“And you, Izir?”

Csilla’s breath caught at the quiet in his gaze. They hadn’t discussed what he would say— if his pride would have his last words be in his own defense, or if he had a final prayer.

“Forgive me,” he said as he stepped forward. “You trusted me, and I used you badly.” His voice was slightly slurred. Csilla wanted to touch her mark but she couldn’t; the comfort would turn into a beacon. She’d done her part of stealing, mixing, and a little helpless praying. Prayers were still instinctive, even after everything.

The roar that erupted from the crowd was what Csilla had always imagined of the screams of demons in hell; joy not from the beauty of the world, but sounds of relishing in its ugliness. Violence was an appetite not sated by its like. The more the church offered, the more the damaged faithful demanded in turn.

Csilla had to stand on tip-toe to see over the crowd, and even then, shoulders and hats and hair blocked her gaze. Ilan was in place, standing by as Tamas was first led to the center. If he was perturbed at his role, there was no outward sign. He could have been at service. Attendant and at peace.

Sandor stood to the side, his expression harder to read. The white around his collar was starting to gray with sweat. He could still turn on them. She squeezed her fingers until her ragged nails cut her palms.

An egg hit Tamas square in the chest, a viscous smear dripping from his heart. He blinked and swayed as if the blow had force.

Another egg landed next to Ilan’s shoe, and he looked out at the crowd. The gaze of the wolf was as effective a silencer as the Incarnate’s voice, the curses and screams dying as if he’d grabbed their throats. He slid the noose over and tightened the knot, no tremble in his arms.

Tamas’s knees half-buckled. Mihály bent for the rope, staggering slightly.

Ilan stepped in front of the man, pushing at Tamas’ shoulder.

“The highest of holies has confirmed this writ sentencing you to death. You may still plead innocent and ask for mercy.”

A show, and the man knew it. There was no mercy for those crimes. He still managed to spit, the glob mixing with thrown rot at the toe of Ilan’s boot.

“Very well.” He touched the man’s eyes, not gently. “May you see the clear path to your eternal rest.” His hand moved to the man’s lips, a hard knuckle against his teeth. “And may you speak only truth when brought before judgment.”

He pulled the lever.

There was a heartbeat second as the door held firm. Then it snapped and the man dropped, noose catching his neck as he gave a strangled groan.

And now for Mihály.

The blood pounding in Csilla’s ears drowned Ilan’s words, and the second lever went down.

Szente Alganka had survived such a hanging and come out wiser. This could also be redemption.

Bile lurched in Csilla’s stomach as the crowd shrank from the swinging body. His lips were turning blue, eyes bulging beneath the lids. There was no fight in his slack body.

He looked like every other corpse she had ever seen.

We were wrong.

Ilan sliced the rope.

It didn’t give.

We were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong. The line between success and a dead man was hair-thin as it was. With every second Mihály looked more certainly dead, and Ilan’s slices against the fraying rope became more frantic.

Finally the Izir’s body fell through with a thud, crumpling between beams of the framework. Csilla pressed her lips thin as two other inquisitorial priests pulled him out with no more care than they would handle a sack of garbage. Her heart thumped at the chalk-dullness of his face, the stiffness of his lips, but it was out of their hands now.

Tamas was hauled to a cart, Mihály laid on the side of the platform. Sandor stepped mercifully close, partially shielding his body from watching eyes, all the while appearing appropriately somber.

The Incarnate raised his hand again, his weathered face a beacon of calm. Csilla wished she could have that confidence. Even the smallest pains to creation ground on her, and he could stand before death and smile.

“Holy judgment has been passed. Our terror has ended,” he announced. “Take the body from our city as we celebrate Their ever-hastening return.”

As she tried to get close to the body cart, she found herself pushed away by others wanting to see him for themselves. You’ve seen enough death, she wanted to say. Go home and hug your loved ones.

But it wasn’t enough. One person ripped off Tamas’ boot, another grabbed at his hand, scratch marks streaking his palm as they pulled him grimly forward. Another grabbed his hair, yanking a fistful of strands and waving them in the air like a thready banner. The guards made no move to stop the desecration as the fevered crowd stole talismans of safety.

A few moved towards Mihály, wanting bodily tokens or a sliver of their own vengeance, torn flesh for torn flesh.

The hanging was supposed to quell their violence. Csilla’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird in her chest. She stepped back, foot finding a rotten potato peel and nearly coming out from under her.

Stop. She edged backward to the fringes of the crowd, pressing against the wall of the church.

The air thickened, suddenly hot and humid, droplets beading on her skin. Violet-tinged clouds rolled across what had been perfect sky, and drenching rain came down as if buckets were being freshly dumped. Electricity like the sizzle before a lightning spark danced on her skin, transformative and keen.

The Incarnate bent for Mihály, and a flash cut through the air, sending him stepping back. The light didn’t stop. It danced between the onlookers, not burning, only bouncing and sparking.

As she stepped away from the platform, her eyes caught on water pooling on the stone, glinting with rain-diluted gold. Arany was weeping, not just a few drops, but a stream of tears.

Good. She should weep to see what they were doing to her kin. What her church had become.

Sandor gestured to Csilla, and she pulled her head covering further to shadow her eyes.

She could see the signs of life in Mihály. Or at least that’s what she told herself. The eye twitch was life, not a final spasm. That his skin was not quite so pale, the bruises darkening to the color of browning apple on his throat no sign of anything permanent.

Sandor wasn’t looking at Mihály. He watched the cart with Tamas’ body leave, ready to be dumped for the Servants he’d once found a home with. Maybe there would be someone he knew, and he could be sat for. That would be a mercy that even Csilla couldn’t offer.

The Prelate and Incarnate stood before the body and Csilla bent forward, hoping to look awed. When she glanced up through her eyelashes, Abe’s look was knowing.

The Incarnate bent forward, touching Mihály’s forehead. Nothing happened.

She hadn’t even known a little part of her still wished something would, to let her hold onto the last tatters bits of safe belief. All the people here had been deceived by what they’d believed in. But they’d also been fed by it. Brought joy from it. Found purpose in it. Nothing one man had done could make any of that less true. And she would still try to give them back their hope.

The Incarnate raised his hand, a vision of divine authority. “Anyone, no matter how divine, can be misled. Burn him.”

Csilla’s mouth dropped. That wasn’t what they’d agreed to.

“Incarnate.” Sandor stepped forward. “He asked to be laid with Arany’s remains.”

He would be listened to. He had to be. She’d forgive the man every cruelty if he came through for them in this.

The Incarnate stared over the body, and this time the miracle she prayed for was for Mihály to remain as still as death.

“There’s nothing of her down there anymore. But very well. If he’d rather rot, leave him and lock the tomb.”

38