“You don’t look nearly as pleased as I thought you would.” Mihály winced as Ilan wrenched the rope more firmly, testing the hook that would take the pressure and keep his neck from snapping. “I thought this was your idea of fun.”

Ilan tugged a knot into place, and gave it an extra pull for good measure, if only to see Mihály buckle and whine. “You’re not acting like a man who is about to die. A little respect, please.”

“Maybe die,” Mihály corrected as he righted himself.

“Hopefully not, but no one else knows that. Try to look afraid.” He held out the plain brown sackcloth robes of the condemned, the same ones Servants of the Road wore to keep knowledge of death in the forefront of the mind. “Here, put this on.”

“Even if I do die,” Mihaly said as Ilan turned and listened to the smooth rustle of clothing being discarded. “I don’t have to worry. You can look, you know, I’m not particularly modest.”

“Saints, you can’t stand to not have attention on you for a moment?” But when Ilan turned again, he had redressed. The robe barely hung past his knees, his bare feet knobby and oddly vulnerable. “Before I go, is there anything you would like to confess? Properly this time. In case something goes wrong.” His voice scratched on the words. Perhaps he didn’t actually want to see the other man die. A very small perhaps.

“Confess? You’ve heard all of it by this point. But I do want to apologize.” There was something like sincerity in those amber-brown eyes. Ilan crossed his arms.

“I’m listening. Or was that the whole of the apology?” It would be rather like Mihály to sum the whole thing up in a vague hand-waved statement, let others fill in the absolving details.

“I could have been less annoying. I could have thought, for one blasted second, before jumping into dark magic, that’s a big one. And I’m sorry for what I said about Csilla. You were right that she deserves better.”

“I’m glad you can see that now.” Ilan turned, eyes darting to the door. Without pretense or armor, too much of Mihály stirred sympathy. He and Csilla had both been badly used.

“Do I get a final request?” A teasing note had returned, and Ilan’s irritation with it.

“A drink? I’m going to say no. You’ll get put out hard enough with whatever Csilla is making. Be patient.” He certainly understood the desire, even he was tempted to blunt the knowledge of what they were doing. But the plan was risky enough without adding other intoxicants into the mix.

“A kiss.”

“A what now?” So the man couldn’t even be reasonable for the night before his supposed execution.

“Hm?” Ilan looked back, and Mihály caught him by the shoulders. Before he could move, the Izir bent forward and kissed him lightly on his cheek, at the corner of his mouth.

Soft, and warm, and not nearly as terrible as he would have expected, even with the scratch of his beard. It had been a lifetime since his few awkward teenage romps, well before he’d taken vows, and though he knew he should want to bite, he didn’t. Much. It had a feeling of finality, even more than his apology.

Ilan scrunched his nose, hoping the heat on his face wasn’t visible in the low light. “You’re awfully pushy for someone whose life is in my hands.”

“I trust you. I’m showing you that.” His eyes turned distant. “And if it does go wrong, you will take care of her, won’t you?”

He wasn’t planning on coming out of this. No matter what he told Csilla. It was a stupid waste, noble, and horrific all in one.

Still, Ilan nodded. “I never intend to do anything else.”

Mihály gave a wry smile, one corner of his mouth turning up. “You’re in love with her.”

Ilan flinched at the accusation, far more than he had at the ridiculous kiss. “I wouldn’t go that far. But she is holy.” He still craved the order of the church, with all its peace. If finding that peace meant following Csilla, it would be an easy path to walk.

“No, it’s a good thing. Someone should be.”

Ilan snorted. “Love is for people without a calling.”

“I had a calling. I still fell in love.”

“And look where it brought you. It’s a feeling. It will pass.” Feelings changed. There was a reason why the church demanded couples be wed before intimacy or asked that clergy make their brethren their new kin. People didn’t take care of each other for life based on temporary affections. A lifetime demanded duty and sacrifice.

He had made a vow to defend everything holy, and if that was Csilla, he could do it until he no longer drew breath. It had nothing to do with something as flighty as love.

Mihály looked unconvinced and not a little smug. “If she fixes the seal, you can see for yourself how you’re lying. I’m sure you kept your glass, yes?”

He had. Even now the weathered shard was heavy in his pocket. “And if she doesn’t?” He didn’t want to think on it, but they had to confront the dark idea.

Mihály’s expression faltered, his brow creasing. “Then she’ll need you more than ever.”

37

Csilla

The sound of the church bell shook her toenails to teeth. It wasn’t the quick call to prayers and service. These slow, deep peals were the dirge of a funeral.

The dull orange sun hung low in the sky as if not wanting to raise its face to the violence. The crowd pressed tight, their bloodlust reeking of sweat and hunger. Csilla’s heart clenched to hear their words, their eagerness to see bulging eyes and a snapped neck. They wanted so badly to know that the creature who had been stalking their streets and haunting their nightmares was about to be put down. To see that the Incarnate had returned, their breach of faith was forgiven, and all was right with the world.

She tried in vain to turn a few children back. The parents scowled and herded them in front, away from Csilla’s worrying hands and closer to the violence.

Around the courtyard votives had been set up, holding incense to block smells and vials of holy water to purify those whose eyes were about to be sullied by death. Csilla passed a few coins to the priest and took a vial for herself, knowing it was likely from the river and not the broken church. He didn’t even look when she placed the coins in his open palm. His eyes were fixed on the fraying hemp nooses of the rickety platform, hastily built by too-eager carpenters and reluctant priests. It had been decades since anyone had been executed.

The pair of nooses wavered in the slight breeze.

From the long shadow of church stepped the Incarnate, and an awe-struck murmur rose and fell in waves. His gold and white armor shone, polished as if he wore his brilliant soul over his skin, but there were no dents to suggest it had ever been worn in battle. His gaze measured the crowd, and Csilla froze. It was as if he could read each person’s worthiness without even touching their flesh, consecration given breath and form.

Tamas had called him a sham. She herself had touched his merely mortal flesh, but there was power there.

Topaz and diamond rings glittered like the many eyes of the angel hosts, vigilant in every direction, as he raised a hand.

Tamas was led forward, hands tied behind him. The crowd gasped at every stumbling step he took. A few shouted insults and flung splattering handfuls of dark refuse. Csilla pulled her kerchief down more fully over her forehead, shading her eyes as she made her way around the edges of the crowd. No one turned to look at the girl scurrying around them.

A fetid egg hit the front of the stage, splattering yolk and white down the front of the wood. It was followed by another and another, and Csilla winced at the crunch as shells hit wood.

Then there was Mihály. He looked smaller dressed in coarse brown robes, his beard and hair unkempt. But there was still something in his gaze that quieted the crowd, and a hiccuping sob from somewhere in the middle of the mass echoed.

The Incarnate stepped forward.

“Friends, I understand your fear and your rage. These men were behind the evil that haunted our streets, spilling blood on holy stone. They have damaged our connection to the divine. A sure death is the only fit punishment. We have the blessing of Asten today. This is the first step on the path that will lead us back to rights.”

Csilla shook at how he could stand there and lie. How had the church not seen his deception? It should have shadowed his soul like a thunderhead.

He turned to Tamas. “Do you have anything to say on your own behalf?”

The older man shook his head. “Nothing that won’t be proved soon enough. I’m content with what I’ve done.”

The crowd hissed and shifted at that, a low tide of anger tugging them closer to the platform.