Ilan bowed, but his skin prickled with anger and lingering shame. There was no denying that he hadn’t caught the killer. Underneath his quick-flaring anger was that unavoidable truth.
‘I’m even going to give you a present, Ilan,’ Sandor continued in a jovial tone. ‘We are going to have to take stricter measures. You wait for evidence of sin before bringing people in – I think they’ll be more encouraged to confess if we act first. We have some changes to make; we’ll set a curfew and stricter watches and begin working our way through the city. You can handle the interrogations as you like.’
The man genuinely looked as if he thought this would be welcome news. Ilan frowned. ‘The Prelate and I have had this discussion and decided against it. Not everyone here is a sinner.’
Silgard’s citizens were still his to protect, and even the pain he gave was a part of that protection.
‘No, but anyone could be,’ Sandor said, gravel in his tone. ‘That’s why Asten left. Bring them all in.’
12
Csilla
That night Mihály had talked, and she’d listened until his words made sense through the pounding of her head and the heaviness in her bones. She nodded and dozed until the blanched moonlight over the trees was replaced by the shell pink of morning and the unfamiliar sounds of woodland creatures rousing.
He showed her more of his talents, including healing the blisters on her heels with a ticklish touch, laughing as she cringed at the sensation even as she was awed by the power. Twinned Brilliant and Shadow natures warred within every person, though she had neither. And when Asten’s wisdom refracted to create the flawed creatures that were humans, perhaps there was something of Their grace present in even her flesh. In the blood. In Mihály’s ability to heal.
A soul didn’t make you alive – she was proof enough of that – but surely something in her would change when she had one. Mihály promised the dark spaces within her would become golden when Asten heard her. With a tangible connection to all of creation and him by her side, she’d never be lonely again. She’d be beloved by the city when she saved both it and the Seal.
He spun wondrous things, and what’s more, he clearly believed them. Any doubts she had in him were her own weakness, not his.
‘What if the Church won’t let you back in the city? Or me?’ She touched her mark at the memory of the poison. At least the sin of almost murdering him wouldn’t stain her new soul. ‘I’m sure they’re being careful.’
He kept one hand on her back as he locked the door behind them.
‘And admit they wanted me gone? The people would protest. I won’t say a word of fresh heresy inside the gates, and you’re going to help me prove I had nothing to do with it.’ He smiled at her with such devoted attention she wanted to pull her headscarf further over her face with fresh embarrassment. ‘You’ll be safe with me.’
With Asten’s grace on him, that should be true.
Mihály hummed to himself, off-key, as they walked the long road towards the city. Csilla scowled at his back. Weren’t angels supposed to be good at music?
‘Hurry up, Csilla,’ he called and she sighed, doubling her pace.
‘Do you really walk this way every day?’ She wasn’t used to walking so far or on wagon-rutted ground. Fresh blisters were starting to form where he’d just finished healing them.
‘Not every day,’ he conceded. ‘I do sleep in town after preaching. But I like the walk. It clears my head.’
Maybe that was what he needed. She’d heard glass clinking and liquids being poured long after she’d laid down to try to catch scant hours of sleep. The only damage it seemed to have done, though, was a little puffiness around his eyes. He looked irritatingly rested and pleasant for someone who’d had less sleep and more drink than she had.
‘Do you need me to carry you?’ He paused, offering an arm, and she had a sudden and terrible vision of him slinging herover his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes, humming all the while. ‘Or we can wait for a wagon. Lately there’s always someone coming along who will let me catch a ride.’
Of course. Did he not realise his very existence was charmed? She stomped back in step with him.
Ahead was the arching stone of the gates, with all the relief and dread they signified. She was going back to what she knew.
What she thought she’d known. She glanced at Mihály.
‘Halt there,’ the guard said, approaching. ‘Izir, good morning.’
The man saluted, and Mihály nodded in return. The guard didn’t look suspicious at all, his smile genuine, and after a moment, Csilla recognised him. He’d been in the crowd that night she’d brought the wine that had started this. No wonder Mihály didn’t have trouble getting in and out of the city.
‘Must we?’ he said as the man presented a small, polished piece of glass, smooth as a tumbled river stone. She still smiled to see the little piece, one of thousands of shards taken from the miracle forest of Gellért. When he was lost, Asten turned all the trees to glass so he might find his way. Now that same glass, shattered and dispersed, was a signpost directing every sinner back to the light. In the old days, miracles were tangible – the creative force of the divine, momentarily held in human hands.
Just like her healed hand and feet.
‘If you would, Izir.’
Mihály shrugged and held out his hand.
