‘Csilla! I’ve missed you. I couldn’t believe when they told me you’d left service.’
Elmere. She froze as he kissed her cheeks and fussed over her fine dress with a grandfather’s teasing. He shouldn’t be out here. She took his hands out of habit, frowning at his loose collar and the rash creeping down his neck. ‘Elmere...’
‘It seems you’ve been doing well for yourself, though, dear. And you went to the Izir, like I told you.’ His eyes were nothing but kind, and she hoped he couldn’t tell how forced her smile was.
‘I’m well enough. But you shouldn’t be here. Go home and rest.’
Mihály’s curious gaze was hot on her back, waiting for her to get in place. She stepped aside, but the old man still had her hand. ‘And miss his preaching? He hasn’t been on the streets in days.’
Because of Csilla. No wonder everyone here was desperate to see Mihály again.
‘What if I promise you he’ll come visit you later? Personally?’ She tilted her head, trying to look convincing. ‘I’m working with him now. You don’t have to stay in this crowd. It won’t make you feel any better.’
‘I’ve already come all this way.’ But he was unsteady on his feet, and she squeezed his hand.
‘Trust me. Please.’
He sighed, but the fondness in his gaze squeezed her chest. ‘I always have, little girl. Well then.’ They walked arm in arm to the door, Elmere leaning on her for balance. ‘I suppose standing for hours wasn’t going to be the most comfortable experience. But I expect to see you soon.’
‘You will,’ she promised, guiding him past the tight-pressed bodies. ‘Please, rest.’
He patted her arm, pausing in the doorway. ‘I am glad you’re doing well for yourself, even if you couldn’t join the church.’
Doing well.She tipped up and kissed his cheek again so he couldn’t see how her face twisted.
The agitated crowd began to shift and caw.
‘Where have you been, Izir? They’ve no right to stop you from speaking,’ a dark-skinned man with deep furrows across his brow said. ‘We need your council.’
So many voices chimed in that the individual words were smothered, but bits reached Csilla’s ears.
‘The deaths prove we’ve been abandoned. They’re saying the bodies are putting the city under some kind of spell.’
‘Who is “they”?’ Mihály asked, but any answer was lost in yet more questions and accusations.
‘Why hasn’t the Incarnate come back? He should be here in his stronghold, not frittering with the governors or pushing our borders.’
‘We came to Silgard because it was supposed to be safe. Asten isn’t going to return if all of us are dead.’
Csilla’s heartbeat picked up. No one should dare mutter the things they were saying, and here they were, speaking them in clear voices heard by more than just Asten. But a hard knot in her breast told her they were right. The Incarnateshouldbe here. How could the people trust the Church if the voice of their god wouldn’t come back to salve their wounded faith? The laws of the Church were supposed to be the armour that protected people from their own worst impulses and the leaders examples of what it looked like to live hand in hand with the will of the divine.
But the Incarnate’s absence showed Asten cared more about war than bringing his most holy city to peace.
‘Were the victims somehow touched by evil? Have we lost our protection?’ The woman’s voice was half-wail.
‘We have,’ another man spoke up. ‘I heard what happened in Kis. The wards were broken, the demon found a host, and they burned the cathedral and everyone in it.’
Csilla glanced over the crowd at that, searching for a reaction at the mention of the possessed. There were grimaces and gritted teeth on every face, but less surprise than there should have been. Truth was leaking.
‘Were you there in Kis?’ Mihály spoke over the fearful murmurs, and the man seemed to shrink, pulling at the wooden mark hung around his neck.
‘Well, no. But I heard from a pilgrim, who heard from a merchant...’
The adherents jostled and complained and reached out for Mihály, who soothed them as best he could but soon looked like he was up to his neck in water in a grasping sea.
‘Peace, all of you.’ Mihály raised his hand. ‘This anger risks your souls. You shouldn’t fear.’
They should have become soft at his words, pliant and meek. Instead, a palpable agitation rose. The room was sweltering.
