"I don't think there are any dead." She bit her lip. The other children used to whisper that even the mortar of the church had been mixed with the ashes of the faithful, their devoted bones given immortality as the cathedral's skeleton, and the occasional bones of an unlucky craftsman only fed the rumors. The true holy relics were nearer the seal. "A saint, maybe."
"And the seal." Even Mihály's voice took on a dark note like reverence.
Outside, Vihar and a cart pony paced, keenly interested in what was happening to their food. Csilla tossed a few handfuls of hay to them, then winced at the ear-pinning and squeals. The pony won, and Csilla sighed as the large black horse sulked, head hanging inside the rough-cut window. "You could defend yourself, you know. You're much bigger," she clucked, but Vihar only lowered his dark head to lip at what little hay he could reach.
The floorboards gave way to reveal a covered entranceway. She pulled at the handle of the round cover set on top of dark inlaid stone just an inch high, barely moving as she tugged.
"A well?" Mihály asked, taking a step back and eyeing it suspiciously. "I suppose you think we're going to swim our way down in holy water? Angels aren't fish."
Csilla smiled and turned so he wouldn't see her roll her eyes. He likely wasn't trying to be difficult, but if he'd listen to her this would go more quickly.
"There hasn't been any water there for centuries. You could stop talking and help me move this," Csilla said, with a tug that gained them another few groaning inches. Mihály grabbed the handle and with a single pull, the entrance was open. Csilla rubbed her own strained fingers. At least he was useful for moving things.
"Go on." She gestured to the hole, the floor below hidden by swallowing dark. "I'll cause less damage if I fall on you than the other way around."
Mihály looked doubtful but climbed down anyway.
The holds carved into rock were narrow and chipped towards the bottom; the stone was weak from the years it held water. Csilla held her breath with every step down, but they both landed in the inky blackness. What light there was above was pale and dim, the narrow glow like a crescent moon.
"Now what?" Mihály's voice was only a trickle of his normal volume, and she jumped as he grabbed her arm. For a heartbeat she remembered being in his room, pressure on her wrist like it would break.
She moved his hand down to hers, her fingers dwarfed by his. It was merciful that the dark hid her expression at the slide of his smooth palm against her scabbed one, bringing a tingling all-over awareness of her skin. "Follow me."
As they walked down the sloping ramp the space became a pit, and the damp squeeze on her hand tightened.
"I didn't know these tunnels were here." Mihály's tone was light, but there was a choked note beneath it. Something skittered in the blackness, and Mihály stepped into Csilla so hard she was pushed a half-step forward and nearly lost his hand.
"Don't worry. I think we're almost there." She paused, then led them further left, mentally trying to reconstruct the church above.
"Good," he muttered.
Csilla sighed. Her angel was scared of the dark.
"Csilla? Mihály. Where are you?" Ilan's whisper echoed, and they moved towards the sound with stumbling steps until they found each other. A blaze of silver light lit the area. Ilan had passed Mihály something holy, and the divine light revealed crumbled stone patched with chalky clay.
The silver burned spectral as they made their way through the ground. Depth meant the walls were still frozen, and every breath brought the taste of dirt. There were miles of similar tunnels, all cold and indifferent to the souls walking over their heads. If someone died this far below, they'd never be found, never blessed, never burned.
Csilla squeezed Mihály's hand harder on instinct, regretted it when he pulled her closer.
After long minutes winding through corridors that were a kingdom of the holiest rats and spiders in the land, the floor began to slope upwards again, landing in front of a wall. A dead end. Mihály looked at her in confusion, but she had no answer.
Ilan pushed. The wall cracked and opened, and they were standing in the hall of cells.
"What..." Csilla ran her hands along the expanse of rock. Her fingertips caught the slight raise of the seam, but even the full pressure of her weight didn't move it. "I didn't think blessed magic could do that."
"Asten gives us the power we need to protect what must be protected," Ilan said simply. "But the cathedral also had clever architects."
And one had left this pocket room, for prayer or protection.
The days had not been kind to the victim. The white sheet drawn across him was stained with oils and excrement, and though a small forest of incense sticks surrounded him, the smoke only gave the putrid smell false notes of cloves. Csilla touched her chest and covered her mouth, bending close to the wounds.
Ilan's voice was steady. "We haven't even finished his watch, and they're going to burn him. So look quick."
She reached out and touched the cuts, now too old and clotted over to bloody her hands.
Her fingers burned like touching frozen metal. She snatched them back and tucked them into her palm, hoping they hadn't noticed. But Ilan was only looking at Mihály.
Her scars began to itch. The Izir's face was pure horror as Ilan gestured to the mutilated body.
"I spoke to him that same night." He knelt down and touched his face, a loving caress, as if not seeing the bloat and sunken eyes. "He was a pilgrim, not from Silgard."
"Was he one of your followers?" There was a new, sharper note in Ilan's voice. Csilla stepped to Mihály's side.
"A new one, but yes—"
"And Kovacs Lili? Twenty. Long blonde braids. Wanted to join the church. Here, this one." He produced a sketch, one Csilla sighed to see was stamped with half a cat print.
Mihály was blinking rapidly now, his face paling to the color of linen. Csilla put a hand on his back, but he didn't seem to notice. "I noticed she'd stopped visiting, but I thought she'd taken her vows."
Ilan raised an eyebrow. "She died." He went through his record, every person listed bringing a new twisting grief to Mihály's face. Csilla clenched her teeth. She'd given him the names, but Mihály, self-absorbed to the marrow, hadn't bothered to learn the names of the people who followed him. He did know the accusing faces etched in dark charcoal.
Finally Ilan stopped. Mihály's hands were on his knees, white knuckles clutching tight. "They really are mine."
Csilla's chest squeezed at the shake in his voice. In a way the church had been right, even more right than they'd known. Those people had also put their faith in Mihály. The hands that healed and bought them precious days of hope and ease had also painted a target on them. Comfort wasn't meant to have a price, let alone one so high.
Ilan nodded as if he'd already known as much. "I don't suppose you have an explanation?"
Mihály shook his head, wordless.
