If it were a citizen of the Immaculate Union, it was their duty to find the body and ensure it had rites. The last thing they needed was someone using the body for a shadow ritual. The flesh there would be a bounty for the damned. The deaths had breached the city's borders, and they had to take responsibility.

"Bring me something to wrap this," he said, and after flustered hesitation one of the men ran down to a baker and grabbed a bread bag. Ilan shook off what he could of the dusting of flour and wrapped the hand. The dog was still wagging his tail, and Ilan offered him another bit of praise. He didn't know how well he'd done.

"Ilan. Does your...dog need a blessing?" The Prelate raised an eyebrow as they approached the altar. The dog trotted along at Ilan's heels, though whether it was from having decided on a new master or worry over what would happen to his prize, he couldn't say.

"Sit," Ilan said, and the pup sank down on his haunches. At least he seemed trained and not inclined to pee on the pews. "He brought us something." Ilan unwrapped the hand, now smeared chalky and spectral. The curled fingers grimly beckoned to the Prelate.

"Is this related to the murders?" Abe gestured blessing over the hand, then another to be sure.

"Unclear. I'd like to go look," Ilan continued. "Perhaps the dog will lead us back to the body."

"It's beyond your jurisdiction," Sandor said, coming in from behind, the room suffocating with his presence. "Is there any sign of dark magic on the bones?"

The dog tensed beside Ilan with a low whine.

"No," Ilan answered. The hand was just a hand. But the fact that it was just a hand was a problem in itself.

Sandor huffed. "Then that body can sit until we've dealt with the latest one here. It's dangerous out there now. You've seen how we've weakened. Every priest is needed in our walls."

Ilan seethed, reaching down to touch the dog to diffuse his anger. "Every soul is sacred."

"Chase down one of the bard-priests. They're the ones who handle such things." He gestured to the hand. "It could even be a deserter, damned anyway. Burn the hand or throw it out— something will eat it."

"The Servants of the Road do holy work," Abe chided. Sandor at least looked abashed. One didn't insult the other branches of clergy, even if their work was mostly travel and stories and the occasional rite. Not everyone was called to work in Silgard or serve the Incarnate.

"And you yourself told me how busy they are," Ilan interjected. "What with us having to burn our own bodies."

Sandor stiffened, though Ilan couldn't read if it were anger or surprise. "Say rites over the hand and burn it if you must, and I'll send word that if anyone sees anything suspicious to report it. It's unfortunate, but we have to remember the greater danger."

Leaving a soul was unfortunate? Caring for souls was the least of Asten's commands. Suspicion crawled through him again, a dozen quiet notes that couldn't be silenced. He thought of Csilla and her last terrible hope that hadn't been extinguished. She was being offered bloody rebirth and salvation, and though the admission was a dank rot, he wanted her to have it. This was part of that.

Perhaps his own sheen had dulled. He reflexively reached for the glass in his pocket.

"A dark thought cross your mind?" Sandor asked as the glass lit in Ilan's palm. He stared, looking for the judgment his lie of omission would bring.

The surface glowed pale, no smoke-shadows creeping through the opalescent sheen. If anything, it was brighter.

"You look surprised by your own virtue." There was a cut to Sandor's words.

"It's simply nice to have my virtue confirmed." He held it out, still luminous. "If your methods are so righteous, let me see."

The older man hesitated, then took it. There was brilliance on the surface, but in the center, drops of blackened sin. Ilan let out a chuff.

"And you lecture me about obedience? You require penance." Whatever it was looked too dark to be a simple lie or stray lustful thought.

Abe raised a hand. "Ilan. Not everyone is as assured of their blessing as you. You'll find darkness on every soul here. You'll find darkness on the Incarnate himself. That is why we serve; because we understand what it is to sin."

"He needs…"

"Allow me to speak plainly, Ilan." Sandor looked ready to throw the glass, but clutched it instead. "I know who you are and that you think having given up every luxury possible to play hero to the Church makes you self-sacrificing, special, when the position you took was one you dearly wanted anyway. I know you think you earned your former title when it's your father's gold that paid for last year's repairs."

The rage that rose was like the snap signaling an avalanche. He was going to punch the other man in the face.

"Sandor." It was Abe who stepped in, and Ilan felt a bolt of shame at resorting to being handled like children brawling in the street. "We do not bring up our servants' pasts. They come to us as they are, for what reason they do."

That was true, and Sandor would know it. The ire ebbed, leaving more suspicion. The low blow was a tactic to knock him from his course. "Prelate. The Incarnate is returning and pilgrims along with him, the roads need to be pristine. There will be merchants, celebrations. We can't have bodies on the road."

It wasn't celebrants crowding the city now. It was terrified refugees.

"We've seen no sign of bodies on the road," Sandor said. "And the people coming to the city are all the more reason we need everyone to stay here and protect them. This could be old, and from anywhere in the woods."

"Not that old," Ilan said. He'd become quite an expert in the aging of dead flesh.

"And what of the latest murder? You'd put that aside for something that might not be murder at all?"

"I'm not putting it aside. I'm being thorough. We all should be." It was on the tip of his tongue to point out the latest marks and their bloody poetry, to beg them to consider the stories refugees were telling more carefully.

Instinct won out, barely. Sandor had already rebuffed him once. If Abe also refused to accept that the weakened seal was actual dark magic and not just a matter of faith, Ilan would find himself branded a heretic and no longer in any place to do anything at all.

"Very well," Sandor said after a moment of standoff. "If you're so concerned, you can go. You're excused from our rounds if the Prelate thinks it wise."

Abe nodded. "We shouldn't abandon those seeking refuge here. They are ours, in the gates or out of it."

Ilan tried not to let the surprise show on his face. "Thank you. I'll take—"

"You'll go alone." Sandor followed.

They never went out alone.

"That doesn't seem safe." Ilan was confident in himself, but extra eyes were always helpful.

"Walking around in a forest scare you?" Sandor's smirk galled. "Still on about your demon tales? Well, if you don't think it's safe, stay here. I'm not sending more priests who are needed to defend a place more holy."

Ilan weighed the options and took a quieting breath. Instinct rarely led him wrong, and instinct told him to go. And to take Mihály. Finally the Izir could be useful for something.

"Fine," he said. "I'll report what I find. Come," he told the dog.

"And throw that curr out of the city while you're there. It's likely diseased if it's been feasting on corpses." Disgust dripped from Sandor's words.

Well, the dog was thin, his yellow-brown coat patchy, and he was in bad need of a delousing, but his eyes were clear, his temperament good. Ilan had grown up sneaking his father's hunting pack into his rooms on cold nights, and this pup would be an equally pleasant addition to their staff.

Sandor's annoyed scowl didn't fade as Ilan considered. That was the best argument for keeping the dog.

"He's my dog now, and he will stay with me."

The dog seemed to understand, stopping when his new master did and thumping his tail in confused happiness.