‘Then clearly you, one of mine, were the one who did the banishing, and the girl is a blasphemer.’ The Incarnate inclined his head in praise. ‘The miracle was your presence, not hers. Such devotion is commendable.’
Ilan’s back was damp under his gaze.
‘Perhaps even sainted.’ The Incarnate’s smile was a lure. Ilan had never wanted anything more than the power that came with enacting the will of the divine. The idea that he had worked amiracle and would wear a saint’s crown, be allowed to dispense justice across the Union as he saw fit...
It was a mouth-watering temptation, his desire offered up on a holy altar. Had he not seen the glory in Csilla, he wouldn’t have even recognised its darkness.
He spoke quickly, trying to create a shield of excuses to cover Csilla’s power.
‘I believe it was a miracle, but not mine. And not blasphemy. This is the city of miracles—’
The Incarnate raised his hand. ‘Your humility is a credit to you, but this glory is not yours to claim or deny. You are Sainted, Ilan.’
Abe uplifted praise as bitterness filled Ilan’s mouth.
‘You will be lauded,’ the Incarnate continued, and Ilan made a noncommittal noise he hoped sounded pleased. ‘But in such a turbulent time, blasphemy will not be tolerated. You saw what heresy did to our city. And I will have to leave again soon, to make sure every territory is secure. We’ve been given the grace of a second chance.’
They wanted it all over, quickly. Ilan respected few things like he did order, but order was a home. If it were rebuilt on a rotten foundation, they’d find themselves in the same broken pit again. The Church was just wrong about the source of the rot. It wasn’t the people below that were the problem. It was decaying up to the roof.
‘Take her out to the wastes as close to the burning garden as you can, though take care not to get too close – we do want you back. Tell her to make her pilgrimage there and plead what she will. If she does miracles, one will save her.’ The Incarnate stood, looming. ‘We’ve seen the power our enemy holds. We can’t allow them any more toeholds, or for any other groups to make cracks in our defenses. When you return, I’ll have you at my side, bringing justice to the entire Union.’
Ilan started. It would have been exactly what he would have had hoped for, long weeks ago. Before he’d found something else to believe in.
‘Incarnate, that’s . . . generous. Abandoning the girl, though . . .’
Csilla had done what she set out to, save them all, and this was what they gave her. No one condemned had ever come back from that supposed end of the world, and no escort had ever ventured far enough to confirm or deny its existence. Ilan could see it for what it was: a slow execution in starvation, frostbite, and likely the teeth of hungry creatures coming out of their winter dens. Csilla would be a bounty in a place the snow wouldn’t thaw for weeks yet.
Hints of purple anger bloomed on the Incarnate’s cheeks.
‘Are you hesitating? Do you still serve Asten?’
The slap of the question drew Ilan’s shoulders straight.
‘Of course.’
It was only that Asten wasn’t here.
40
Csilla
The pressure of Erzsébet on her chest only exacerbated the ache in Csilla’s back as she lay in the cramped room. She’d heard the whispers of those who’d come in to check on her, ones who prayed and ones who cursed, none of whom had dared touch her while she squeezed her eyes and pretended her heart was light enough to rest. The feel of Mihály’s soul on her palm lingered like smears of altar oil, staining and sacred.
One thing had been clear in all the voices. The Incarnate had sentenced her to death. That’s what this banishment was.
The low angle of the sun told her she’d been out for hours, lying in hot-skinned wait. Strength was coming back to her limbs, her parched throat cracking. Soon it would be dark enough to move. She had to, whether or not she was ready.
She shifted the cat and sat up enough to look out across the cathedral’s steep slanted roofs, wondering what parts of the wood were still good, what could have been damaged. How she could get out without plunging through and ending up a broken body speared on a blessed statue. She wished she could call it a mercy that they put her here where she could look over her dear city, not in the bowels, but it was only because there were fewer ways to escape with a guarded door and a sure fall outside.
A sharp knock rattled the door, and Erzsébet stopped her kneading to raise her head.
Ilan entered, face grave. He wore white and gold, and there was a line of gold across his brow.
The signs of a saint.
It might have been her imagination, but she would have sworn his cheeks coloured as he caught her noticing.
Of course he would be the one to carry out the sentence. She’d claimed to speak for Asten, taken power that wasn’t hers. The best she could have hoped for would have been to have her tongue cut out and another whipping, but now no one was inclined to mercy. She’d saved the Church, and he was the Church. It was too much to hope he’d choose her. She didn’t have the right to want it.
