They stared at her.

“Let him hang,” she clarified, “not let him die. Like Szente Angyalka before her visions. She hung herself and lived.” She’d seen it illustrated in dozens of ways, some where she looked to be no more than sleeping, showing children the peace of suffering for a greater good, and some that showed that while it was good, it was still suffering. Her days of hanging, choked and barely conscious, had led to the naming of the first Incarnate and the promise of Asten’s return.

“She was blessed, and she only did it to show us the way forward.”

“She’s the best example but not the only one. I’ve read about executions years ago, before we found a better way. The hanged didn’t always die at first.” Executioners always carried an extra blade, and even now the Inquisitorial robes had an unused pocket for thin knives.

Well. Maybe not so unused in some cases. Csilla was fairly certain Ilan made sure there was always a quick way to dispense justice at hand.

Ilan nodded slowly. “If the rope and the drop are calculated properly, the hanged would choke instead of snap. It’s not that hard to strangle someone. And it’s slower.” His lip quirked on the last words, almost like the thought was pleasant.

Csilla pushed that aside, and Mihály frowned, pulling at his own damp collar like it was a noose. “We could make a harness, something to take some of the tension. Mihály, like you tied up the animals.” She traced her fingers against the floor, imagining what it could look like. Rope under ribs and arms. It might twist or pop a joint, but it was better than death.

Mihály stroked his beard. “If you can get access to anything left in the mercy stores, I can teach you to make something to make me seem deader than I would look otherwise. We can thank Tamas for that.”

Of course she could. Even now she could smell the phantom aroma of crushed herbs. It was the same science of care she’d studied her whole life.

“But Mihály, if we’re wrong...” She reached up, and he bowed to let her take his face in her hands. “You’ll be dead.”

“Then don’t be wrong.” His lips brushed her forehead, and the air around them sparked like lightning.

Then it lit with something brighter, orange flame and dark shadow shape slipping across the stone walls.

Sandor stood before the cell, a torch in hand. His eyebrows were drawn, his lips parted in shock. He had seen them.

Csilla pulled herself tall. Her hood was down, and her face uncovered. He would know who she was. If he truly was a man of faith, he would know what that light meant.

He’d sent her to be whipped but thought he was doing what was right. And regardless of whether she could truly convince herself of that or not, there was no way to talk their way out of the truth written in the glow on her skin.

“Csilla,” Ilan warned, but she shook her head. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to hide and save herself. It was that now the only way out was to show everything.

She carefully took Mihály’s hand, divine light illuminating her in outline, sparking along her skin with transformative fire.

Sandor flinched as if it were true lightning, a hand shielding his eyes. “What is this?”

Csilla removed her hand and let the light die. “Asten,” she said quietly.

He breathed what sounded like a prayer.

She met his gaze. “I don’t know why or how. But I believe I can restore the seal’s power. It might be our only chance.” She reached for him in an offering of peace, but he shied away from her touch.

“And you haven’t brought this to the Incarnate?” The words dripped with censure.

Csilla swallowed. It was a question, not a statement that he would tell. That was a good sign, but something in her shrunk back at the sight of him, the smudging scent of smoke from his oil lamp. The bruises may have faded quickly, but the memory of the cane strikes and the snide way he’d ordered them weren’t so easily erased.

“No,” Ilan saved her from having to answer. “We have reason to think he wouldn’t agree.”

Sandor seemed to chew on that for a moment. “Wouldn’t agree to the restoration of the Church’s power?”

Csilla didn’t blame him for the suspicion in his voice. She swallowed. Two nooses could just as easily become four.

It was Mihály who spoke up this time. “Not if it showed him to be powerless.”

“Powerless.” There was an odd note in Sandor’s echo, like the dull splash of a stone sinking in still water.

Ilan’s brows drew together. “And you’re hardly innocent. You lied about serving with him-”

“Out of convenience,” Sandor bit. “Part of that darkness on my soul you saw, perhaps. And as I said, I did serve. Not recently. But not nearly long enough ago.”

“And while you were out there leading the church to glory or whatever they tell you, did you see or hear of any miracle done at his hands? You were the one who brought the Varga woman back here. Did she tell you about the attack?”

He looked Csilla down again. “She remembered being stabbed, and seeing a cloud of black.”

“You saw how much blood there was, and you could see for yourself there was no wound. What’s your explanation? From what you know of the Incarnate, if we told him this girl was a breathing miracle, that she brought someone back to life...”

I didn’t. Csilla thought. She felt swept up as if caught in a river tide. She hadn’t done anything except be there, but when she tried to explain, her mouth stayed closed.

Ilan stepped in front of her as he finished. “Do you think he would set aside everything else and let her try? Do you serve the man or the faith? If we’re wrong and he legitimately serves the divine, he’ll be nothing but pleased with our success. If we’re wrong, he’ll kill her before we have a chance.”

“You think he’ll put his pride over the safety of...” Sandor paused for long seconds, flickering light creating doubtful expressions. “Never mind. I saw him at war. I know he will. He’s not a man who thinks he can lose.”

Csilla put all the pleading of a prayer into her voice. She didn’t want to trust him, but with no way to deny what he’d seen, all she could do was hope for a miracle of conversion to their cause. “There are a few priests who can still banish, but how many, and for how long? The blood will catch up sooner or later. Help us try. Or at least, please don’t stand in our way. I know what a horror it is to lose yourself, to be forced to do things you would never.”

Something unreadable passed over his face, a purse of lips and half a sigh.

“And we’ve no hope, except for you.” The pointed note in his tone pricked her aching heart. She was exceptional and limited, and all they had.

“Except for me.” Her throat burned with swallowed tears. “And I can’t be enough. I can’t be everywhere. I can’t save everyone. Only those here.”

Sandor looked past her to Mihály, rubbing at his neck. “Including him?”

“Including him,” Csilla said firmly. “And myself.” The second part was quieter.

“And what of Tamas?” Sandor turned towards the far cell. “Are you offering a blanket forgiveness with your miracle?”

“If I could.” The clarity in her voice, the strength of that truth, surprised even her. “I would not see a single person beyond brilliance or damn any soul. But that isn’t my forgiveness to give.” Her eyes met Mihály’s, a warmth diffusing through her at the sweetness there. “Only this.”

“You’re very right, my dear.” Mihály moved to the front of the cell and spoke, loud enough the man down the hall could hear. “As for Tamas…The bastard will hang with me.”

36

Ilan

Ilan knew precision. It was the difference between a shattered rib and a pierced lung, a gouge that would serve as a lesson learned and a fatal arterial stab. It had never mattered as much as now.

The rope chafed his fingers, splintered straw scraping Mihály’s chest and just strong enough to catch and stop him from his neck being snapped. Not enough to stop him from being strangled. But there would be a few minutes of graced time as he was cut, and the drink prepared would make his muscles lax. It was the same principle that made him not want to work on drunks; their bodies always took too pliantly to torture. At least this was a benefit.