She looked untouched. Freshly born.

A prayer rested on his lips as he knelt beside her in silent worship as she slept on the altar of his bed. It wasn't miracle enough to be worth waking her for, but it was a miracle all the same.

33

Csilla

Ágnes' robes were heavy, the hood drawn so far down she had to turn her whole head to see anything but the shade of the cloth. She traced the embroidered poppies, loose threads she had sewn back herself for practice, the hem worn ragged from walking the streets in service. They had been well-filled in their life and even now kept her safe, knowledge that was an ache in her heart with each whisper of fabric on rubble. If anyone looked they would see a mercy worker sweeping up ash and stone, persevering in caring for what had already been lost. She wouldn't give them a chance to see her face or cross-marked hand. She wouldn't let them see what she was really looking for.

And Mihály still hadn't returned, though she glanced at the open gates time and time again. It had only been a day and some hours, but it only took moments for things to go wrong.

She pushed another chunk of broken rock, bringing a puff of pale dust with it. A small, annoyed meow echoed from the hollow in the wall.

"There you are!" Csilla grabbed the cat despite the claws catching her arm, dropping a kiss on the dirty fur of her head. Erzsébet squirmed, jumping from Csilla's arms and then twining against her legs as if to say there was no harm done.

A catch rubbed in her throat at the normalcy in this broken place. The cat didn't know what had happened, save that Csilla was no longer around to slip her dinner. And even that she forgave. Csilla reached to give her another scratch, for a moment absorbed by the illusion of the life she wanted: service and her cat.

Bells sang across the city, calling brilliance in the blue sky. A quick tolling pattern she hadn't heard in far too long- not horror, but celebration.

Finally.

Asten spoke in whispers, but the Incarnate came with a gale. The gold of his carriage caught the shafts of sun breaking through billowing clouds, tossing off light that people leaning out windows raised their hands to like coin. The hooves of his horses, a gleaming team six strong, cracked against the cobblestone with hammer-strike precision as they approached the church courtyard, and he was followed by a half-dozen of his militant guard, the oddly cheerful jostle of their armor joining the ringing bell choir. It was enough to make anyone believe in a coming judgment.

Csilla stepped back against the stone, watching from behind an outcropping. Abe was in front of the sanctuary, in his high day vestments, the billowing robe embroidered with silver thread marks of four and Arany's golden hands and wings. The picture he made was marred by the dark shadows under his eyes and the weighted slump of his shoulders.

Ilan stood at his right, lips pressed in a thin line. Sandor was on the left, slightly back, equally grim. The horses pulled so close to the stairs Csilla's breath caught.

The Incarnate stepped from the carriage onto ground that seemed too filthy for his feet. Prelates and Elders were allowed a white lining on their robes to show how close they were to brilliance, but the Incarnate dressed in white so bright it hurt to look at, embroidered with golden words of holiness, such a contrast to the scattered dirt stone that he almost appeared to hover. The head above the robes was wizened but strong, gray hair closely cropped and the warm brown shade of his eyes not matched in the judging look in them. He was an image of church authority that could have easily joined the ranks of painted saints in the cathedral's heart, and Csilla dipped in a habit-born pointless genuflection.

"It's a joyous thing to have you back in the city," Abe said, but the Incarnate was eyeing the damage to the Cathedral and Arany's dry gold. A shamed pang grabbed her chest at the contrast of his gilded splendor and the sorry state of the church grounds.

"A necessary thing, by the look of it." His disapproval radiated. "Why was I not informed of how much damage there was directly? I had to hear from pilgrims and lay priests from our stops. What is there left for us now?"

Abe and Ilan exchanged a glance, and Csilla bit her lip at the simmering anger there. He would leave them, too, and then there would be nothing. She wrapped her arms around herself, a metallic taste filling her mouth as the nameless ocean washed her again.

A metal splash echoed, followed by another and another. Abe gave a soft cry of praise as dripping gold beaded on the courtyard, falling from each of Arany's dozen eyes.

"She weeps again. Your presence gives us hope, Incarnate."

