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.
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."
