Ilan put his drink aside. ‘I’ve sworn vows, yes. I know all the rites, but I only do those related to my duties.’ People didn’t want someone known for torture handling their children or blessing their marriage.
‘Can I confess to you?’ He leaned forward and it turned into a lurch, hands clamped.
Ilan’s lips parted slightly. ‘Is this about the soul? I don’t see why you need to make it a confession. You’re above my pardon, as you so like to remind me.’
‘But you’ve taken vows. You can’t refuse.’ Something dark and writhing flashed in his eyes.
‘I’m not refusing to shrive you.’ Refusal would be a very dark mark against him indeed. ‘I’m saying it’s stupid. No one ever thought I’d be a good choice for manning a confessional. And to be frank, your sins aren’t the type that can be forgiven just by airing them out.’ Confession was a first step, not a final one. The final one left scars.
‘That’s why I want to tell you.’ He leaned back, rolling his head to stare at the ceiling and bare his throat. ‘I don’t want the dull comforts of the congregational priests.’
‘This is hardly the place for a proper confession.’
Mihály shrugged. ‘Asten the almighty is as present in a beetle’s asshole as in the blessed hereafter. Why not here?’
Ilan found himself scratching the dog’s ears harder in discomfort, so much so that the dog shook Ilan’s hand away with a soft whine.
‘Very well. It would be... amiss in my duties if I turned you away. But you could also just say whatever it is you want. You’ve never held back before.’ He could quietly seethe, but vows were vows.
There was an awkward pause, and they stared at each other. Ilan waved at him to turn and at least create some illusion of private confession.
‘I’m not supposed to be looking at you, you know.’ People’s tongues were freer when they weren’t eye to eye with their judge.
Mihály’s cheeks were red with drink, his movements slow as he turned his chair. Ilan straightened his collar. This probably had something to do with Csilla, and the idea needled him. Mihály should know to be careful with someone who’d been starved of affection and was so desperate to make everyone happy. Csilla was as open as the sanctuary, just as vulnerable.
Ilan rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off a headache.
‘Power greater than us, hear this man’s confession and grant me the power to cleanse him from his sins. Let the darkness be cast out with each word that leaves his lips, and the confession will be met with... mercy.’ The invocation rang false with every syllable. Mihály was already saved, and Ilan was no comfort.
‘Now...’ Typically they would address a seeker as child, or cousin. He didn’t particularly want to call Mihály either of those things. ‘Izir. Confess your sins and be forgiven.’
But the other man was quiet.
‘Mihály?’
Ilan didn’t particularly want to hear his confession, but he’d steeled himself to hear whatever lurid things were going to leave the Izir’s lips, and he was ready to get it over with and get to judgement. Even if he couldn’t actually do anything, explaining to the Izir what he deserved would be a delight.
Mihály tilted his head, chin upturned. ‘Did you really not know I was engaged to Madame Varga’s daughter?’
‘Madame... What in creation has ever given you the impression that I would care about a socialite’s engagement?’ There was enough of that in letters from his family, as if he had time to care about which cousin had married up or down or whose baby had inherited what title. ‘And that’s a fact, not a confession.’
Mihály swirled his drink. ‘So pedantic.’
‘Do you need prompting? There are any number of sins literally in this very farmstead we could start with.’ He clenched his teeth to stop further complaints. Mihály wasn’t wrong; he had sworn to do this. But listening to an Izir’s confession was a farce.
‘Never mind.’ Mihály stood, and there was sweat around his collar and on his forehead. His eyes were wild. Troubled.
‘If you need to talk about something and don’t want to confess, talk to Csilla. She’s spent enough time with the mercycrews; she’s probably as good at listening.’ She couldn’t offer forgiveness, but perhaps shared tears would be enough. She had plenty of those.
‘No.’ Mihály’s headshake was quick, sure.
‘You don’t give her enough credit,’ Ilan said, but Mihály only glowered. Ilan sighed. Fine, he’d ask. ‘What have you done that’s worse than everything I already know?’ It must be something lurid, to have the Izir looking so guilty. A small part of his curiosity was titillated. He was rarely privy to gossip, only the result when sinners and masochists came to his chamber to have their faults and shame beaten out of them. There were some things that had to come to light before they burst like a boil. Confession was a lancet.
Mihály topped up his cup again as if liquor could burn away the guilt coating his tongue.
‘You’re right, I don’t need forgiveness, nor must I answer to the Church.’ He swallowed the rest of the drink in a gulp.
A more compassionate man would try to get the secret out of him, take some measure to share the pain and in doing so lessen it.
