She glanced down, freshly flustered. “Not in so many words.”

“The church was very foolish to let you go.” He gave her hand a squeeze and withdrew before she even realized she’d started to welcome it.

13

Csilla

Walking with Mihály in the evening air, dressed in borrowed finery, was like walking through a new city. He drew light wherever he went, illuminating her to the eyes of the people whether she wanted it or not. She’d never been one to be envied, but now people watched as he slowed his steps to match hers or stopped to convince a street vendor to give Csilla a taste of whatever was on offer, sometimes from his hand to her lips, smothering any objection. It was difficult to form questions while reeling from the fact that his finger had almost been in her mouth.

And no one ignored her.

They came to a row of shed houses, pressed one against the other, what had once been something larger pressed and portioned to fit in more of the faithful. He knocked on the door, and his posture shifted. He drew himself up, folded his hands, and Csilla did likewise.

The door was opened by an older man, his thin nose pinched by wire-rim glasses and his beard shot through with goose-feather gray. His face softened in recognition, but a flutter of hesitation shot over his features as he noticed Csilla.

She smiled anyway. It didn’t help.

“I was waiting for you. You alone.” He raised an eyebrow. “I recognize you, girl. You were there in the square.”

The night she’d chosen to disobey.

The man leaned on the doorway, blocking any view of the interior. “Misi, you usually don’t indulge your lovesick little doves.”

Mihály raised his hand in a placating gesture before Csilla could interject. “Please, let us in before you start making assumptions.”

It was at least warmer inside as they stepped into a single large room serving as both a kitchen and sitting area, a ladder leading to a loft above. Coughs sounded from the house next door where wall pressed against wall.

“My name is Csilla.” She might as well make this a little less awkward. A slight echo bounced off the high beams; save the table and a few wooden chests, the room was unfurnished. Perhaps he was new to Silgard. The room held things, but their haphazard placement and the lack of even a personal icon or homespun cloth gave it the air of being a mere house, no one’s home.

“Herre Tamas,” the older man introduced himself. “Sit.”

“My mentor,” Mihály explained, and Csilla’s eyes widened. Her expression earned a laugh from Tamas.

“Oh believe me, the pupil has far exceeded the teacher. I take no responsibility for him.” There was a fond note of complaint as he shifted a few papers heaped with powders and tiny tinctures in amber bottles, the kind she’d seen Mihály use for his tea, and the tablecloth was soaked in places with drops of greasy oils. “How are your spells, Misi? I’ve got something else for you to try.” He held up a small bottle, brown glass glowing amber in the firelight. “In moderation.”

Mihály examined it, then slipped it into his pocket. “I appreciate it.”

Csilla pressed her lips thin. Something else to be on the lookout for. She’d seen various kinds of “spells,” shaking fits, catatonias, ravings. Though by the pungency of the treatment, she wondered if any supposed affliction was simply the tremors of someone kept too long off their spirits.

“So what are you doing with this strange little bird? I saw you with that wine, child,” he said before Csilla could jump in. “You think he can help you?”

The tone of his voice twisted her hope into a pitiful thing, like he thought her a child as well, sure she could get a miracle. How much did he know of what Mihály did well away from the eye of Asten?

“I-”

“What do you know about demons?” Mihály cut in. “You were a servant of the road, you tended seals.”

This man had also left the Church. Now that she was looking, the old cut scars of his palm were visible, though long since faded into other wrinkles.

“Getting right to the point, eh? You’ve been speaking to the refugees? They know more of broken seals than I do.”

“Refugees?” Csilla frowned. There had been more people coming to the city, but refugees and war orphans were tended closer to the lines. Silgard was at the center of all but particularly close to none. “I noticed more people, but I thought...”

“Thought they were coming to welcome the Incarnate back from his holy campaign?” There was a wry twist to the man’s lips. “Maybe he will have vanquished all the Shadow breaking free before he returns. May Asten’s will prevail.”

Csilla reached for a mark that was no longer there, her hand brushing gauzy fabric instead of iron. “All the more reason to keep the city safe.” She swallowed and swiped a finger over her knuckles instead. Children learned the four points of their finger joints could stand in for the consecrated tool.

Mihály put a hand on her shoulder, though it felt more like being pushed into acting as a shield than serving as comfort. “Csilla has asked for my help in catching the killer.”

Tamas stiffened, heavy brows drawing together. “You have no business with that.”

“Do I not? This is my home, too.”

The man shook his head. “Don’t get involved. You’re too valuable...”

“More valuable than anyone else in the city?” There was no vanity in his tone.

“Honestly, yes. And I don’t see what either of you get out of this. Unless...” He turned to Csilla, about to speak, when Mihály cut him off.

“She’s agreed to help me, and I’ll help her.”

The older man let out a woofing breath. “Oh no. You leave the poor girl and whatever savior complex she’s got alone.”

“Sir.” Csilla’s fingers rubbed nervously together, though she tried to keep them still. “I don’t have many options, and he is helping me...”

“Did he tell you why he came to this city in the first place?” The man leaned back, crossing his arms over his thin chest. At this angle the light caught his glasses, hiding his eyes.

“To preach, I assume.”

Tamas’ laugh caught her by the throat. “What a dear thing you are. Cathedral-raised?”

Her little nod felt like a confession. Tamas may have left the Church, but the judgemental look she knew from growing up was still stamped on his face.

“Misi is here because he was expelled.”

The Izir’s face was dark, but he didn’t protest. Csilla turned, her mouth dry. The little dead things in his barn...it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to change the world with blood. He’d shown her as much.

“He has always been the first to try things he shouldn’t, and he went too far. He came out of his experiment thinking that despite the…mistake…he could still get what he wants, that it was everyone else who was wrong. And if you’re now what he wants, you’d be smart to run.”

Something small knotted in the pit of Csilla’s stomach. Tamas said run, but there was nowhere to go. Silgard was her home.

“Do you think he can give me a soul?” That was what she needed to focus on. Saving the city and herself so she could go back to saving others.

Tamas paused, and Csilla’s hopes dangled on the filament of the second. It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no.

He reached for a pipe, hands fumbling with the tobacco tin. “This is dangerous stuff.”