"You made a mistake." It was common enough for a physician to mix up one bottle with another, or not realize an herb had lost its potency. Even the most experienced mercy worker sometimes showed up with a confession that the mushroom they thought would nourish had turned out to be something fatal.

"I did indeed, but not the one you think. What does it mean, when a poison neutralizes on the tongue?"

It was a question for first-year seminary. "The miracle of Imre. A few Izir also share the gift, but we would have known if she were that blessed." If only she had been from the outset. She would have served the world so much better than the man tied up scant feet from them. Her life would have been quiet, and happy.

"The incorruptible tongue, the miracle of Imre, and every Incarnate after him. Or so they say." The man glanced aside, though from the angle there was no way he could see Csilla. "I don't think they actually make them drink to prove themselves."

"Impossible." His head pounded with the idea. "She would know." The entire point of the Incarnate was as a conduit. There was something special about her, but she didn't hear Them.

"We succeeded in breaking every seal. Including whatever was on her; I wasn't the one who made a mistake. I just wasn't open to the impossible." He shut his eyes momentarily. "I didn't expect my little angel to end up with a perfect saint in his ear."

A saint. He turned his head to look at Csilla kneeling in the shadows, stroking Mihály's bound hands while silver danced around them. "Now where did the demon go? You'll die soon enough. Telling me won't erase your victory."

"As you will." There was a dark glint in his eye. "I've already been a far better servant than you."

The man's fingers were callused, but no trace of burns or caustic oils. Ilan grabbed his smallest finger.

He hesitated. Tamas would scream, and Csilla would find a new reason to fuss.

But he had tried to kill her.

Now the man flailed, a fish caught on a barbed hook as Ilan twisted. The joint separated with a rewarding pop and even more satisfying scream.

"You're going to say what you like regardless of what I do," Tamas hissed as Ilan moved to his ring finger. "I've told you all I will. I'll accept the rope around my neck."

"Oh, this is just because I want to." He twisted the second finger, bending it back and stretching skin and tendon as the man's eyes went glassy with pain. Leaning close, Ilan could see his reflection, sharp and well-justified.

"Ilan!" Csilla was beside him in an instant, a reprimand in her hazel eyes. "You said you wouldn't hurt him."

"No, you told me not to hurt him." And it's not like he extended you the same courtesy.

"I'm going to get them water," she said simply, turning. "You won't hurt him further. Especially not for your own enjoyment."

He almost snorted at how simply she gave the order, expecting him to obey. But this care was her element, as surely as bones breaking under his hands was his.

Tamas' soft moans drowned in the slide of the door as she left with a final glance over her shoulder. Ilan gritted his teeth and turned from Tamas' cell to Mihaly's, working the lock open with a bent key.

"Mihály."

The Izir had been allowed to keep most of his clothing, though his pants were creased and filthy and his linen undershirt stained. Ilan worked the gag out of his mouth with quick fingers, nose wrinkling at the stale smell of it as Mihály rubbed sensation back into his face. Who would have ever imagined he'd be wanting the angel to talk.

"Took you long enough. Csilla couldn't get the door or that knot. Is she gone?"

Ilan resisted the urge to shove the gag back. "Gone to get you water. How are you feeling?"

"Do you actually care? I'm fine considering I'm tied up in the fucking church and can't even piss except under guard. Which is quite unfair considering I brought you the man behind all this." His nostrils flared in indignation.

"Your hands were the ones that held the knife." But he did have a point.

Mihály went very still. "And I was the one who gave him a chance to use his magic. Believe me, I know." He swallowed. "Csilla seems upset."

That was an understatement. She was still sore, no doubt, and heartsick. Confused. Perfect. "Did you hear what the man said about her?" He kept his voice low, though Tamas was unlikely to hear anything over his own labored breathing.

Mihály's face lit with a strangely innocent illumination. "It's all true. You've seen it. She lights brighter than the eye itself at the touch of the divine. I wouldn't be shocked if the rest of her was incorruptible as well."

Incorruptible. The quick healing of her flesh, how those red welts and plum bruises had faded to pale canvas within hours. The only marks that stayed on her were holy scars. No wonder poison turned to sugar on her tongue.

Another miracle from the yellowed pages of history that the current Incarnate had never shown. "But there's no sign she hears the voice?" The craving for guidance hit with a pang of hunger. One word to show they were still being watched, that though perhaps some parts were misguided, their efforts were acknowledged, appreciated.

"Maybe They don't speak to her, but she can certainly speak to Them."

"We still need to get her to the seal." They hadn't had any luck finding a true entrance. They were as likely to die in the labyrinth as find what they needed. "With the Incarnate here there will be more clergy around. We're not going to be able to search."

Mihály closed his eyes, lashes pale on his cheeks. "I have an idea for that. She is going to hate it."

35

Csilla

“No. Absolutely not.” Csilla’s hands shook as she avoided Mihály’s offered arms, not wanting to be swayed. She wouldn’t stand here, wearing robes of mercy gray, and accept that he wanted to die. “How do you know they’ll even agree? Your death, or your request— the ethics of killing you were why they sent me in the first place.” Besides, the public wouldn’t want to see him hang. She hoped.

“I still have some influence, and my death will be a bargaining chip,” Mihály assured her, voice far calmer than hers. Ilan had untied him, but the abrasions on his wrists were raw sores. “Hang me, have them take my body to the seal. You’ll be my attendant. Then you’ll do your work, with whatever holiness you have.”

Her work. She didn’t even know what that was. “I don’t know how I brought Madame Varga back. I don’t know if I can do the same for you.” It certainly hadn’t worked for Ágnes. She'd been used to wield the power, but she hadn’t been offered control.

“And I’m not asking you to. Let me do my penance.” He leaned back against the cell wall, old dust shaking loose with the brush of his shirt. There were cleaner lines in the dirt on his face, where tears had washed tracks.

“Your penance would be better served with a long life lived well, in the service of others.” He could save ten lives for every one he’d taken if it made him feel better. It was selfish, but she didn’t want to lose anyone else.

He gave her a measured look. “I’ve never been very good at that. And what would you have me do instead? Escape? I promised I’d help you save the city, even if you told me you no longer wanted to. You can’t go back on that now.”

He was right. She’d refused to run when Tamas had pressured, when Ilan had offered. She couldn’t ask anything more of Mihály.

Desperation began to claw at the edges of her breath. She forced it down. There was a way. Saints had faced worse hardships.

Saints.

The beginnings of an idea whispered in her mind, twisted and holy. “Ilan. Will you be the one to kill him?” She pressed her palms together, the scarred cuts raised between them, silently pleading for his trust.

Mihály laughed. “Oh I bet he’ll volunteer.”

Ilan rolled his eyes. “I’m sure if I offered they would allow me the task. But what, you think we can pull him from the stage in front of everyone? That Mihály will grow wings and fly away? Me pulling the lever doesn’t mean he won’t die.” He turned back to the Izir. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?”

“You’ve seen everything I can do. Maybe that’s why Asten allows so few of us.” Mihály’s lip curled. “People always want so much from Izir, and they’re always disappointed.”

“Just give me a moment.” Images flashed through her head. Mihály’s drink-tinged breath. Stiff blood on the bodies. Her wrists tied heavy to the wall, recitations of saint stories and miracles as she knelt on stone, her bony knees wearing through already old wool. “You’re right. We’ve got to let him hang.”