The Church couldn’t compete with such direct intercession.

Ilan watched a moment longer, sweat on his back and breath shallow. Then turned and strode back to the church, bypassing the airy light of the worship hall and heading straight to the Prelate’s room.

The young attendant dozing outside startled as Ilan strode past, shoving open the door without knocking.

Abe was at his desk with an open copy of the writ before him and a letter in one liver-spotted hand, the translucent wax of the Incarnate’s seal crumbling on the edges of the paper. The Prelate tilted his head in admonishment, but Ilan spoke before he could be scolded. “The Izir was at the gates. He was looking for Csilla. He implied that she tried to kill him.”

The staccato words sounded all the more ridiculous leaving his mouth. He’d once seen Csilla carrying a mouse in her skirts, protecting it from the cats, cats who took more of her dinner than she did with her worry over their care. Soul or no, she was a perfect reflection of steady mercy.

Abe paled.

Ilan’s heartbeat quickened. He’d seen that look of guilt on hundreds of faces, and it didn’t belong in his church.

“Thank you for telling me.” Abe pushed away from his desk and reached for his knife. The blade gleamed in the light thrown by the stained glass behind them, the halo of Blessed Imre consecrating the metal in pale yellow and milk white.

His reply was far from a denial of the accusation.

“Is there any truth to what the Izir was saying?”

Abe’s hand spread on the open letter as if performing benediction. “We have permission to root out evil in the city. It would solve one problem.”

“By sending a girl to kill...” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. There were already unholy deaths in the city. Adding a holy one to the body count didn’t seem helpful.

“She clearly didn’t.” The Prelate’s words dripped with blame. “Or perhaps there’s another explanation. We can be charitable.”

He didn’t sound like he intended to be. Ilan opened his mouth, but his words were stilled by Abe’s raised hand. “This was a direct order from the Incarnate, a way the girl’s flaw could be useful in protecting the faith. Are you going to argue?”

“Of course not.” The answer left his mouth automatically. Asten spoke directly to the Incarnate. If Ilan found it unsettling it was his own weakness, and one he’d do well to carve out at the first opportunity. “I only wish you’d told me.”

He could have set the whole thing to rights last night, taking up the holy charge where Csilla had failed if they’d trusted him. Old insecurities threatened to rise like sour bile. He would have succeeded. He would have enjoyed it.

The Prelate smiled with clamped teeth. “It was best we kept it quiet. But you can come and witness for us now.”

“What, you’re going to kill her, too?” He couldn’t picture Abe putting the blade to her throat, the blood spray of a slaughtered lamb painting the pearl white of his robes.

The older man swallowed, hesitation in his eyes. “No, there’s been no order for that. But if she refuses to serve, she can’t stay. We’ll take her tongue. Her hands, too, if you think she’d survive it.”

“She wouldn’t.” There was nothing righteous about mutilating a girl with no soul to save to cover a failure. But he wouldn’t stand against the faith’s judgment; if they wanted him to punish her, he would. The fact that they hadn’t asked him to take on the task in the first place only showed he still had more to prove. Those sworn to the faith were more than servants. They were tools, shaping the world into something Asten could love again. That was more important than any one life.

He wouldn’t think about how she shook tucked in front of him on Vihar, her small hands and their years of thankless work. “If that is Asten’s will, so be it.” He’d borrow a little of her kindness and make the cuts as clean as possible.

7

Csilla

The slice-thunk of knife through onion was repetitive enough to be soothing and quick enough to distract. Kitchen preparations were hardly Csilla’s favorite duty, but today she was grateful. She could be alone, with only the cat twining around her feet waiting for her generosity, and any watering eyes could be blamed on the onion sting.

Had Mihály run? It was the only question that mattered. If he’d been wise and left the city, she might have a prayer of staying. She would have at least gotten the trouble out, and that had been the result they’d wanted. Even if every second of her continued service was a lie.

The cat, Erzsébet, batted at her skirt hem, catching a dangling string and rolling, fiercely defeating the cloth. As Csilla glanced down with a sigh for the new fabric now fraying, and the cat gave a hungry and hopeful yowl.

“You can’t even eat these. Bad for cats,” Csilla cautioned, leaning over to scratch the tabby between her ears and earning a swat at her hand. At least Erzsébet pulled her claws this time.

When she looked up, Ágnes was in the doorway.

Csilla’s smile fell at the sorrow in Ágnes’s expression. The woman had aged a dozen years in the span of as many hours.

“Oh, my Csilla.”

All the weight of the world was in those soft notes. Csilla’s throat closed, and she set her knife down.

“Show me your hand.” Ágnes gestured, and Csilla had the immediate urge to shove it in her apron pocket like a child insisting her fist wasn’t full of sweets. But she wasn’t a child, and she couldn’t lie. She uncurled her fingers one by one and offered her palm.

The truth of where she’d been and who she’d let touch her was undeniable on her skin.

“So it’s true.” Ágnes‘ voice quivered.

Csilla’s breath quickened as apologies, excuses, and confessions all struggled to come out at once. I showed mercy. I made a kind judgment. She needed Ágnes to see how well she’d paid attention to everything she’d been taught, but her nerves failed, and she stayed silent, back pressed against the counter.

“I don’t blame you,” Ágnes said as she squeezed the blasphemous hand, the words so quiet it was as if she were afraid of even their god overhearing. “But I’d hoped they were wrong.”

“They?” For a dizzy moment Csilla thought she was referring to blessed Asten. Had her weakness been so wicked They’d sent Ágnes a personal vision to torment her? But Asten could never be wrong.

Ágnes didn’t let her go. “The Church knows you didn’t do it.”

How? The question scratched, but it was smothered by the older woman’s sudden, uncontrollable cough. Sharp worry seized Csilla, and she swallowed down the lump in her throat. “Mihály heals. If you talk to him...”

Ágnes caught her breath. “Mihály? You speak of him like a friend now?” The disappointment in her tone was worse than any childhood slap. “We taught you mercy, but perhaps you drank too deeply. Obedience is an equal virtue. As is justice.”

Everything in creation was balanced. Even mercy had counterweights.

Csilla’s answer was cut off as Abe and Ilan entered. Her eyebrows knitted together at the grim procession. Of course the Inquisitor had been the one to turn her in. He should have taken her directly to the gates and thrown her out if this was how it was going to end. Why even pretend to care whether she returned safely? Why pretend he hadn’t known?

“Csilla,” Abe said, and she stepped into the cat, who gave an indignant hiss that nearly made her laugh; Erzsébet wouldn’t understand the gravity. She looked from face to face—sorrowful, judgmental, indifferent. “The Izir showed up at our gates asking about you. How is that, assuming you did the task we entrusted to you?”

Mihály. Here. Even after what she’d done he’d come for her. The thought gave her a kernel of heart. He’d known her an hour and offered her more grace than those who had raised her.

“Was there some intervention?” the Prelate continued. “A reason it didn’t work, perhaps?”

He was trying to excuse her, Ágnes nodding at the gentle question. It was kind, but futile.

“I gave him a tainted bottle.” She was always careful with her words, but she could never resist adding a little extra truth to lay herself bare. “After telling him it was poisoned.”

“Csilla." Ágnes sagged against the countertop, and Csilla blinked away new tears. It was horrible enough that her only family had to hurt, but it was hot-iron agony to be the cause of the pain. She should shut her mouth to anything except apologies, and pray they were enough of a balm.

But there were more truths she had to say, lest they choke her where she stood.