The inquisitor muttered something that surely couldn’t have been a curse.
‘I’ll take you. Too many bodies around lately.’
She wanted to refuse. Justice was one of the four sharp tenants of the Church, and she wore it on her breast with the rest of them, but the way he delivered it had never sat easy.
Still, it was a long, cold walk back and a much quicker ride, and he wasn’t wrong about the bodies. She looked down at her scraped knuckles, her fingers numb from the fall. Ilan wouldn’t have hesitated to carry out his orders. He would have served the Faith, no matter what.
She offered him her hand. ‘Thank you.’
Ilan dropped his stirrups and helped her step up and slide onto the saddle in front of him. He shoved the lantern into her hand. ‘Sit lightly.’
The black horse covered ground quickly and Csilla leaned forward, both in an attempt to sit lightly, as directed, and to avoid the stiffness and irritation radiating off Ilan. The horse, Vihar, was a friendly sort, even if his master was not. He always took an interest in her when she walked through the stables, even if his affection had been bought with apple scraps. She scratched his neck in silent thanks and he swivelled an ear in acknowledgement.
‘I didn’t think you’d be out this late,’ Csilla said as the long seconds of quiet scratched at her. He should have beenat prayers, but she wasn’t one to correct him. ‘Did you find anything? Mihály said...’
His sharp intake of breath that ate the end of her sentence told her it had been the wrong question.
‘I thought we’d had a lead with that scream, but it was you. What were you even doing with that blasted Izir?’
He really didn’t know, and her heart skipped at the incongruity. The Church was hiding her task even from their appointed Head of Justice.
‘I... I was curious.’ She twisted strands of Vihar’s coarse mane around her fingers as she spoke the shallow lie, but it was simple enough it might not be questioned.
‘I thought better of you than that.’
Her cheeks burned that he’d ever thought of her at all.
The cathedral was as central to the city as Silgard was to the Union, and Csilla gritted her teeth and gripped the front of the saddle as they moved into a high-stepping trot that carried them until they finally reached the broad courtyard. The clouds had blown away and the stars were out, their sparkle adding an extra layer of infinity as the gold-plated spires reached toward the silver speckle above.
In the centre of it all was the statue of Arany, the golden feathers of her eight wings and a dozen gold-dripping eyes alight from the ever-glowing candle fires at her feet. The shadow of her judgement was inescapable. She’d died so the world could still be good, and Csilla was leaving her legacy in tatters.
Ilan brought Vihar to a halt. ‘You can let yourself in from here. And for all the saints, stay off the streets at night.’
Csilla slid off the horse and smiled as Vihar reached around to lip her hand in case the small miracle of a treat appeared. She clucked her tongue, about to tell the sweet thing that he had to wait for breakfast, just as she did.
The little warm feeling died as she realised Ilan was still staring at her, waiting for acknowledgement.
‘I will.’ It wasn’t like she’d wanted to be out there anyway.
He nudged Vihar away, trotting hoofbeats echoing on the stone walls as they faded into the dark.
Arany’s eyes followed her to the short steps to the entranceway. The shame of disobedience chafed, and the only thing stemming her rising desperation to apologise was that she wasn’t sure who she should apologise to.
There was still light in the sanctuary hall, the tall glass windows lit with a ghostly glow and a crack of pale orange visible under the heavy doors. No doubt the Prelate was there, tending the ever-seeing Eye. He would ask what had happened, force her to take refuge in a lie or admit the truth and break herself.
Both were intolerable. Csilla crept away from the doorway, toward the darkness of her room. She could at least rest before facing punishment for ill-timed mercy.
6
Ilan
Ilan touched each whip, clamp, and tool of confession lightly, every piece in its place and scrubbed clean. The unblemished leather was a sign of a meek city. Still, his fingers itched. For all his patrolling, the night had turned up nothing worse than a few citizens far enough in the bottle to tip to belligerence and Csilla, shaken and bleeding from her own clumsiness and bad decisions. But Csilla was none of his concern, and drunkenness was a sin that could easily be paid in coin. It was ill luck on his part that the current Incarnate had ruled gold as cleansing as blood for all but the worst sins or poorest sinners. A war was a costly thing, even a righteous one. When the large fought, the small under their control paid, be it the gentry taxing farmers or the Church taxing sinners. It was the way of things, and he had no right to complain just because it was boring.
Saints knew there was plenty else to keep his mind occupied. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the gape-mouthed and mutilated bodies, and even though they’d done their best to keep the truth of the murders quiet, the city was half-mad with heresy he wasn’t allowed to squash. The Izir’s holy ancestors would scream. The angels themselves built the Church as a bridge to help flawed humanity approach the divine, and now their son was burning it and claiming the ashes revelation.
Even Csilla had gone to hear him out, and she wasn’t the first from the Church to do so.
A steady drum beat driven by frustration and lack of sleep pounded behind his eyes.
