‘Csilla? Mihály? Where are you?’ Ilan’s whisper echoed towards them, and they moved closer to the sound with stumbling steps until they found each other. A blaze of silver light lit the area and Csilla winced as her eyes protested.
When she opened them, the light revealed walls streaked with black dirt and rivulets of water stain, a few areas patched with a lighter chalky clay. Ilan had passed Mihály something holy to illuminate the path. It also showed the low ceiling, a handspan above Mihály’s head, and layers of spiderwebs like dusty lace. By the look on his face, he’d been happier in the dark.
The silver burned spectral as they made their way across the tunnel. The depth meant the walls were still frozen, and every breath brought the taste of dirt. There were miles of similar passageways, all cold and indifferent to the souls walking over their heads. If someone died this far below, they’d never be found, never blessed, never burned. Every time they rounded a corner she scanned for forgotten bones.
Csilla squeezed Mihály’s hand harder on instinct, regretting it when he pulled her closer.
After long minutes winding through corridors that were a kingdom of the holiest rats and spiders in the land, the floor began to slope upwards again, landing in front of a wall. A dead end. Mihály looked at her in confusion, but she had no answer.
Ilan pushed. The wall cracked and opened, and they were standing in the hall of cells.
‘What...’ Csilla ran her hands along the expanse of rock. Her fingertips caught the slight raise of the seam, but even the full pressure of her weight didn’t move it. ‘I didn’t think blessed magic could do that.’
‘Asten gives us the power we need to protect what must be protected,’ Ilan said simply. ‘But the Church also had clever architects.’
And one had left this pocket room, for prayer or protection.
As she stepped into the small space, she froze for another reason. The body, the one she’d last seen in the cells during her own imprisonment, was now here with them.
The days had not been kind to the victim. The white sheet drawn across him was stained with oils and excrement, and though a small forest of incense sticks surrounded him, the smoke only gave the putrid smell false notes of cloves. Csilla touched her chest and covered her mouth, bending close to the wounds.
Ilan’s voice was steady.
‘We haven’t even gotten in contact with his family, and they’re going to burn him. So look quick.’
She reached out and touched the cuts, now too old and clotted over to bloody her hands.
Her fingers burned like touching frozen metal. She snatched them back and tucked them into her palm, hoping they hadn’t noticed. But Ilan was only looking at Mihály.
The scar on her palm began to itch. The Izir’s face was pure horror as Ilan gestured to the mutilated body.
‘I spoke to him that same night.’ He knelt down and touched his face, a loving caress, as if not seeing the bloat and sunken eyes. ‘He was a pilgrim, not from Silgard.’
‘Was he one of your followers?’ There was a new, sharper note in Ilan’s voice. Csilla stepped to Mihály’s side.
‘A new one, but yes—’
‘And Kovács Lili? Twenty. Long blonde braids. Wanted to join the Church. Here, this one.’ He produced a sketch, one Csilla sighed to see was stamped with half a cat print.
Mihály was blinking rapidly now, his face paling to the colour of linen. Csilla put a hand on his back, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘I noticed she’d stopped visiting, but I thought she’d taken her vows.’
Ilan raised an eyebrow.
‘She died.’
He went through his record, every person listed bringing a new twisting grief to Mihály’s face. Csilla clenched her teeth. Mihály, self-absorbed to the marrow, hadn’t bothered to learn the names of the people who followed him. He only knew the accusing faces etched in dark charcoal.
Finally, Ilan stopped. Mihály’s hands were on his knees, white knuckles clutching tight.
‘They really are mine.’
Csilla’s chest squeezed at the shake in his voice. In a way, the Church had been right, even more right than they’d known. Those people had also put their faith in Mihály. The hands that healed and bought them precious days of hope and ease had also painted a target on them. Comfort wasn’t meant to have a price, let alone one so high.
Ilan nodded as if he’d already known as much.
‘I don’t suppose you have an explanation?’ Mihály shook his head, wordless. ‘I could try to get one out of you, I suppose. Why would you be the only connection?’
