He really didn't know, and her heart skipped at the incongruity. The church was hiding her task even from their appointed minister of justice.
"I...I was curious." She twisted strands of Vihar's coarse mane around her fingers as she spoke the shallow lie, but it was simple enough it might not be questioned.
"I thought better of you than that."
Her cheeks burned that he'd ever thought of her at all.
The cathedral was as central to the city as Silgard was to the Union, and Csilla gritted her teeth and gripped the front of the saddle as they moved into a high-stepping trot that carried them until they finally reached the broad cathedral courtyard. The clouds had blown away and the stars were out, their sparkle adding an extra layer of infinity as the gold-plated spires reached toward the silver speckle above.
In the center of it all was the statue of Arany, the golden feathers of her eight wings and a dozen gold-dripping eyes alight from the ever-glowing candle fires at her feet. The shadow of her judgment was inescapable. She'd died so the world could still be good, and Csilla was leaving her legacy in tatters.
Ilan brought Vihar to a halt. "You can let yourself in from here. And for all the saints, stay off the streets at night."
Csilla slid off the horse and smiled as Vihar reached around to lip her hand in case the small miracle of a treat appeared. She clucked her tongue, about to tell the sweet thing that he had to wait for breakfast, just as she did.
The little warm feeling died as she realized Ilan was still staring at her, waiting for acknowledgment.
"I will?" It wasn't like she'd wanted to be out there anyway.
He nudged Vihar away, trotting hoofbeats echoing on the church's stone walls as they faded into the dark.
Arany's eyes followed her to the church's door. The shame of disobedience chafed, and the only thing stemming her rising desperation to apologize was that she wasn't sure who she should apologize to.
There was still light in the sanctuary hall, the tall glass windows lit with a ghostly glow and a crack of pale orange visible under the heavy doors. No doubt the Prelate was there, tending the ever-seeing eye. He would ask what had happened, force her to take refuge in a lie or admit the truth and break herself.
Both were intolerable. Csilla crept away from the doorway, toward the darkness of her room. She could at least rest before facing punishment for ill-timed mercy.
6
Ilan
Ilan touched each whip, clamp, and tool of confession lightly, every piece in its place and scrubbed clean. The unblemished leather was a sign of a meek city. Still, his fingers itched. For all his patrolling the night had turned up nothing worse than a few citizens far enough in the bottle to tip to belligerence and Csilla, shaken and bleeding from her own clumsiness and bad decisions. But Csilla was none of his concern, and drunkeness was a sin that could easily be paid in coin. It was ill luck on his part that the current Incarnate had ruled gold as cleansing as blood for all but the worst sins or poorest sinners. A war was a costly thing, even a righteous one. When the large fought, the small under their control paid, be it the gentry taxing farmers or the church taxing sinners. It was the way of things, and he had no right to complain just because it was boring.
And saints knew there was plenty else to keep his mind occupied. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the gape-mouthed and mutilated bodies, and even though they’d done their best to keep the truth of the murders quiet, the city was half-mad with heresy he wasn’t allowed to squash. The Izir’s holy ancestors would scream. The angels themselves built the Church as a bridge to help flawed humanity approach the divine, and now their son was burning it and claiming the ashes revelation. Even Csilla had gone to hear him out, and she wasn’t the first from the church to do so.
A steady drum beat driven by frustration and lack of sleep pounded behind his eyes.
“Inquisitor?” One of the priests was in the doorway, her lined forehead further wrinkled with concern. Ilan drew his shoulders back, eyeing the goldenrod yellow at her throat and sleeves. Few congregational priests came to the torture room, though they were happy enough to send others there. Hearts of iron and stomachs of silk, the lot of them.
“Yes?”
“There’s a problem. Out front.”
The worry in her voice shouldn’t have excited him.
The Izir had six of the faithful stopped on the street, distracting them from spending the morning in respectable prayer with promises that reeked of Shadow and children’s tales.
The penitents scattered as Ilan approached, but the man didn’t move. The subtle aura of the divine surrounded him like a perfume, calling hearts to trust and adulation. Even Ilan wasn’t fully immune; as the Izir looked up, his golden brown eyes widening, there was a pinch of a moment where Ilan thought perhaps he did deserve attention, if only for being so beautiful.
The smallest of moments but no less irritating for being brief.
Ilan pointed down the street, past the church walls to where refuse was dragged. “If you won’t keep your heresy out of our city, you can at least keep it away from our door.”
The Izir’s lips quirked as he gestured to the statue in the courtyard, watching them with each of her carved and gleaming eyes. The gold seemed brighter for his presence. “Am I not allowed to visit family? I have business here.”
“If you’ve come to repent, I’d be more than happy to help.” Ilan’s pulse quickened at the thought of dragging the Izir into the depth of the church and flogging his ideas out of him. Fantasizing about beating an angel was probably somewhere on the sin ledgers, the cleansing invocation set at an exorbitant price, but the thought of this man’s handsome face cracking was deeply pleasing. One strike for every person who’d had the misfortune of hearing him would be enough to bring even this heretic back to rights. He’d wreck his throat begging for forgiveness.
“I’m sure you would!” The laugh in Mihály’s tone was close enough to mockery that Ilan couldn’t suppress a snarl. “But I’m here for Csilla.”
Ilan’s shoulders straightened. “Last night she was running away from you.” Everyone had heard the Izir yelling after her. It was admirable of her to have run, really. Ilan had scolded half the city for panting after the angel.
“It was a misunderstanding. She fell out the window.”
As if that were better. Ilan shook his head. “She wouldn’t have fallen if she hadn’t already been trying to leave. Now, unless you are here to renounce your heresy, go away. I have more pressing problems than you.” Heresy could be rectified. Death, barring divine intervention, could not.
By the wry smile on the Izir’s face, he knew the order was empty, and Ilan could sense claws beneath the gloves in the murmuring crowd. The city had little love for the person who kept their feet on the path of righteousness with iron shoes. Far easier to follow something offering hope that didn’t require sacrifice.
The Izir scratched at his beard, then shrugged. “You know if I stand here and tell you no, there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it?”
Perhaps flogging wasn’t the right path. Cutting out his tongue would be far more useful. “If she’d wanted you, she would have stayed.”
The statement troubled him as soon as it left his lips. He could understand Csilla’s desires, but why would the Izir want her? Csilla didn’t have a soul for him to sway.
“I can help her.”
