“Reasonable.” Abe stood, smoothing down his robes. “We will send out small patrols, inconspicuous, with a Silgard-sworn priest in each. Keep the people inside. Don’t trust anyone you speak to save each other.” He touched his mark, the glow faint as the last slip of sunset. “And pray.”
“I also would like a word.” Ágnes stood before the members could depart. “I’ve decided to take my anchorage. I’m too tired for mercy work, and my priests’ hands and attention are far more needed by others now.” She smiled weakly, spiderweb-fine wrinkle lines around her eyes crumpling. “I should like to spend my last days praying for the safety of the Union.” The soft acceptance of pain reminded him of Csilla.
The air sank with the intake of breaths. Abe moved first, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You’ve more than earned your rest. We will make you comfortable.”
Csilla. She’d been heartsick enough over not being able to tend to the old man. She’d never get over this.
The other priests touched Ágnes’ hands in blessings and reverence. The touch of those about to enter anchorage was also sacred, close to brilliance as they were.
The old woman’s gray-eyed gaze was sharp even now as he bent before her to offer his respects. “Your prayers will strengthen us. Go peacefully, elder.”
Her eyes fell shut, her lashes thin across veiny lids. “I don’t know that I can. But I thank you.”
Mentions of Csilla hung in the air, unspoken ghosts. Ágnes wasn’t going to ask him to go. He didn’t need to go. Mihály would comfort Csilla well enough when she found out or at least distract her with his own melancholy.
The thought turned his stomach. He was going to have to anyway, or it would be more salt in a self-inflicted wound. She’d told him to leave, and he had. She might tell him again. But at least she’d have some say. She had so little in this world. And perhaps Ágnes could get through where he couldn’t.
Ilan slipped out the back of the church and to the stables, Vihar nickering at his sudden appearance, hopeful for early dinner.
But when he showed up at the Varga house, the person who answered the door wasn’t the maid he’d seen before. It was an older man, his face tired and clothing equally creased. His homespun trousers weren’t what a butler serving as the face of the house would wear, but they also weren’t what the woman would provide a family member or lover.
Ilan ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth. It likely wasn’t important, but it was another thing out of place.
“They’ve all gone, off to stick their heads in the sand at the Vasvari estate. Won’t be back till past midnight I assume, what with all the drinking.”
Gone? He could see the Varga woman and even Mihály electing to cloak themselves in the false safety of carriages and walls and money, but Csilla should have known to ignore it.
But why would she want to listen to him when he’d become just another voice of the faith denying her what she so rightly wanted? She’d told him to go with the last snarling gasp of a trapped animal.
And, despite her protests, she was besotted with the Izir, or at least by his neediness. But he recognized the chasm behind Mihály’s gaze. The Izir would swallow every drop of sympathy Csilla could offer, and it would never sate him. He would never even love her for it, and their natures would complement each other in perfect misery.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, reins in his free hand, head already aching with regret at the dozen small hypocrisies adding up to this very bad decision. It shouldn’t matter to him if Mihály drew Csilla further into his thrall or if one elderly servant passed to brilliance without acknowledgment. It had nothing to do with saving the city, wouldn’t stop the killer’s knife or reseal the broken magic across the union.
All it would do was stall the breaking of an unfortunate girl’s heart, and the fact that it ate at him was disgusting.
And yet he still found himself riding towards the western edge of the city, away from the church spires.
The estate hosting the gathering had once been the territory seat of Lajol, still owned by the western border’s governing family. With curtains pulled back on all the windows to let them sparkle in the sun, it was as alight as the cathedral.
The attendant at the front started at seeing him. “Is there Church business here?”
He could say there was; they would not deny him entry, and they were breaking curfew. But there were softer ways that would cause less panic. No one was leaving Silgard; he’d get to the guests’ sins soon enough. There was no need to bring open threat to a party.
“I’m a guest of the Baron Koriatovych,” he said instead. “He will cover my revelry tax.”
It was disgustingly easy to slide back into this life and these words. There were few things that felt worse than getting things based on who he was, not what he did.
The attendant blinked, taken aback. “I...just a moment.”
Ilan rubbed Vihar’s neck perhaps a bit harder than was called for as the man disappeared into the dazzling house, swallowed by bodies and light. His father might say no. Ilan hadn’t returned his last letter. Or the one before that. Or the one before that, come to think of it.
The man returned, relief on his face. “Your sins are paid for, welcome.”
The words rolled heavy in Ilan’s stomach as he trotted to the entrance and passed Vihar to a waiting stable boy, with a few choice words about consequences if anything should happen to the horse while in his care.
Inside the stately grays and gold of Silgard were replaced by blush pinks and powder-blues, trays of cakes baked hastily with what scant rations were available and over-iced to hide the flaws, and pale spirits passing briskly. The air was laced with perfumes, but also the odd note of incense. And there were far more people than he expected, elbows and draped fabrics brushing against each other in hurried conversations. Across the vast foyer doors were open to a courtyard garden, where a few younger guests played lawn games on still-yellow grass.
Ilan tugged at his collar, scanning faces. They’d all passed over the gates, they shouldn’t be corrupted. They clearly felt safe here. They shouldn’t.
A cough echoed behind him.
He turned. A young man he couldn’t quite place stood with fists clenched, the high collar of his braid-trimmed coat undone to reveal scalded red across his neck. The burns were like streaked finger marks against pale clay.
“You’re prodigal now?” The man’s voice was gravelly, like he had coals in his lungs, and after a moment Ilan placed him as a third cousin or some other equally distant and grasping relation. Though the last time they’d met, the man had been a foot shorter and dumped peas in his lap.
“Filip.” Ilan inclined his head, though his eyes didn’t leave the other man’s throat, their echo on his own demon-scalded skin.
“I thought you were supposed to be protecting the divine.” He gestured to the scalding, yellowed and brittle like a fall-touched leaf at the edges. “Run away when you realized you couldn’t?”
Ilan’s fingertips tingled at the reminder. “You were attacked by a demon?” Ilan tried to remember where Filip called home, how close it was.
“Possessed,” Filip spat. “I lost myself for three days before they found a priest who could still work. And I’m not the only one. Why do you think we’re all in Silgard?”
There were briars in the eyes and tangled voices that surrounded them, and he noticed now that between jeweled brooches and golden chains was the dull protection of consecrated metal.
“Ilan.” A deeper voice cut Filip off before Ilan could answer. Posture suddenly painfully stiff with the muscle memory of childhood lectures, he turned to face his father.
The Baron Koriatovych was not tall, and the breadth that had been military muscle and hunting prowess had softened as his taste for action declined but his appetite for other things remained. His face was hale, but his left arm hung limp in a grayed bandage sling. Ilan couldn’t tear his eyes away even as his father extended his good hand.
