Ágnes always had been able to see right through to the truth of Csilla. It didn't take blood to know a daughter.

"Yes." But only until I can come back, she added silently. It was one of a thousand little darknesses that would be swept away in greater glory once they saved the city. "I can't leave Silgard. I don't want to leave you."

Ágnes touched her cheek. Sitting at her feet was like being young again, being read to on long, lazy afternoons, told it was because she was bright and loved the word best. She'd only learned much later those afternoons had been when families were coming to take other children. Ágnes had tried to spare her the pain of being passed over by making her feel chosen, darkening her own soul with the lie. Just like she was doing now, allowing Csilla to sit where she didn't belong and take up her precious seconds, soft tokens of affection worth more than any gift.

"I'll be gone soon, Csilla. I've worked with illness too long not to recognize it in myself. I'm not hastening it, trust me," she soothed Csilla's sharp intake of breath. "But there's nothing to be done." She swallowed back a shaking cough. "Here, I'll read to you. Asten hasn't taken my eyes yet, so there's that blessing."

"No, let me." Csilla took the book from her lap and settled back. She leaned her head against Ágnes' legs, in tears at the gentle pressure of a hand on her head. "If it gets worse, you will tell me before you go into anchorage, right? You can send word through Ilan. He knows where to find me."

A person's final days were between them and Asten. But Ágnes patted her like she did when Csilla was small. "I will, dearest."

Csilla nodded and opened the book to a saint story, one of the first she'd memorized when she was small: St. Ferdek's miracle that brought a springing well to a parched town and saved thousands overnight. The angel Orsolya had given him a running crown of her tears, and the illustration had always reminded Csilla of her dozen unlucky baptisms. The madder and azure were more faded than she remembered, years of finger pressure eroding the crispness of the pages.

She used to love to think about the miracles and how wonderful it was that divine magic came to save.

Now what lay on her heart was how terrible it was that people needed saving. People could find meaning in suffering but that didn't mean it meant anything on its own. If Asten were here, and just, Their creation wouldn't have to hurt. They wouldn't have let it break, leaving Shadow and pain.

"Do you think," she asked carefully, forming the delicate words like they were bubbles of spun glass, "Asten intends to come back at all?"

Among the questionable games a pack of orphans with little supervision played was one of holding their heads underwater in a trough to see who could hold their breath the longest. In the end, everyone came up, but whoever won the game had a headache and sore chest for their prize.

What was happening now didn't feel like worship. It felt like that standoff, and the world on the edge of drowning.

"That doesn't sound like you," Ágnes frowned, leaning forward slightly. "I know your road is hard, but don't make it harder with doubt."

How? she wanted to ask.

From far below came the shrill whistle of alarm, quick blasts that could only mean death. She stood so quickly her knee popped.

"Csilla?" Ágnes reached a hand out. "That was the alarm. Stay here."

"I know," she said, leaning forward to kiss the old woman's cheek, catching the scent of the mint oils used on sore bodies in a last effort to soothe aches. "That's why I have to go."

22

Ilan

The wooden cart clacked as it was rolled into the churchyard, the faces of the young inquisitorial priests drawing it grim. There were already other priests and curious novices darkening the courtyard, and from the corner of his eye he could see Csilla skirting the edges, no doubt summoned by the bells. She didn't look any more settled for having been to see Ágnes. This certainly wasn't going to help.

"Where was the body found?" He pulled back the millet-stained tablecloth that had been draped over the old man, not even bothering to feign surprise at the marks on his wrinkled and pocked skin, another line in the cruel prayer.

The young priest who had pulled the cart was explaining, still half-panting with exertion. "Across the river. He was at home. A mercy worker found the body when they were taking treatments."

"Are they here? Who is this? Where is his family?"

"They went with the Head Inquisitor. I don't know..."

"I know him." Csilla's voice was clear as she stepped forward, far more steady than it had any right to be. Her hazel eyes were watery, but her mouth resigned, and Ilan gestured for the priests to move back and let her through. "Svoboda Elmere." She walked close to the cart and brushed the wisps of white hair on his forehead, on skin that was still warm. "He didn't have any family here." The small, sad smile on her face pinched something inside.

"Did he..." If he was one of the Izir's, at least it was confirmation.

"Yes." Csilla tenderly put the cloth back around the corpse, smoothing it with the care of a mother putting down a baby. "I'd promised him..." The other priests looked at her, confused, but it seemed they hadn't made the connection between the mercy girl everyone tried to ignore and this noble daughter dressed in wool and fur, and one put his hands on her shoulder.

"Step back, girl. You can't help him. We'll take him to those who can, now."

Csilla's eyes widened, a struck expression as she was guided away from the body. He almost wanted to tell them to let her stay, but they still had parts to play. She was a wealthy woman of Silgard who let the faith deal with the rawness of life and death. He was the Church's impeccable servant, with no connection to heresy.

Any worry for Csilla was chased away by the thrum of footfalls. A young inquisitorial priest, just sworn at the end of the year, ran through the gate, her breath heaving.

"Is the Head Inquisitor here?" Her dark eyes darted between faces, landing nowhere like a fly unsure of its footing.

Ilan raised his hand. "No. But we know about the body. Sandor is with the mercy priest who found it." Or so Ilan was told.

"Oh, you've got the body then, that's good..." the woman glanced at the man, Elmere, and drew back. "He's got both his hands."

There was an intake of breath that had to be Csilla, and the hair on the back of Ilan's neck prickled. "Should he not?" The bodies had never been mutilated in that way before. "Why are you here?"

Her throat bobbed in a heavy swallow. "Because I found something worse."

"Worse than a body?" Two bodies, perhaps? Either the killer was growing bolder, or they had accomplices.

The woman swallowed, grim. "Depends. What do you think of part of one?"

He spared a last glance at Csilla, who was still looking only at the body in the cart, her fingers worrying at the cape knot at her throat. Then he turned and followed the priest to see what new trouble had arisen.

A ribby, fawn-colored dog trotted back and forth in the circle of horrified onlookers just inside the western gate, a bloated hand covered in dirt and blackening bite marks in its mouth.

"Why did they let it in?" one said, his face paling as the dog shook his prize and a jaundiced nail fell from a sausage-swollen finger.

"It must have startled the guard." Another was repeatedly touching his mark, oily fingerprints marring the metal.

The hand was unsightly but hardly more than the bodies they had been dealing with. Ilan pushed his way in front, to the dog whose wary look didn't stop him from a slow wag of his tail and coming to a seat.

Ilan put a hand out to allow a sniff of introduction, then rubbed the dog's floppy ears. They were still puppy-soft, and the dog's tail thumped in the dirt, rump wiggling with pleasure that at least someone was acknowledging his good deed. He must have belonged to one of the pilgrims or refugees and run off after game. Or perhaps he was the loyal friend of whoever owned the hand.

"Well done. Drop it."

The dog's tail wagged harder, and he dropped the hand. Ilan continued his ministrations as he inspected the pale bone, gristle, and what wrinkled skin was left. The wrist was jagged, mottled with dozens of small abrasions. This had been chewed off, not sliced, and there were no scraps of clothing to help identify who it was. There was only so much he could do with a lump of graying flesh.

He gave the dog another appraising look, glad the pup wasn't trying to lick him.

"Have there been any reports of missing persons on the road?" He turned and looked at the gathered crowd, most of them not wanting to meet his eyes.

Everyone shook their heads in turn.