"Where have you been, Izir? They've no right to stop you from speaking," a dark-skinned man with deep furrows across his brow said. "We need your council."

So many voices chimed in that the individual words were smothered, but bits reached Csilla's ears.

"The deaths prove we've been abandoned. They're saying the bodies are putting the city under some kind of spell."

"Who is ‘they'?" Mihály asked, but any answer was lost in yet more questions and accusations.

"Why hasn't the Incarnate come back? He should be here in his stronghold, not frittering with the governors or pushing our borders."

"We came to Silgard because it was supposed to be safe. Asten isn't going to return if all of us are dead."

Csilla's heartbeat picked up. No one should dare mutter the things they were saying, and here they were, speaking them in clear voices heard by more than just Asten. But a hard knot in her breast told her they were right. The Incarnate should be here. How could the people trust the church if the voice of their god wouldn't come back to salve their wounded faith? The laws of the church were supposed to be the armor that protected people from their own worst impulses and the leaders examples of what it looked like to live in brilliance.

But the Incarnate's absence showed Asten cared more about war than bringing his most holy city to peace.

"Were the victims somehow touched by evil? Have we lost our protection?" The woman's voice was half-wail.

"We have," another man spoke up. "I heard what happened in Kis. The seal was broken, the demon found a host, and they burned the church and everyone in it."

Csilla glanced over the crowd at that, searching for a reaction at the mention of the possessed. There were grimaces and gritted teeth on every face, but less surprise than there should have been. Truth was leaking.

"Were you there in Kis?" Mihály spoke over the fearful murmurs, and the man seemed to shrink, pulling at the wooden mark hung around his neck.

"Well, no. But I heard from a pilgrim, who heard from a merchant..."

The adherents jostled and complained and reached out for Mihály, who soothed them as best he could but soon looked like he was up to his neck in water in a grasping sea.

"Peace, all of you." Mihály raised his hand. "This anger risks your souls. You shouldn't fear."

They should have become soft at his words, pliant and meek. Instead, a palpable agitation rose. The room was sweltering.

One man kicked his chair, the sharp, angry rattle drawing a momentary silence. "It doesn't matter if we're angry or not." He pulled up his shirt, where the skin across his back was bruised in a lash line of mottled brown and yellow. The mark was human-made, and all the uglier for it. "The church isn't protecting us anymore. This is what they give us for keeping the faith."

Mihály flinched like he'd been struck, and Csilla pressed her hands to her heart. It was likely Ilan's work.

"I know. I'm only trying to provide comfort." He offered them his glorious smile, but it was hazy around the edges.

"Comfort doesn't bring back the dead." The man who spoke next was dressed in fresh mourning blacks. "Comfort doesn't stop my children from panicking every time a rat scutters through the beams."

"I'm sorry," was all Mihály could say, over and over, until it became its own kind of intercessory prayer smoothing the edge of violence.

Csilla looked between the faces; blotchy, pained, and feral. She couldn't see anyone she would pin as a killer. This snap-jaw anger was only the instinctual reaction of the hunted, not intentional violence. It was all painfully human.

"Please. Listen," Mihály pleaded.

"Listen to what, Izir?"a person in front of him hissed. "We came because we thought you'd have answers. Why are things only getting worse? Are you going to tell us it doesn't matter, we should happily die and let our souls know peace? You're the one telling us ghost stories. Where is the peace in that?" A few people spit at the statement, the air growing rotten.

Csilla edged her way to the front of the room, dodging splayed feet and cocked elbows. Mihály caught her gaze, and she put her hands together. Pray, she mouthed. If his own words were failing him, the saints that had come before had left them plenty to use.

Mihály closed his eyes a moment, lashes falling over his cheeks, still and perfect. His voice deepened and took on a resonant tone like the bells chiming through the square.

He began to pray.

Csilla's lips moved along with the old words to the litany of peace Ágnes used to use in place of a lullaby, set down by blessed Imre, said to have been whispered to him in Arany's arms. As Mihály spoke, he seemed to glow from within, holiness radiating. Everything around him seemed brighter, more perfect, and Csilla squashed an urge to go to him, to see if standing next to him would let her share the blessing.

The crowd softened as surely as if they'd taken a dose of Mihály's sweetest drug, violence charmed away by his beauty. Csilla looked over the gathered again, searching for any sign of a killer's appetite and claws. But all of them seemed ordinary people. Scared, hopeful, faithful people, now under the angel's sway.

Sweat glistened on Mihály's brow, and his words tripped, slurred with nerves.

Dismiss them, she mouthed. They'd done their job. But he wasn't looking at her now, and he continued to speak until his throat grew parched and the words became hoarse exhalations.

Even an angel's voice couldn't last forever. He coughed, shoulders wracking, and slumped forward.

One man stood in the broken pause, face flushed and eyes wild. "We believed in you. I closed my ears to the rumors. But this city was safer before you showed up."

His punch caught Mihály square in the stomach. The Izir doubled over, holding out an infective hand to try to protect himself.

Csilla scrambled as chairs were overturned, passionate faith turned into violent fear in an instant. Mihály brought up an arm to block a second punch, but other fists landed.

Not every hit fell on target, and there was another crash as someone brought an arm around a man's neck, and others tripped and set off new waves of flailing and retaliation.

Csilla squeezed through the bodies, tugging her skirts away from grasping hands, sucking down the pain as a booted heel crushed her toes. Others pushed around her, stealing the air as they went for the door, but tangling and tripping her as she tried to get to Mihály before they could fully make him their scapegoat. Her head snapped back as her chin was cracked by a glancing elbow.

She shook off the dizziness and squeezed through and got there first, bracing herself in the doorframe against the shove at her back. "Ilan!" He stepped out, sword in hand, and the pushing people behind her stilled. It didn't calm the chaos deeper inside.

From inside his cloak he pulled out a silver whistle and blew three shrill blasts, piercing the still of the night. She started to turn back, but Ilan grabbed her arm and pulled her firmly out. She jerked her arm, but he didn't let go. There was something dark and worried in his eyes, deeper than the worries of the moment, and it gnawed on her.

"You're just going to get yourself knocked out. Stay back."

Inside there was another crack and shout, another heart-straining moment of Mihály's pleading. Two people pushed past, shoving Csilla to the dirty stone, and Ilan cursed and kicked at a third trying to escape.

Csilla picked herself up, her palms now scraped by the gravel. This was supposed to be the way they made sure no one got hurt. She was achingly glad Elmere had left before he could see Mihály turned into a scapegoat for his peoples' fear.

It took too many minutes for three inquisitorial priests to appear running towards them and calling questions in breathless voices.

"Bring out every one of the heretic's flock," Ilan ordered, and the men obeyed as if he still had the right to order them. Within moments the brawlers had been ushered to the street. Red swelling was already visible on split lips and punched-in eyes, and one man's sleeve had been torn half away.

Mihály came up last, bleary-eyed and shivering. His lip was bruised, and the imprint of a hand stained his cheek.

Csilla ran to him.

"Are you alright?" She glanced behind at the agitated crowd, fuming with accusations as the priests tied them for questioning.

"I think so," he said through chattering teeth. Csilla slid her arm around his back and braced her shoulder against his ribs, though his weight was almost enough to knock her over. The people were watching the priests with even more suspicion than the eyes they turned on each other.

Ilan approached them. Csilla opened her mouth to say something, but there was no recognition on his face. It was a cold judgmental mask, and for a heartbeat she worried it wasn't acting. Maybe he'd seen all he needed to, and was ready to take them to the rack.

"Izir. You've been warned multiple times about your heresy."