“You’ll still be you,” he promised, eyes earnest. “That I know. But yes. I see souls. I see ghosts. Even if no one believes me.”
She looked again at the scar, a stark warning on his skin. She believed him. That didn’t mean it was safe. “What if you can’t do it?”
Offense flashed over his face, and then he softened. “Then at least we’ve caught the killer. You can stay, the faithful girl who delivered them from a monster. I’m no worse off. I’ve failed before. I can handle it.”
She could save everyone and be saved in turn. She wanted so badly for it to be true, even as her eyes flicked back to the corpses. Graced Rozalia, her mind whispered, conjuring images of the miracle of preservation, the perfect corpse said to still rest in the cathedral. There was precedent for miracles requiring death.
Mihály placed his hands over her free one, pressing her palm as if praying through her skin. “Asten brought us together for a reason. I’m the only person who can help you. And you are the only one who can prove I’m right.”
She swallowed. Their meeting did have an uncomfortable ring of fate. The church taught there was nothing without purpose.
“If you can’t trust me,” Mihály continued. “Trust Them. You made the right choice in coming to me.”
“I have faith in Them,” she answered. But she’d never had a reason to spare much faith on herself and doubt was a worm gnawing at the hope trying to root.
“And me?”
He brushed his fingers over the mark on her cloak, and a starry silver glitter danced on the surface. He was right— he was chosen. Trusting in one meant trusting in the other and that’s what she had been raised to do. She closed her eyes, blocking out the dim and stinking barn, the ruined creatures, everything but the warmth of the man in front of her.
“Yes.”
11
Ilan
Nothing good ever came of sudden meetings. He’d been planning to track down Csilla and question her about her little act of theft, but the muster bells ringing urgent summons stopped his feet, and the eyes of the other priests forced him to follow into the chapter house. There wouldn’t be a way to explain where he was going without the galling admission that a combination of exhaustion and misguided pity had resulted in what could be the largest leak in their investigation.
There were far too many clergy gathered in the dim room. Ordinarily the chapter house held a half dozen members or so as their committees debated the daily workings of keeping order: food, supplies, sanitation, changes to service. All necessary tasks, but none requiring so many hands for approval.
Elder Abe stood before them with a broad, dark-haired man dressed in the cream and silver cassock of the Incarnate’s service, though the hem hung above his ankles and black soil crumbled from beneath his boots with each step. Ilan frowned at the little clumps dotting the stone floor. The roads were damp this fickle time of year, but a wiser servant would have changed shoes before creating more work for his fellow faithful. They didn’t wear road boots to service.
“Sandor has come to us at a fortunate time,” the Prelate said. The stranger nodded at his name, raising a heavy hand in greeting. A gold and ivory seal ring decorated his small finger, oddly delicate in contrast to the thick joint. “He has been sent by the Incarnate in response to the troubles.”
So this was their stand-in. Ilan let out a sharp breath as others raised their voices in praise. He, the Prelate, and others had all written to the Incarnate, urging him to hasten his return to the brilliant city. War and taxes and council would mean little if the church lost its power.
But the Incarnate didn’t come, and the stranger looked to be a poor substitute.
“Indeed. He apologizes for his delay; one man can travel more quickly than his convoy, and there has been far more....trouble than anticipated.” The man addressed them in a rolling voice that carried easily through the murmurs. “I would like for the head inquisitor to come and tell me what we know so far.”
“You’ve gotten my letters, no doubt?” This man should already know everything. Everything Ilan had been allowed to write, anyway.
“Things get missed. The farther out you go, the worse the roads are. And what has arrived is still with his divinity.”
Ilan hoped there were letters missed, waylaid by a lame horse or a late-season freeze. If the Incarnate didn’t know how bad it was, his absence could be excused. Even the Incarnate couldn’t always count on the voice of Asten to speak clearly.
He scratched his tongue against clenched teeth as he walked past the muttering servants to the front of the room, their eyes like poking sticks. “There have been four deaths, all marked with demonic symbols.” Ilan kept his tone neutral, but the quiet voices grew into a buzz like flies that needed swatting. “I asked for a script expert. Would I be right in assuming that’s you?”
Someone in the back made a noise of dismissal. A knife-point of a headache began to form over his right eye.
“Unfortunately, no. Have you had any leads that aren’t speculation?” Sandor said the word like it was blasphemy.
The blade dug deeper.
“None that have gone anywhere. The killer...” The killer was smoke or spirit, fading in an instant and impossible to grasp. “No one has confessed to seeing him. I believe we might be dealing with something that slipped past the wards.” If this man were meant to stand in for the Incarnate, he had little to lose from speaking plainly. Dancing around the issue had only left them leadless and sore.
The Prelate turned. “Ilan.”
Ilan stiffened at the plainness of his name here in front of the gathered clergy. It was a mark of the equality of the faithful to make no distinction between each other aside from that earned through service. Inquisitor was a role he’d earned with every sin he’d scourged. The Prelate should acknowledge it.
“Perhaps either you’ve been working too hard, or we’ve lost more of our power than we thought, but you’ve yet to come up with anything useful.” Elder Abe clasped his arm, as if worried about a strike. He wasn’t wrong to be. “Either way, Sandor will take charge of judicial matters for the time being. Ilan, you are hereby relieved of your duties as Head Inquisitor and will act under Sandor, who will report directly to the Incarnate.”
Ilan’s mouth fell open soundlessly. He would have rather taken two hundred lashes. “Prelate, with respect—“
“With respect, you will hold your tongue. This is more important than your pride.“ He gestured to the tiled floor, glazed red echoing the fading blood and power rolling below. “You have done your best, but we need fresh eyes. You know what’s at stake.”
Ilan swallowed hard, an unfamiliar fear skittering down his back. Arany’s sacrifice was what let the Church still see Asten’s hope for his creation made manifest, reflected in consecrated glass and water and stone. The weak would never keep faith without visible proof of sin or power, and Asten would stay beyond their reach.
If Sandor had been sent by the Incarnate, it was Their divine will. Ilan’s place was not to doubt, certainly not resent, even if forcing his temper to heel made his shoulders shake.
Sandor smiled and clapped him companionably on the back, and it took all Ilan’s willpower not to return the gesture with a blow.
“Come now, won’t it be a relief to have the responsibility lifted from your shoulders? I will still be relying on you.”
Ilan gave the smallest possible nod. He would bear the humiliation for the sake of his city, acrid as the flavor was.
Abe nodded. “Now, Ilan, go with Sandor and show him what there is to see thus far.”
