‘Who died?’
She jumped to take the bundle before the older woman could reach for them. If there were empty clothes, it was because a body had left them. Ágnes was sick enough without handling the things of the dead. Illness had a tendency to creep, and the mercy priests were more often than not tending their own.
But the older woman shook her head, smile lines deepening around her heavy-lidded eyes.
‘They’re for you, dear.’
Csilla ran her fingers across the wool. The fabric was stiff with newness, not a single worn hem or stain.
‘For . . . me?’
Ágnes nodded, her smile soft. ‘The Prelate has decided it’s time. Change and come quickly.’
‘Now?’ There was baby spit in her hair, and she had a broken boot, and she still wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t misheard.
The woman’s posture sharpened. ‘Unless our Lord has told you differently, yes, now.’
Csilla flushed. Elmere would be thrilled when she brought his next dose. ‘But...’
‘But?’ Ágnes’s face softened, stepping forward to take Csilla’s cheeks in her dry palms. ‘My sweet girl, this is your reward. Be happy.’
‘I am!’ The words came out too quick, too young, and Csilla folded her hands together, half in reverence and half to hide the tremble. ‘I just never expected...’
She’d never expected anything. Hoped, yes. Prayed, often. Those were comforts. Expectations were what hurt.
But the wool was freshly dyed, the robe cut short for her scant height. Ágnes was dressed for celebration. The Prelate was waiting forher.
Ágnes ran a hand through Csilla’s chestnut hair, untangling the wind-mussed curls with a mother’s practiced grace.
‘Quickly, Csilla.’
Csilla stripped her dirty overdress. Cold puckered her skin as she slid the new robes over her linens, breathing deep of the smell of wool unstained by human sweat.
She adjusted everything so it fell properly and knotted the apron with care. There was only one last piece.
In Ágnes’s palm was an iron mark of four, the cross-shaped reminder of the cardinal virtues: Knowledge, Justice, Obedience, Mercy.
The metal glowed warm like a firefly at dusk, reacting to the consecration on it and the goodness in Ágnes’s touch. The connection between the creative spark of the divine and the Brilliance of the human soul, still visible thanks to Arany’s sacrifice.
Csilla kept her hands fisted at her side. If she touched it herself, she would break that fragile spell. Ágnes pinned it to her chest with a smile of pride.
The last thing Ágnes offered was a dark cloth, and Csilla bowed as it was wrapped over her eyes. Everyone, save the Prelate and the Incarnate, went to the heart of the cathedral blind.
They walked for long minutes before Ágnes stopped, and papery lips brushed Csilla’s forehead. This close she could hearthe rattle in the woman’s lungs, a sharpness with each breath that dug into Csilla in matching agony.
‘Whatever happens, remember that our job is to serve. Trust in the Church.’
Csilla furrowed her brow as a stronger arm took hers and she heard the slide of a door where she was fairly sure there shouldn’t be one. Trust should go without saying. She served, and she trusted, even as she was walked into the depths.
The Seal was well hidden in the labyrinth below the cathedral, surrounded by centuries of tunnelling passages that stretched from the sacred heart and out of the city, now mostly stoppered with sinkholes and refuse. She’d learned the twists and corners of the structure like she’d learned her letters, and though this path was new and unfamiliar, the broken steps and cool damp air of the underground were old friends. Her fingers dragged along the water-eaten wall as she was led through and back around bends and curves and odd corners, brushing lichen and the splintering wayward roots tunnelling through the walls, occasionally catching on something that might have been bone. Before the orders came to save the land and burn the dead, Silgard had been built on the backs of the Faithful.
She’d crept below often in her childhood to search for blessed Arany’s sacrifice, breath heavy as she made prayers that wouldn’t be heard, and waited for the blossom of a miracle in the dark.
She’d never found the Seal, but today there would be a miracle. It wasn’t Gellért’s glass forest or Rozalia’s perfect corpse, but a welcome for a soulless girl was miraculous enough.
The door to the sanctum groaned like a dying thing as it opened, and the cloth was removed from her eyes.
Elder Abe, Prelate of Silgard and second only to the Incarnate in Asten’s eyes, ushered her into the prayer chamber, bony fingers pressing her lower back. In his other hand was a knife,its handle twined gold and silver, inlaid with a topaz eye ever-glowing with inner fire. Csilla pressed her palms together, eyes on the holy glitter of the blade in rushlights.
