The old woman’s grey-eyed gaze was sharp even now as he bent before her to offer his respects. ‘Your prayers will strengthen us. Go peacefully, Elder.’
Her eyes fell shut, her lashes thin across veiny lids. ‘I don’t know that I can. But I thank you.’
Mentions of Csilla hung in the air, an unspoken ghost. Ágnes wasn’t going to ask him to go. He didn’t need to go. Mihály would comfort Csilla well enough when she found out, or at least distract her with his own melancholy.
The thought turned his stomach. He was going to have to anyway, or it would be more salt in a self-inflicted wound. She’d told him to leave, and he had. She might tell him again. But at least she’d have some say. She had so little in this world. And perhaps Ágnes could get through where he couldn’t.
Ilan slipped out the back of the chapel and to the stables, Vihar nickering at his sudden appearance, hopeful for early dinner.
‘Alas, more work,’ he apologised as he tacked the horse up.
But when he showed up at the Varga house to ask for Csilla, the person who answered the door wasn’t the maid he’d seen before. It was an older man, his face tired and clothing equally creased. His homespun trousers weren’t what a butler serving as the face of the house would wear, but they also weren’t what the woman would provide a family member or lover.
Ilan ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth. It likely wasn’t important, but it was another thing out of place as he listened to the old man’s explanation.
‘They’ve all gone, off to stick their heads in the sand at the Vasvari estate. Won’t be back till past midnight I assume, what with all the drinking.’
Gone? He could see the Varga woman and even Mihály electing to cloak themselves in the false safety of carriages and walls and money, but Csilla should have known to ignore it.
But why would she want to listen to him when he’d become just another voice of the Faith denying her what she so rightly wanted? She’d told him to go with the last snarling gasp of a trapped animal.
And, despite her protests, she was besotted with the Izir, or at least by his neediness. But he recognised the chasm behind Mihály’s gaze. The Izir would swallow every drop of sympathy Csilla could offer, and it would never sate him. He would never even love her for it, and their natures would complement each other in perfect misery.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, reins in his free hand, head already aching with regret at the dozen small hypocrisies adding up to this very bad decision. It shouldn’t matter to him if Mihály drew Csilla further into his thrall or if one elderly servant passed to Asten without acknowledgement. It had nothing to do with saving the city, wouldn’t stop the killer’s knife or reseal the broken magic across the Union.
All it would do was stall the breaking of an unfortunate girl’s heart, and the fact that it ate at him was disgusting.
And yet he still found himself riding towards the western edge of the city, away from the cathedral spires.
The estate hosting the gathering had once been the city residence of Lajol, still owned by the governing family of Inner Inosko, his territory and the one most directly bordering thecity’s property. With curtains pulled back on all the windows to let them sparkle in the sun, it was as alight as the cathedral.
The attendant at the front started at seeing him.
‘Is there Church business here?’
He could say there was; they would not deny him entry, and they were breaking curfew. But there were softer ways that would cause less panic. No one was leaving Silgard; he’d get to the guests’ sins soon enough. There was no need to bring open threat to a party.
‘I’m a guest of the Baron Koriatovych,’ he said instead. ‘He will cover my revelry tax.’
It was nauseatingly easy to slide back into this life and these words. There were few things that felt worse than getting things based on who he was, not what he did. It was different when it was due to his position as a holy inquisitor; that was respect and obedience to the Church as a whole. But the Union’s nobility were simply the rich who had been granted the privilege of taking local governance off the Church’s hands and been rewarded, and they taxed the people to two coffers for it. His family weren’t the worst of them, but the fact that they were here at all meant they’d been fine with joining them in black revelry.
The attendant blinked, taken aback. ‘I... Just a moment.’
Ilan rubbed Vihar’s neck perhaps a bit harder than was called for as the man disappeared into the dazzling house, swallowed by bodies and light. His father might say no. Ilan hadn’t returned his last letter. Or the one before that. Or the one before that, come to think of it.
The man returned, relief on his face.
‘Your sins are paid for. Welcome.’
The words rolled heavy in Ilan’s stomach as he trotted to the entrance and passed Vihar to a waiting stable boy, with a few choice words about consequences if anything should happen to the horse while in his care.
Inside, the stately greys and gold of Silgard were replaced by blush pinks and powder-blues, trays of cakes baked hastily with what scant rations were available and over-iced to hide the flaws, and pale spirits passing briskly. The air was laced with perfumes, but also the odd note of incense. And there were far more people than he expected, elbows and draped fabrics brushing against each other in hurried conversations. Across the vast foyer doors were open to a courtyard garden, where a few younger guests played lawn games on still-yellow grass.
Ilan tugged at his collar, scanning faces. They’d all passed through the city gates and shown their souls; they shouldn’t be corrupted. They clearly felt safe here. They shouldn’t.
A cough echoed behind him.
He turned. A young man he couldn’t quite place stood with fists clenched, the high collar of his braid-trimmed coat undone to reveal scalded red across his neck. The burns were like streaked finger marks against pale clay.
