‘Inquisitor?’
One of the priests was in the doorway, her lined forehead further wrinkled with concern. Ilan drew his shoulders back, eyeing the goldenrod yellow at her throat and sleeves. Few congregational priests came to the torture room, though they were happy enough to send others there. Hearts of iron and stomachs of silk, the lot of them.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a problem. Out front.’
The worry in her voice shouldn’t have excited him.
?
The Izir had six of the Faithful stopped on the street, distracting them from spending the morning in respectable prayer with promises that reeked of Shadow and children’s tales.
The penitents scattered as Ilan approached, but the man didn’t move. The subtle aura of the divine surrounded him like a perfume, calling hearts to trust and adulation. Even Ilan wasn’t fully immune; as the Izir looked up, his golden-brown eyes widening, there was a pinch of a moment where Ilan thought perhaps he did deserve attention, if only for being so beautiful.
The smallest of moments, but no less irritating for being brief.
Ilan pointed down the street, past the cathedral walls to where refuse was dragged.
‘If you won’t keep your heresy out of our city, you can at least keep it away from our door.’
The Izir’s lips quirked as he gestured to the statue in the courtyard, watching them with each of her carved and gleaming eyes. The gold seemed brighter for his presence.
‘Am I not allowed to visit family? I have business here.’
‘If you’ve come to repent, I’d be more than happy to help.’
Ilan’s pulse quickened at the thought of dragging the Izir into the depths of the cathedral and flogging his ideas out of him. Fantasising about beating an angel was probably somewhere on the sin ledgers, the cleansing invocation set at an exorbitant price, but the thought of this man’s handsome face cracking was deeply pleasing. One strike for every person who’d had the misfortune of hearing him would be enough to bring even this heretic back to rights. He’d wreck his throat begging for forgiveness.
‘I’m sure you would!’ The laugh in Mihály’s tone was close enough to mockery that Ilan couldn’t suppress a snarl. ‘But I’m here for Csilla.’
Ilan’s shoulders straightened.
‘Last night she was running away from you.’ Everyone had heard the Izir yelling after her. It was admirable of her to have run, really. Ilan had scolded half the city for panting after the angel.
‘It was a misunderstanding. She fell out the window.’
As if that were better. Ilan shook his head.
‘She wouldn’t have fallen if she hadn’t already been trying to leave. Now, unless you are here to renounce your heresy, go away. I have more pressing problems than you.’
Heresy could be rectified. Death, barring divine intervention, could not.
By the wry smile on the Izir’s face, he knew the order was empty, and Ilan could sense claws beneath the gloves in the murmuring crowd. The city had little love for the person who kept their feet on the path of righteousness with iron shoes.Far easier to follow something offering hope that didn’t require sacrifice.
The Izir scratched at his beard, then shrugged. ‘You know if I stand here and tell you no, there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it?’
Perhaps flogging wasn’t the right path. Cutting out his tongue would be far more useful.
‘If she’d wanted you, she would have stayed.’
The statement troubled him as soon as it left his lips. He could understand Csilla’s desires, but why would the Izir want her? Csilla didn’t have a soul for him to sway.
‘I can help her.’
Again with his damned self-assurance.
‘She doesn’t need you.’ Ilan had a marrow-deep understanding of what it was to yearn for a miracle, but this Izir would be a sorry place for her to put her faith. ‘You have every right to be here’ – it pained to concede even that point – ‘but not even your holy blood gives you the right to force her to speak to you.’