The drops condensed to a puddling sheen on the stone, the clear sky and spires above reflected in perfect gold.

Sandor coughed, and the Incarnate glanced at him, looking between him and Ilan in puzzlement as if seeing for the first time. "Who is this new head inquisitor?"

Abe stilled. "You sent him to us, your divinity."

Csilla pressed her hand harder against the wall, leaning forward to hear.

"I can understand his confusion," Sandor said. His voice was placid, no stress on his face. "The man I replaced broke his leg near Mitlosk. Word was sent to you, but we decided it was better if someone went than no one at all and far better than waiting the months it would take him to recover, if he did. Was the message missed?"

"He had your writ, stamped with your seal," Abe confirmed.

"I thought you said you came from the front," Ilan said, a trap hook look in his eyes.

"Perhaps you misremember, Ilan." Sandor offered his hand to the Incarnate who inspected the seal ring, twisting it with narrowed eyes. "I was on the front two years ago, yes. After spending time with the Servants of the Road."

At this the Incarnate stepped back with a slight nod. "Your face does look familiar." It seemed like a lie, if a polite one.

"It would be an honor if you remember, Your Divinity. There were many of us there."

Ilan's gaze found Csilla's, and she could read the suspicion, though there was nothing to be done for it at the moment. If the Incarnate was satisfied, they could hardly argue.

The Incarnate gave a slow nod. "Then let me see the sanctuary. I can pray for your dead." He entered alone, his faithful guard with their backs to the door as it shut.

She couldn't get past them, but that wasn't the only way in. She sprinted around the side, to the smaller door where novices carried in the boxes of candles and incense for the altar, an unobtrusive door for the endless menial work that kept the fires of holiness burning.

There were luckily a few older boxes, half-cracked and dirty, that could be pushed around in a show of cleaning. It would be less suspicious to be caught than to confront. As far as she knew he hadn't laid direct eyes on her since she was a small and confounding thing, unlikely to recognize the young woman in gray fruitlessly trying to repair what was better thrown out. With a quiet apology to whoever had carried over the box in the first place, she picked it up and let it drop.

The wood splintered with a sharp crack and crash, and she braced herself as quick footsteps marched toward her.

"Ah, a mercy girl. I didn't think anyone was here."

Csilla smiled, clenching her hand so there was no chance of him seeing the cut. "Your divinity." She took a deep breath, ready to confess, even if she couldn't readily explain. With all of Asten's grace behind him, he would know what she was, and what could be done. It would be wonderful to feel light again. "I—"

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "There's no work for you here. I have asked to be alone."

The voice should be telling him to go to the seal. They should be telling him who she was and why she was here. She waited for the light of recognition in his face, but all that came were further creases of impatience between his brows. He was a hairsbreadth from calling his guards, and there would be no hiding then.

"I'm sorry, Your Divinity, but I have to show you." She reached out, but when small hands touched weathered ones, the Incarnate pulled back like she was something noxious. There was no spark of acknowledgment, much less divine fire. Her mouth only tasted of old spit, her skin only warm with the layers of wool.

He didn't know her at all.

"If you want a blessing, there are other ways to get it. Do you not understand what a dire situation we are in?"

Explanation of her miracles, already stuttering, died on her tongue. Csilla swallowed, hiding her expression with a bow. She wanted to say nothing, but it would be a lie. She was alight with everything, painful as it was. She couldn't say it was nothing.

"The city is suffering, but there is meaning behind it. We will overcome this, and be stronger."

Her mouth twisted. That was what people always said when there was nothing they could do.

The platitude was another piece of dry kindling in her newly-formed kiln of deep anger, and she opened her mouth when fresh commotion outside caused them both to turn.

Mihály. And Tamas beside him, not fighting, not speaking. He looked frighteningly calm for a man being brought for a trial he would never be able to defend himself in, looking at his pupil as proud as a father at his child's first recitations.

Csilla's heart skipped at the wrongness. Of everyone here, she was the only one who seemed afraid.

"Who are you? Who let you in?"