Because they and every soul who shared dark blood were slaughtered. There were murals devoted to the holy sacrifice of those dying so there was no chance the curse could spring up in future generations.

“If demons can enter Silgard, the city is already lost,” Sandor continued. “This is someone who knows shadow work, but only that. I’m shocked the faith of the former High Inquisitor is so weak.” He slapped his hand down on the stack, dislodging the buried papers. “Even the records are trash. If you thought this so important, you would have been more careful, no?”

Ilan’s frown deepened. He recognized something in that tone. The swagger of someone bluffing their way around doubts so they wouldn’t be questioned.

It was how he became who he was, from when he was eleven and informed his parents he would no longer be answering to the name they’d given him, to seven years later when he offered back his title to join the priesthood. He’d learned to speak like he was comfortable long before he was, claiming the words for what he wanted until experience gave them confidence and weight.

Sandor spoke with authority, but there was a quickness, a weakness behind it that a man serving the Incarnate should have been purged of long ago.

“My faith in the Church remains,” Ilan said, pushing the papers away from Sandor. “You, I don’t know yet. Where in the front were you serving?” If Sandor would push, Ilan could push back. They would see whose footing was secure.

“Banksa. Would you like our list of stops? The names of the men who died in our convoy so you can check them against service records?” Sandor’s gaze purposefully fell back on the pile of notes.

“I respect that an inquisitor is meant to be suspicious,” he continued, “but if you don’t want to work with me perhaps you’d like to join the congregational priests? There is always other work for the faithful.”

Reading books and taking confession, endless talking in sermon and counsel...It was important work, but Ilan never had been one for tedium. Or talking. “That won’t be necessary, Sandor.”

“Inquisitor,” the man corrected. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you time to get used to it.”

Ilan bowed, but his skin prickled with anger and lingering shame. There was no denying that he hadn’t caught the killer. Underneath his quick-flaring anger was that unavoidable truth.

“I’m even going to give you a present, Ilan,” Sandor continued in a jovial tone. “We are going to have to take stricter measures. You wait for evidence of sin before bringing people in. I think they’ll be more encouraged to confess if we act first. You can handle them as you like.”

“The Prelate and I have had this discussion and decided against it. Not everyone here is a sinner.” Silgard’s citizens were still his to protect, and even the pain he gave was a part of that protection.

“No, but anyone could be,” Sandor said, gravel in his tone. “That’s why Asten left. Bring them all in.”

12

Csilla

That night Mihály had talked and she’d listened until his words made sense through the pounding of her head and the heaviness in her bones. She nodded until the blanched moonlight over the trees was replaced by the shell pink of morning and the unfamiliar sounds of woodland creatures rousing.

He showed her more of his talents, including healing the blisters on her heels with a ticklish touch, laughing as she cringed. She’d always been taught things of the body were things of Shadow, the demonic aspect that had sprung up in the making of the physical world. Twinned brilliant and dark natures warred within every person, though she had neither. And when Asten’s wisdom refracted to create the flawed creatures that were humans, perhaps there was something of Their grace present in the flesh. In the blood. In Mihály’s ability to heal.

A soul didn’t make you alive—she was proof enough of that—but surely something in her would change when she had one. Mihály promised the dark spaces within her would become golden when Asten heard her. With a tangible connection to all of creation and him by her side, she’d never be lonely again. She’d be beloved by the city when she saved both it and the seal.

He spun wondrous things, and what’s more, he clearly believed them. Any doubts she had in him were her own weakness, not his.

“What if the Church won’t let you back in the city? Or me?” She touched her mark at the memory of the poison. At least the sin of almost murdering him wouldn’t stain her new soul. “I’m sure they’re being careful.”

He kept one hand on her back as he locked the door.

“And admit they wanted me gone? The people would protest. I won’t say a word of fresh heresy inside the gates, and you’re going to help me prove I had nothing to do with it.” He smiled at her with such devoted attention she wanted to pull her headscarf further over her face with fresh embarrassment. “You’ll be safe with me.”

With Asten’s grace on him, that should be true.

Mihály hummed to himself, off-key, as they walked the long road towards the city. Csilla scowled at his back. Weren’t angels supposed to be good at music?

“Hurry up, Csilla,” he called and she sighed, doubling her pace.

“Do you really walk this way every day?” She wasn’t used to walking so far or on wagon-rutted ground. Fresh blisters were starting to form where he’d just finished healing them.

“Not every day,” he conceded. “I do sleep in town after preaching. But I like the walk. It clears my head.”

Maybe that was what he needed. She’d heard glass clinking and liquids being poured long after she’d laid down to try and catch scant hours of sleep. The only damage it seemed to have done, though, was a little puffiness around his eyes. He looked irritatingly rested and pleasant for someone who’d had less sleep and more drink than she had.

“Do you need me to carry you?” He paused, offering an arm, and she had a sudden and terrible vision of him slinging her over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes, humming all the while. “Or we can wait for a wagon. Lately there’s always someone coming along who will let me catch a ride.”

Of course. Did he not realize his very existence was charmed? She stomped back in step with him.

Ahead was the arching stone of the gates, with all the relief and dread they signified. She was going back to what she knew.

What she thought she’d known. She glanced at Mihály.

“Halt there,” the guard said, approaching. “Izir, good morning.” The man saluted, and Mihály nodded in return. The guard didn’t look suspicious at all, his smile genuine, and after a moment, Csilla recognized him. He’d been in the crowd that night she’d brought the wine that had started this. No wonder Mihály didn’t have trouble getting in and out of the city.

“Must we?” he said as the man presented a small polished piece of glass, smooth as a tumbled river stone. She still smiled to see the little piece, one of thousands of shards taken from the miracle forest of Szente Gellert. When he was lost, Asten turned all the trees to glass so he might find his way. Now that same glass, shattered and dispersed, was a signpost directing every sinner back to brilliance. In the old days, miracles were tangible— the creative force of the divine, momentarily held in human hands.

Just like her healed hand and feet.

“If you would, Izir.”

Mihály shrugged and held out his hand.

Why was the man closing his eyes?

Mihály touched the glass, and Csilla winced as it flared white, then settled to a silvery sheen that faded as he removed his hand.

“And you, miss?”

Csilla kept her hands at her sides, though her curled fingers tapped against her palms. “You let me out this morning, don’t you remember? I live here.”

The man gave a little laugh. “And who knows what you were up to while you were out. No offense.” His smile was much warmer than Csilla’s strained one.

She reached out and pressed her index finger to the glass, a divot worn down by the fingerprints of thousands.

No reaction.

The guard frowned. “I’ve never seen that before. Try the other one, and I’ll turn it over.” Csilla hesitated. He would see her cut palm, and know her shame.

“It won’t help,” Mihály said, gently moving in front of Csilla in a protective gesture that warmed her. “But she’s no demon. She’ll be working with me while we try to figure this out.”

“I’m not supposed to... I mean, we have to be careful.” The man’s lips were pressed white-thin. “We have rules. Especially now.”

Csilla’s heart lodged in her throat as anger bloomed in her chest. She’d told Mihály this would happen. This was her home. She could see the spires of the cathedral from where they were standing, smell the muck of the river on the breeze. It was choking after the crisp pine of the forest, but it was hers, and though she’d never voiced it, in her bones she’d thought the city knew it, too.