18
Csilla
‘You’re sure about this?’
Mihály pried the wooden boards off the stable floor, broken flakes of hay now pushed all over the room as they cleared the space. While they’d tried to be stealthy, they hadn’t entirely succeeded; Erzsébet had found them, and was perched on the highest hay bale, tail twitching.
‘I know all the back ways into the cathedral,’ Csilla replied, keeping an eye on the cat. She looked far too keen, and if they didn’t flush out any mice she might just pounce on their heads.
Hopefully this was what Ilan had meant when he had asked them to come in quietly. If not, they were in for a dark, cold wander.
The tunnels under the cathedral ran fifteen metres deep along the foundations, coupled with wells and trenches washing waste out to the river and cesspools best avoided. Some passages stretched out under the eight districts of the city, quiet except for the occasional sinkhole. The diggers had thought that one day there may be an emergency that required quick removal of the most holy treasures or safe passage for the Incarnate. Now the tunnels were sealed off at their ends and nothing more than places for Church-raised children to scare each other withever more outlandish stories of the ghosts of saints and mad anchorites chasing visions in the dark.
‘And what’s down there besides rats and the dead?’ He heaved again, and Csilla winced as slivers of old wood shattered.
‘I don’t think there are any dead.’
She bit her lip. The other children used to whisper that even the mortar used to bind the foundation stones had been mixed with the ashes of the Faithful, their devoted bones given immortality as the cathedral’s skeleton, and the occasional bones of an unlucky craftsman only fed the rumours. The true holy relics were nearer the Seal.
‘A saint, maybe.’
‘And the Seal.’ Even Mihály’s voice took on a dark note that verged on reverence.
Vihar and a cart pony paced and kept watch, keenly interested in what was happening to their food. Csilla tossed a few handfuls of hay to them, then winced at the ear-pinning and squeals. The pony won, and Csilla sighed as the large black horse sulked, head hanging inside the rough-cut window.
‘You could defend yourself, you know. You’re much bigger,’ she clucked, but Vihar only lowered his dark head to lip at what little hay he could reach.
The floorboards gave way to reveal a covered entranceway. She pulled at the handle of the round cover set on top of dark inlaid stone just an inch high, barely moving as she tugged.
‘A well?’ Mihály asked, taking a step back and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘I suppose you think we’re going to swim our way down in holy water? Angels aren’t fish.’
Csilla smiled and turned so he wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. He likely wasn’t trying to be difficult, but if he’d listen to her this would go more quickly.
‘There hasn’t been any water there for centuries. You could stop talking and help me move this,’ Csilla said, with a tug thatgained them another few groaning inches. Mihály grabbed the handle and, with a single pull, the entrance was open. Csilla rubbed her own strained fingers. At least he was useful for moving things.
‘Go on.’ She gestured to the hole, the floor below hidden by swallowing dark. ‘I’ll cause less damage if I fall on you than the other way around.’
Mihály looked doubtful but climbed down anyway. Csilla followed him.
The holds carved into rock were narrow and chipped towards the bottom, the grey stone weak from the years it held water. Csilla held her breath with every step down, the rock threatening to give way under her, but they both landed in the inky blackness. What light there was above was pale and dim, the narrow glow like a crescent moon. The air was thicker, with a cool and dewy humidity, the scent of mould and loam surrounding them.
‘Now what?’ Mihály’s voice was only a trickle of his normal volume next to her, and she jumped as he grabbed her arm. For a heartbeat, she remembered being in his room, pressure on her wrist like it would break.
She moved his hand down to hers, her fingers dwarfed by his. It was merciful that the dark hid her expression at the slide of his smooth palm against her scabbed one, bringing a tingling awareness all over her skin.
‘Follow me.’
As they walked down the sloping ramp the space became a pit, and the damp squeeze on her hand tightened. The echo of their steps made her startle, but it was only a trick of the sound in the dark. Knowing that didn’t stop the feeling of being trapped, or watched, or even followed. Anything could – and did – happen in the dark.
‘I didn’t know these tunnels were here.’
Mihály’s tone was light, but there was a choked note beneath it. Something skittered in the blackness, and Mihály stepped into Csilla so hard she was pushed a half-step forward and nearly lost his hand.
‘Don’t worry. I think we’re almost there.’ She paused, then led them further left, mentally trying to reconstruct the halls and stores above.
‘Good,’ he muttered, clinging to her hand. Sweat beaded where their palms touched.
Csilla sighed. Her angel was scared of the dark.
