“Send me to the front.” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew the hope was fool’s gold. More and more people had been conscripted for the holy task of spreading the Union’s borders in hopes that it would coax Asten into a full return, and a place in the war was a common punishment, one that came with the promise of inherent salvation in taking blows for the mission. And where there were injured, there was a need for nursing.
She would gladly accept that. It would be a gift.
“No. You will never represent the faith again, not even on the battlefield. You’ll leave with no tongue to speak of what happened and fewer fingers to sign and write.”
Fear drenched Csilla. She’d live on charity, if she managed to live at all. She’d seen wounds full of gangrene and people who starved after that kind of justice.
“Prelate, please.” It was Ágnes who stepped in front of her. “Her life will be hard enough. No one will believe anything she says regardless.”
“Of course a mercy worker would think so.” He turned to Ilan. “Inquisitor. Give me your honest opinion of our justice.”
Csilla met Ilan’s pale blue eyes. He wouldn’t be swayed by pleading, but she could at least keep her chin up and hope.
“I told you I’d do what was asked.”
Of course he wouldn’t speak for her. He was probably looking forward to hearing her scream.
“I know we have your loyalty, Ilan. I asked for your honesty. Our head of mercy has asked for her virtue to reign in this judgment. As head of obedience, I disagree. I see no reason to call for knowledge, but I will let justice be the deciding vote.”
Ilan’s eyes didn’t leave Csilla, but there was a distance to his gaze that had her doubt he was seeing her at all. Whatever he was thinking, it was a private war in which she was a piece, not a person.
After too-long seconds, he stepped back and crossed his arms. “Honestly? I’d rather we bring the Izir here directly. Punish the source of the crime not your own mis...” He closed his mouth, and took a moment as Csilla gaped and the Prelate inclined his head in silent warning. “She failed at an unfair task. But, again, I defer to the will of the divine.”
The Prelate looked between his head of justice and the head of mercy, then at Csilla herself. Her first instinct, trained when she was small and unloved, was to smile and placate, and by his blink of surprise, she hadn’t quite smothered it. Not many smiled in the face of execution.
“Very well. We will only take back your place.”
Perhaps there was the smallest note of relief there; Csilla herself was too relieved to notice.
“And I thank you for that,” Ágnes said quietly as she moved to put an arm across Csilla’s chest and laid her head against Csilla’s own. “Be brave.” Her arms had no strength to hold but Csilla stood frozen anyway, the realization of what Abe was about to do finally landing.
He was going to cross the scar she’d been so proud to bear and show the world she was no longer of the Church. Every protest died in her throat as her pulse echoed with the flicker of firelight on the blade.
“This is a kindness you should remember when you think of the Faith.” His voice was soft as he took her hand and pressed it against the wooden counter. “We could have mutilated you so your soulless tongue couldn’t speak against the Church or sent you to the north to starve.”
She nodded. This pain would be a goodness. She would repeat it over and over until she believed it.
“Stay still,” Ágnes said. It was an order she’d heard a thousand times, fussing as a child, mind and feet wandering during lectures. She’d never heard it with tears behind it before.
Abe pulled the knife across her palm and a thin line of blood split the scar, white at the corners of her vision.
In the doorway the Inquisitor watched with narrow eyes, making no reaction to Csilla’s gagging cry of pain.
She’d been accepted for less than one day. The humiliation was worse than the cut. Abe claimed he was showing her kindness, but she’d find no warmth anywhere.
Ágnes led her out of the kitchens by her uninjured hand, and for a brief second Csilla wanted nothing more than to be a child again, warmed by the belief that everything would be right in her world as long as she was good.
But she hadn’t been good enough, and there was no one to blame but herself.
“I’ll prepare some things for you. We won’t throw you out empty-handed.”
The gratitude was warm until the finality of it scalded. “I’m sorry to be such a disappointment.” She’d grown up telling herself if she were better, quieter, the first to offer comfort, the one who knew every prayer, everything would be all right. That the faith served Asten, and everyone had a place, and hers was at Ágnes’ side in service.
“I understand your choice,” Ágnes replied as she led her up twisted stairs towards her own rooms.
But she didn’t deny that Csilla was a disappointment.
“It’s not fair!” Csilla clenched her hands until she felt the slice of fingernails into her palm, digging at the fresh wound and not caring how it hurt. “I’ve done nothing but serve since I was a child. I’ve cared for the people of this city, cared for our people—“ The end of her sentence was lost in memories of other wounds, other tears, and the comfort she’d tried to offer.
Ágnes sighed. “It’s up to a higher judgment than ours. The rules are to show us...”
“Show mercy to souls in need, keep them safe and whole so they can be guided to brilliance. Isn’t that what we’re taught?” The tears were coming faster now, her words interrupted only by tiny gasps.
“Souls, Csilla.” Ágnes shook her head. “All my prayers weren’t good enough for a miracle. Perhaps I’m the one who should have been better.”
The resignation in her tone stilled Csilla’s heart. The elderly woman led her to a window where the light was good and wrapped oil-soaked cotton and linen over the bleeding hand. Csilla had always healed quickly, but she didn’t have the strength to advocate for saving the supplies for those worse off, and her selfish heart craved that last bit of care. “But I don’t know anything but here.” Worse, there was nowhere in the Immaculate Union that would fully trust her, and nowhere on the continent that wouldn’t belong to the Union soon enough. The edges of the wall that protected the sanctity of the city teased her eyes, rising just above rooftops and smoke to divide the brilliant city from a world that tried its best to fall to Shadow.
Each roof was a story of the lives inside, people she’d fed, babies she’d watched delivered—some red and squalling, some gray and silent—old and young hands she’d held as the bodies of their loved ones were taken for burning.
There might be work outside the city, but this was the only work that mattered.
“Perhaps someone will take you in.” Ágnes suggested, a sigh in the words. “At least then you wouldn’t be far.”
Csilla closed her eyes, let her lids grow heavy. There was a better chance of Asten returning this second than finding someone willing to take responsibility for a cross-marked soulless girl in the holiest city of the Union.
Except perhaps Mihály. The memory of his warm-honey gaze crept over her.
He’d come back for her. He’d tried to warn her.
