There was a gleam in his eye that was distinctly disturbing, in both the way it lit his face and the way the silver-bright hook of it caught Ilan’s curiosity.

“Fine.”

He took one cup to Mihály’s two, and sipped it slowly, savoring the bitterness and burning. Either the Izir or someone who had gifted this to him knew quality. The dog’s head was on his knee, warm and welcome.

It would be nice to be so easily pleased, Ilan thought, scratching behind the dog’s ears. The satisfaction of a job well done was something he understood well.

Mihály poured another cup, more whiskey than tea. Ilan raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Everyone had their way of coping when faced with mortality. He’d allow it for the moment.

“You perform all rites? You’ve sworn vows.” Mihály’s words were slightly slurred.

Ilan put his drink aside. “I’ve sworn vows, yes. I know all the rites, but I only do those related to my duties.” People didn’t want someone known for torture handling their children or blessing their marriage.

“Can I confess to you?” He leaned forward and it turned into a lurch, hands clamped.

Ilan’s lips parted slightly. “Is this about the soul? I don’t see why you need to make it a confession. You’re above my pardon, as you so like to remind me.”

“But you’ve taken vows. You can’t refuse.” Something dark and writhing flashed in his eyes.

“I’m not refusing to shrive you.” Refusal would be a very dark mark against him indeed. “I’m saying it’s stupid. No one ever thought I’d be a good choice for manning a confessional. And to be frank, your sins aren’t the type that can be forgiven just by airing them out.” Confession was a first step, not a final one. The final one left scars.

“That’s why I want to tell you.” He learned back, rolling his head to stare at the ceiling and bare his throat. “I don’t want the dull comforts of the congregational priests.”

“This is hardly the place for a proper confession.”

Mihály shrugged. “Asten the almighty is as present in a beetle’s asshole as in great Heaven. Why not here?”

Ilan found himself scratching the dog’s ears harder in discomfort, so hard the dog shook Ilan’s hand away with a soft whine. “Very well. It would be…amiss in my duties if I turned you away. But you could also just say whatever it is you want. You've never held back before.” He could quietly seethe, but vows were vows.

There was an awkward pause, and they stared at each other. “I’m not supposed to be looking at you, you know.” People ‘s tongues were freer when they weren’t eye to eye with their judge. “Turn around, I suppose.”

Mihály’s cheeks were red with drink, his movements slow. Ilan straightened his collar. This probably had something to do with Csilla, and the idea needled him. Mihály should know to be careful with someone who’d been starved of affection and was so desperate to make everyone happy. Csilla was as open as the sanctuary, just as vulnerable.

Mihály turned his chair.

Ilan rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off a headache. “Power greater than us, hear this man’s confession and grant me the power to cleanse him from his sins. Let the darkness be cast out with each word that leaves his lips, and the confession will be met with…mercy.” The invocation rang false with every syllable. Mihály was already saved, and Ilan was no comfort.

“Now...” Typically they would address a seeker as child, or cousin. He didn’t particularly want to call Mihály either of those things. “Izir. Confess your sins and be forgiven.”

But the other man was quiet.

“Mihály?” Ilan didn’t particularly want to hear his confession, but he’d steeled himself to hear whatever lurid things were going to leave the Izir’s lips, and he was ready to get it over with and get to judgment. Even if he couldn’t actually do anything, explaining to the Izir what he deserved would be a delight.

“Did you really not know I was engaged to Madame Varga’s daughter?”

“Madame...What in creation has ever given you the impression that I would care about a socialite’s engagement?” There was enough of that in letters from his family, as if he had time to care about which cousin had married up or down or whose baby had inherited what title. “And that’s a fact, not a confession.”

Mihály swirled his drink. “So pedantic.”

“Do you need prompting? There are any number of sins literally in this very farmstead we could start with.” He clenched his teeth to stop further complaints. Mihály wasn’t wrong; he had sworn to do this. But listening to an Izir’s confession was a farce.

“Never mind.” Mihály stood, and there was sweat around his collar and on his forehead. His eyes were wild. Troubled.

“If you need to talk about something and don’t want to confess, talk to Csilla. She’s spent enough time with the mercy crews; she’s probably as good at listening.” She couldn’t offer forgiveness, but perhaps shared tears would be enough. She had plenty of those.

“No.” Mihály’s headshake was quick, sure.

“You don’t give her enough credit,” Ilan said, but Mihály only glowered. Ilan sighed. Fine, he’d ask. “What have you done that’s worse than everything I already know?” It must be something lurid, to have the Izir looking so guilty. A small part of his curiosity was titillated. He was rarely privy to gossip, only the result when sinners and masochists came to his chamber to have their faults and shame beaten out of them. There were some things that had to come to light before they burst like a boil. Confession was a lancet.

Mihály topped up his cup again as if liquor could burn away the guilt coating his tongue.

“You’re right, I don’t need forgiveness, nor must I answer to the church.” He swallowed the rest of the drink in a gulp.

A more compassionate man would try to get the secret out of him, take some measure to share the pain and in doing so lessen it.

Ilan was merely grateful the conversation seemed to be over.

“We’ll have to leave the body here until I can bring a cart at least. I’m sure even if they won’t let him back in you won’t want him burned on your property?” The stink of crematoriums soaked into the wood, and the place was wretched enough already without the char of burned fat and flesh in the walls.

“It doesn’t matter to me. If the Servants of the Road can’t come claim him, do it here,” Mihály said. He reached for the bottle again, and Ilan snatched it before he could.

“If you get so drunk I have to carry you back to Silgard…”

It was the emptiest of threats. Mihály had ten inches and who knew how many pounds on him and would be impossible to move. Facts were facts even if admitting it was a slight bruise to the ego. But Mihály shrugged.

“It takes more than alcohol to put me out, unfortunately. But I do enjoy it. What do you enjoy, besides hurting people?”

“I enjoy when annoying people are quiet.” Ilan tamped down his nerves and set down his glass. There was something about Mihály that was dangerously enticing, the way a moth would fly to a candle even if it singed.

Mihály laughed, and of all the things Ilan disliked about him, the fact that his laugh was so inviting was somewhere near the top. “I’ve been called many things, but rarely annoying. You don’t find me charming? Attractive? So holy you want to lick my boots? I’d let you.” He raised his glass, then downed the contents again.

Ilan rubbed his forehead. “Don’t make me puke all this up. You must be drunk if you’re fishing for compliments from me.”

But it was clear enough that Mihály didn’t want the compliments. He just didn’t want to be questioned or think more about what had led him to ask for confession in the first place.

Which meant he probably should talk.

“Whatever you tell me in confession is held in confidence,” he reminded Mihály, who was busily trying to shake the last amber drops from the bottle. His hand stilled, and he set the bottle down.

When he turned his gaze back on Ilan, the look in his eyes was so fierce Ilan was struck. Old records said angels could only show a fraction of their brilliance while on the human plane, lest they shatter the mind of the flawed creation that could only have secondhand knowledge of the true divine. Mihály had never looked to him like anything more than an exceptionally well-formed, exceptionally awful example of humanity.

But now Ilan could feel the phantoms of wings and eyes and celestial fire he carried in his flesh.

“What if I tell you that sometimes I think I killed Evie, that I don’t remember if she was breathing or not before I split my veins? Or that when I look at Csilla, I wish there was a way I really could exchange them, body and soul?” His breath was ragged, a new and oily note in his voice that hurt Ilan’s ears like nails on glass.

“You want Csilla to die?” Ilan was half on his feet. It was part of why he would have made a poor congregational priest- the moment he heard something awful, his first instinct was to punish it.