37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

Acknowledgements

Also By Cate Baumer

1

Csilla

There was an art to mercy. It was science, in the measured drops of poppy milk to ease pain, the days a child needed in the womb. It was faith, too. Everything was.

Csilla was as competent at tending the ill as anyone raised as a kindly hand of the Church, but faith was where she excelled. Faith that her service made a difference, despite its ceaseless demands.

Despite the fact that no matter how well she did for it, the Church would never care. Every time she touched a consecrated object and left it dull, she revealed the truth of herself: soulless, and darkly singular for it.

“How are you feeling?” Csilla asked, waving Elmere to the unsteady firelight of his hearth, hoping as always that her treatments had finally taken root and there would be no work here save a prayer of thanks. But dark-edged lesions still bloomed on his face and neck, and the wool over his elbows and knees had rubbed thin against his swollen joints. Bitter winter was hard on everyone in Silgard, but the old, sick, and poor always suffered most.

Every day new smoke carried the ashes of the dead through the air of the brilliant city, from those delivered to their maker by illness, or hunger, or battlefront injuries that refused to heal as soldiers died cursing an absent god.

Then there were the other bodies dragged out of the city gates before dawn, bloodless corpses swaddled and bound with ink-smeared strips of knotted scripture.

It’s not for you to worry about, dearest, Elder Ágnes had said when Csilla asked why they weren’t being blessed, and washed, and burned.

But worry was the only thing that came as easily to her as care.

The lines on Elmere’s face deepened with a grimace. His teeth were loose against his thin lips. “Better than I was.”

Csilla poured blessed water onto fresh linen and dabbed at the open wounds. They did look cleaner, free of pus or crusting edges.

“Surprised you’re working alone,” Elmere continued, tilting his chin so she could continue her ministrations. “Do I owe you more deference now?”

But they could both see her overdress was a grim stained color that could charitably be called off-white, not the gray worn for mercy work.

Csilla held up her palm, pale and unscarred by the Prelate’s holy knife, and offered a smile she hoped looked less pained than it felt. “Not yet. The fevers have everyone busy. Ágnes is just next door.”

“A treat for me then,” Elmere laughed, and Csilla’s smile turned more genuine, her cheeks flushing with the simple pleasure of being seen. Her patients never minded who their care came from as long as it came with gentleness. Or if they did, they were polite enough not to mention it in her presence.

She pulled a bottle of distilled herbs mixed with just enough of their strongest syrup to blunt any pains from her leather sack, the final piece of today’s mercy. The glass picked up the fire’s glow, becoming almost a lantern as it bent light into the corners of the dim and dusty room.

“Don’t drink it all at once,” she cautioned as he eyed the bottle and its liquid hope. The poppy syrup in the church was almost gone. There were too many suffering, too little in the stores, and no way to get more of the precious pods to milk until warmer months. She’d exhausted every text they had, cut recipes down to the bone and shaved off further shards in hope of extending them, studied miracles and history and come up with nothing better than that people would die.

But fewer of them than otherwise, if she kept to her work.

“I won’t,” he promised, hands not stirring from his lap. Odd. Usually he poured a cup and they chatted while she boiled water for hot compresses and fixed up what she could to spare him trouble, sweeping rushes or mending oil-paper windows, and wishing she could give him better. It wasn’t like the Church was lacking.

“You’re feeling that well?” She grabbed the rough handle of his iron pot with both hands and heaved it up to the hook over the fire, breath short with the exertion. Being used to the work didn’t make the pots any less heavy.

When she glanced back, Elmere’s face was alight with a strange sincerity, rheumy eyes solemn and lips curved up. “What?” Csilla asked, unable to keep the fondness from her voice. Elmere had been her patient since she was twelve, tolerant of gaping bandages and clumsy adolescent fingers as she learned the art of care. Eight years on, and he still sometimes slipped her pieces of rosewater candy on her way out, when he could afford them. “You look like you have a secret.”

He touched his lips in acknowledgement, and her skin prickled.

“I went to see the Izir.” Elmere’s voice slipped into reverence.

Csilla turned so quickly she bumped the pot, spilled water sizzling to faint mist in the flame. “Oh?”

Izir were rare, descendants of the angels who walked the world of salt and blood before the Severing and those humans they had loved. There had been one in town for weeks, not that the endless work of tending the sick gave her leave to gawk. He certainty didn’t come by the church; blooded divinity had no need of intercession.

Elmere nodded, gesturing to his pocked skin. “He heals, child.”

The lesions weren’t healed, but if Elmere was feeling better, that was a true blessing. “How?” A hundred litanies crawled through her throat. Where there were blessings, there should be praise.

The old man’s laugh was a bark. “Through Asten eternal. Virtues and vices, didn’t the church teach you anything?” She bit the inside of her cheek at his teasing as he continued. “He heals with a touch, and he has the most marvelous voice. Makes one think of how Silgard must have been in glory.”

There had been a time when the streets glowed with the divinity of the those who walked on them, every footstep a benediction. Saints and angels had made this city on a river the locus of the faith, nestled safely in the center of the territories of the Immaculate Union, and built walls of stone inlaid with prayers to last until the material world fell to dust.

But that was when their god still found the world worthy of notice. Now when the walls cracked they were repaired with nothing more than earthly mortar, and the only things that watched from on high were vigilant pigeons.

“One day we’ll be gloried again,” she said, words tripping off her tongue as easily as song. “Once every soul is brilliant.” It was the Church’s most important charge. Asten may have left, but perfect obedience would lure Them back and wash the world clean, would allow the angels to return and bring a second golden age. It was only the fact that humans were a corrupted creation in the first place that made obedience so hard.

“He might get you a miracle too, you know.” Elmere’s voice was soft, but the words chafed as she bowed her head for a prayer to blessed Arany, whose sacrifice had kept humanity’s hope alive long centuries ago. It was kind of him to say, but there was no miracle for something like her. Not even in a city built on one.

2

Ilan

There was little pleasure in burning a man when it produced such dismal results. The high inquisitor scowled at the pinkened strips along the shaking merchant’s forearm, skin that would soon shrivel to blisters. “I’ve already told you everything,” the man gasped. “The cheating I’ll give you, but I didn’t have anything to do with that girl’s murder. Mercy. Please.”

Ilan’s lips thinned at the impotent plea. He set the iron rod back in the fire, gaze lingering on the steady orange smolder that gave the windowless room a smoke-tinged glow of golden holiness. He’d been sure of this lead. Multiple witnesses had testified they’d seen the man prowling the dank riverbank in the mornings, right where the latest death had been. The man himself had confessed to sabotaging his neighbor’s eel traps so readily Ilan had been sure it was a ruse.

But he really was just that easily cowed, a cheat wanting to be the only option for serving eel pies when the city opened its doors to celebrate the Incarnate’s return from the war front. Failure scored him as surely as the marks he’d left on the crook, and Ilan let his hand linger on the metal until the heat stalked back up it, ready to scald.

“Hold out your hand.”

The merchant uncurled his tense fingers, wincing as if expecting to have them broken.

Ilan fished a piece of consecrated glass from his pocket and placed it on the man’s sweat-slick palm, murmuring a cleansing invocation.

The misshapen piece, broken off an older miracle and worn smooth by years of sinners’ touches, glowed with soft light as it read the man’s soul. The taint of guilty Shadow present before Ilan’s care had been brushed away by the confession like the soil covering a buried gem. A small satisfaction eased the knot in Ilan’s stomach. He’d set one part of the city right tonight.