authority. ‘Anyone, no matter how divine, can be misled. Burn him.’
Csilla’s mouth dropped. That wasn’t what they’d agreed to.
‘Incarnate.’ Sandor stepped forward. ‘He asked to be laid with Arany’s remains.’
He would be listened to. He had to be. She’d forgive the man every cruelty if he came through for them in this.
The Incarnate stared at the body, and this time the miracle she prayed for was for Mihály to remain as still as death, and for the Incarnate to agree.
‘He was still an Izir,’ Sandor continued. ‘Twisted as he was, it may help to have holy blood down there again. If you’ll allow me the knowledge, I’ll take him down. The mercy girl can clean, to save you for more important duties.’
‘There’s nothing sacred down there anymore. It’s dark.’ The Incarnate shook his head. ‘But very well. If he’d rather rot, leave him and lock the tomb.’
38
Csilla
The Seal had been a living thing, feeding on the holiness of the Union. Now it was starved.
Dark, light, then speckled like mica in a stone. Bright flecks turned black as seconds dragged into minutes. Perhaps the Incarnate hadn’t been wrong in giving up the location. There didn’t seem to be anything left here worth guarding.
Csilla’s fingers itched to touch it, an impossible urge to heal the damage. She stretched out her scarred hand and something rippled in the magic. It was faint, a twist of flickering white undulating in the pale glow.
Mercy breeds good. That’s what she’d always believed. And now she was in the belly of the cathedral, watching the holiest place in the world die.
But she could try to save it. She didn’t know how, but if she were meant to be an instrument, let her be wielded here.
First Mihály. His body was stark on the dirt-smeared ground, his lips parted in a stiff gasp. He had given her the precise dosage to wear off within an hour of the hanging. It wouldn’t work if his neck was already damaged beyond healing; repairing crushed cartilage took more than mercy skill. And she knew well enough that medicine was like a miracle – it could save, but it couldn’t always be counted on. As Sandor lit rushlights to illuminate thetomb-like chamber, the red and raw abrasions on his neck only looked more gruesome. They echoed the cracks in the old stone, marring what should be perfect.
Under the watchful eyes of living clergy and false ones of the painted saints on the walls, she knelt next to Mihály, placing a hand on his chest, her palm rising with a shallow breath. A small knot of tension uncoiled as the thrum of his heartbeat echoed through her skin. She met Ilan’s eyes, and he nodded.
Now to try.
