And yet there had been no reports.
“You can see souls,” he said, looking at Mihály. “Allegedly.”
The Izir paused from where he was straightening the corpse’s legs. “If they’re here. This one is long gone, may it rest wherever it is now. There weren’t any ghosts in the woods.”
That was only to be expected. It would have been all too convenient if Mihály could simply tell them who the man had been or if a ghost was lingering to answer their questions.
He wanted to snap bones. A frustrated scream lived in his throat, pushed deep, but always waiting.
Perhaps Sandor had been right. What did it matter if the man was in the woods or in the grave? There were bites on his chest, the print of carrion birds and opportunistic things, but no marks.
“Do you have incense?” He asked. Mihály nodded and went to collect it as Ilan probed the corpse.
It was likely the man had been robbed and left, not just murdered. He rolled him enough to check the back, the skull. No bruising or fractures. But the neck was gruesome.
He tilted up the jaw, ignoring the exposed bone. The majority of the soft tissues had been torn away, but the lines along the edges were crisp. Clean.
His arm instinctively drew over, mimicking the motion of the killer. A swift slice from behind.
How had the man not heard it coming? Perhaps it was a drunk after all.
“Killing him all over?” Mihály asked, his tone mild. In addition to the incense he had paper, a pitcher of water and a reasonably clean linen towel. Good to see he had some basic knowledge.
“Did they teach you rites at University?” It wasn’t a part of the general student curriculum, but Izir were rare enough to be special cases in a number of circumstances. He’d only met one before Mihály, a tall woman who visited his mother after his eldest brother’s death. She hadn’t been terribly good comfort either, though she’d been kind enough to take all of Ilan’s questions with perfect seriousness.
“No, I never took much education in doctrine. Maybe I should have.”
Ilan gave a little laugh. Of course he wouldn’t have had to study for any part of his blessing. He pulled a flint, lit the incense, and handed it to Ilan.
Sweet sandalwood filled the room. Ilan breathed deep as rotten wood and old dust turned as hallowed as any gilded sanctuary.
He dribbled water onto the shriveled remains of the man’s lips, his single hand, his feet, though no toes had been spared. Mihály followed behind with the cloth, solemn.
“Asten, we deliver this man to you. We trust you will weigh his soul, find the balance of justice and mercy. His time in this world is done. As You will.”
The words should have held weight, but he wasn’t practiced at saying them and didn’t know who he was saying them for. Even as an acolyte he’d rarely been asked to join rites of comfort.
He took the incense and held it to where the man’s nostrils would have been, clearing out any remnants of life. If this were a funeral, friends would speak for him, his family would plead intercessions, excusing any last wrongs he had done in life so he could go clear into the next. They would watch the body for three days, letting anyone who knew come and offer a goodbye. But neither Ilan or Mihály had any right, and this man’s sitting days were long past.
“Do you really believe you could bring him back?”
“If I knew anything about him.” Mihály looked down at the body, his eyes dark. “Otherwise, everything across the ether is as hard to grasp as smoke.”
“So you know the soul you’re providing for Csilla, then?”
Mihály’s smile was inscrutable.
He picked up the cloth and put it over the body. He wished he could promise he’d give the man justice. Even the writ was perfunctory with no way to know which saint watched him, and Silgrad’s blessed Imre a mile too far to claim him. He finally selected Angyalka. The hanged saint was a strange choice for a death writ, but her choking and pain had been in hopes of getting answers. Answers were what they needed now.
At least this man didn’t seem to be related to their other victims. The ritual murders were being confined to the city. Ilan drummed his fingers on the table, turning that over. Confined to the city, but affecting the entire Union.
Mihály was already at the barn door, shrugging off the horror as easily as an ill-fitting jacket. “Would you like a drink? I have tea and whiskey and am more than happy to combine them. Or dispense with the tea altogether.”
Ilan was about to protest he didn’t drink. But there was that lump of a body, the ragged flesh beneath, and the rare pain of helplessness stabbing.
“If I drink with you, are you going to tell me more about what you intend?”
Mihály grinned. “Get me drunk enough, and why not.”
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.”
