‘Alright.’ She barely recognised the voice that came out of her, choked and small. ‘I’ll do it.’
If this really would protect the souls of the city, she had no choice.
Abe’s smile, ordinarily so kind, curled her stomach. He beckoned her forward.
If she’d had a family, they would have bathed her in water infused with rosemary and mint and given her an equal dose of affection, sent her to her vows with a crown of poppies and her dowry in hand to offer at Asten’s Eye.
Instead she shivered, unadorned and empty. Together they knelt before the tattered magic of the great Seal. She spread her fingers on the earth, taking a deep breath and taking heart with it. This was what every servant of the Church did, and she was fortunate to be able to do it over the remains of Arany herself. In other territories they made do with facsimiles and floors stained with wine and varnish to look like the martyred angel’s resting place. They claimed the blood of the Faithful would always find its like, connecting the country in a web of consecration. It was a pretty idea, even if it sounded more idealistic than true.
Abe’s chant caressed her to her bones. The sound grew as it echoed against the damp walls, as if the centuries of the worshippers were speaking through the paint in welcome. On the far side of the wall were portraits of the noose-necked last saint Angyalka and the star-crowned first Incarnate Imre; stand-ins for the kin she would never know. They would have to be enough.
‘Csilla.’
She opened her eyes again and offered her palm. He took her smooth fingers in his weathered ones.
‘Do you swear to serve in perfect and perpetual Obedience, to accept the Church as judge and Justice of this world, to full-heartedly seek knowledge of the divine and Their creation, and provide unfailing Mercy?’
‘Yes,’ she answered before he’d even finished. Before she had any more time to think about the terrible nature of her calling.
Abe brought the knife to her skin, drawing a thin line of red to well on the surface. Then he squeezed, letting a drop fall to the gritty earth. The Seal remained still, dashing a final, quiet hope. Her soulless blood didn’t carry any spirit, couldn’t do anything to strengthen the Faith.
The Prelate rubbed his thumb through the dirt, her blood, and whatever echoes of Arany’s holiness remained. She closed her eyes as he smeared a warm line down her forehead.
Bled and marked for the Church.
Called to service, just like she’d always wanted.
4
Csilla
There were three things everyone knew to be true of the Izir: he was beautiful, he was holy, and he never turned down wine. It had been easy enough to steal the bulb-shaped bottle now sloshing in her leather sack. If Csilla had a soul, she would have earned another black mark against her. And if she thought too hard about what was coming, she’d be drinking the wine.
He was a heretic, and he was keeping souls from salvation. That was what she had to keep reminding herself as she trudged to the farthest of the eight city districts. The Izir was a heretic, no matter who his ancestors were. Asten had given harder tasks to Their followers in ages past. The Prelate had said it himself, and her stinging palm reminded her of who she belonged to with every nervous twitch of her fingers. Obedience was a virtue: Obedience was submission.
The snow was thicker on this side of Silgard, and the roads darker, with many close-crammed houses that couldn’t afford a door lantern. Just two days ago a body had been found pressed into the squelching mud of the riverbank. The thought of the girl lying dead in the night for hours chilled worse than the air, and Csilla said a quiet prayer that her departed soul was at peace, that she’d been good enough in life to join the Brilliance in theether. She quickened her steps, touching the necklace to keep the chain from sawing at her.
In the square, orange fires burned in baskets set high on wooden pillars, flames flickering with each pass of breeze. The gathered crowd was a flock of ravens in the smoky light, all dark coats and anxious voices. A few specks of white and green – patterned kerchiefs, children’s gowns – peeped here and there as the throng shifted, but everything else was navy and black, colours that wouldn’t show soot or stain in the months when they couldn’t be easily washed.
Snippets of conversation reached her ears, wants and wishes and fearful requests, some in languages she didn’t speak. Anyone could petition to live in Silgard, as long as their soul was clean and they swore by the virtues. But these people, their faith so palpable it was almost a chorus, weren’t here for Asten. Their praise and yearning were all gifts for the Izir.
‘There is so much hope beyond what the Church offers you, cousins. There is comfort to be had, even in the unknowable. Death is not another Severing. The worlds here and there are not so far.’
The Izir’s impassioned lilt carried even to the edges of the crowd where Csilla lurked as a flickering shadow, her shaking hands tight around the poison bottle. He spoke in the rhythm of liturgy, his tone as resonant as the bells that rang the hours. No wonder the crowd had gone pliant. Csilla paused after every step further into the throng, his words snagging the ever-present hollow in her chest and pulling her closer as surely as if he had her by the hand.
She wouldn’t call it Shadow, but it was honey-sweet temptation. Csilla tried to block the words, keep her focus on the bone around her neck and the promise she had made. The city built by Asten’s own angels was proof of the truth. And in the face of such undeniable, beautiful proof, who would sin?
But people did. Even now, they shoved each other, trying to be the closest to the blessed man. Their dark desires rolled off them easily, stirred by his presence. Greed. Wrath. Lust, in flushed cheeks and grasping hands.
The hard glass of the wine bottle bit into her ribs as she pressed it close.
‘We’re meant to relish this existence and learn, not cower. There is a reason Knowledge is counted among the virtues. I’ve seen proof that death is not the end.’
His words were met with raised hands and murmured prayers. The crowd began to shuffle forward for whispers, offerings, a final word. Idolatry.
The worshipers shifted as they recieved their final blessings and dispersed, and Csilla took her first full look at the man she was to kill. He was more simply dressed than she’d imagined – two buttons on his overcoat had been resewn badly, and his boots showed obvious scuffing. All of it was the simple black worn by priests who worked among the public, even his four-mark carved from obsidian. But he was as tall and had a face as finely formed as she’d expected, with light reddish-brown hair as sleek as summer fox fur. His beard was neatly trimmed, his eyes warm, and every inch of him seemed to glow from within, an aura that made her palms itch to press together in supplication, to touch her forehead to those damaged boots. No wonder there were at least a dozen stragglers eager for a few moments of personal attention.
A man with bloodshot eyes approached, and the Izir touched his face without hesitation, running his thumbs over the man’s crusted lashes and murmuring something Csilla couldn’t hear.
