“Csilla?” Ilan was behind her again.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. This holiness was what all the light and glass and shine of the church had been trying to capture. It was the poorest imitation, the wavering reflection of the moon on brackish water and not the brilliance of a night sky. This was the purest stuff of creation, a reminder that once they had all been infinite.

“What is?”

If she’d thought she was alone before, it was nothing compared to this. No one else would understand what it was to see the stuff of souls. Her face softened. Except, perhaps, Mihály, his body already stiffening before her.

The little bit of spun ether fluttered like a broken-winged moth. She pushed it towards the flickering seal.

If You must take him, make it glorious.

From the seal came a golden host of wings and radiance, eight long-fingered hands reaching to claim him with a hum like wind on water. The light illuminating her faded as the presence and his soul dispersed into hundreds of starry motes. The lines of the seal, so faint and delicate, glowed strong with the infusion of spirit. They filled the room from end to end. Inlaid between the lines were points like tiny flickers of fire spark. All the souls of the Union, under her feet. Everyone connected and protected again.

Csilla pressed her fingertips to her lips, tears threatening to spill over her lashes.

Mihály had managed to do something lasting and good after all. But even he’d left her in the end.

She collapsed, forehead down on the seal, adding its dirt to the mess of her face. The people would have their faith and hope, and the church would have its laws and power.

But the blankness of Mihály’s face, the gaping wound in his throat, made it hollow. Ilan caught her as she rose and stumbled forward.

He ran his hand through her tangled hair and let his fingers linger on the back of her neck. He touched her cheek, the healed flesh that was the last of Mihály’s power. “You’re hurt.”

It was a silly thing to focus on now. “So are you.”

She should go. Something insistent and old pushed through her power drenched limbs, but instead she sank down by Mihály’s body, tilting his head to rest against her leg, stroking his hair as he bled out for the world.

She once promised him she would stay, and that was a mercy she could offer to the last.

39

Ilan

The Incarnate’s chamber was white marble and gold leaf, shining with what was meant to be all the immaculate beauty of the blessed hereafter. Ilan bowed deeply as he entered. Now it looked like the pale bone color of teeth and fear, and the air in it was stale from months locked away.

Csilla had heard the divine, in some form at least. The thought pounded with Ilan’s steps as he paced outside the Incarnate’s chamber, trying to reason his way through the blasphemy. He’d seen Csilla deliver a soul. He’d seen her twisted face, the pain as she spoke to someone he couldn’t hear, the way she lit with creative fire. He’d felt the peace of praying against her fevered skin as Mihály turned from brilliant to cold.

Blasphemy or madness.

Her sobs echoed in fresh memory with every breath, even the tolling of the bells faint to his ears.

They’d saved the seal in a fashion, though now it was Mihály’s blood flowing within the sacred spaces. That was what he would have to focus on when he gave his report. The church still had its divinity, though how this new magic could be used remained to be seen.

Even if Csilla’s ecstatic power proved something about it was wrong. The Incarnate wasn’t who had been called to save them.

“Welcome.” The Incarnate rose in greeting, serene and haloed by the cast of light off the diamonds and gold he wore. If he really spoke to Asten, it didn’t weigh on him.

It should weigh on him. Csilla had looked as stricken before the seal as she had in the torture room, like it was no gift to be a conduit. The Incarnate had the same aura as his father or any of the other governing cats prowling with as much attention on their physical wares as their souls. The Incarnate knew his power, clearly, but no more than any mortal man of privilege.

Csilla had burned with holy fire. She’d had a fever-sweat on her and skin that shone like porcelain as he’d pulled her up the stairs, her shivers rocking them both as he held her in the dim corridor until she calmed enough to walk. Calmed...more a shock-induced tranquilized state...enough to where the screaming at the blood upon their emergence hadn’t broken through her haze. All she’d wanted to look at was Arany, her gold now running like a rock-cutting mountain stream, the people gathering with joy and splashing in the proof of their righteousness like children finding a puddle on a scorching day.

Mercies, how his head ached.

“Ilan.” The Prelate stood behind the Incarnate, even the deep angel-embroidered red of his robes austere in comparison to the luster on Asten’s chosen. “We’re waiting for the truth of what happened.”

He had to tell them. It was his duty. He wouldn’t forswear his vows.

And yet he when he took a breath to speak, he found himself still. He was always careful with his punishments. He would be equally careful with his words.

“We’ve been the victims of a group of western infiltrators, one that believed in the sanctity of the Severing. They summoned a demon. The demon used the Izir to kill, destroying the territory tethers, and ended up in Sandor. A conspirator.” The recitation of facts was barely any explanation at all. “Their goal was to destroy the seal so that the Church could no longer banish Shadow, and let things play out as they would. Likely with a goal of swaying the tides of your campaign.”

“So I’ve been told. And is that all they believed?” There was a knowing glitter in the man’s eyes.

“I’m not aware.” He’d left a life of politics, but it wasn’t that he couldn’t see the pieces of the game. Accusing the Incarnate now, with nothing but assumptions and dead bodies behind him, would take him from a lauded place of strength into somewhere with much weaker footing. “There is nothing more I can say.”

The Incarnate’s lips pressed into a satisfied smile. So silence was the answer he’d wanted. “And you banished the demon, even with the seal gone? And then had the idea to use the Izir’s blood.” The warm approval in the tone chafed. Ilan wasn’t entirely sorry to see Mihály gone, but the death of an Izir deserved respect.

He shifted, looking down at the aisle cloth leading to the Incarnate’s seat. It was barely worn, the fabric still white. A reminder of how privileged this audience was, and how it demanded the truth. And with the seal restored, they could see lies.

“I didn’t.”

The Incarnate pursed his lips. “But the only other person down there was that mercy girl. The one who was cast out, if I’m not mistaken.”

Ilan didn’t say anything.

“How?” Now it was Abe who looked concerned. “Csilla has no soul. She shouldn’t have any access to power. I cut her, but it was just for her own sake...”

“Asten worked through her, and the Izir’s blood refreshed the seal. A miracle.” Let them think it was a singular event. Let them let her go. It was the threat to power, not the heresy, that had put the first target on Mihály.

“That’s a large claim.” The Incarnate’s eyes glittered in a way that set Ilan’s lip to curling. “How do you know it was Asten? Perhaps more than one demon was present. We know there is only one Incarnate.”

And would you prove it? Would you let us test it with your lips to a bottle of poison? Csilla would.

Ilan swallowed. “She was able to touch his soul. She was the one who saved us.” He hadn’t been able to see it, but he’d seen her. Righteous and broken and brave.

“She says she spoke for the Divine, when that is a power reserved for me and mine. To allow others to lie about the Divine is to risk our perfection.” The disapproval in his tone was one step from an execution order, and Abe’s face was grim agreement.

If Ilan said it wasn't a lie, he'd be branded a liar himself. So he remained silent, to see what path the Incarnate's words would lay.

“Then clearly you, one of mine, were the one who did the banishing, and the girl is a blasphemer.” The Incarnate inclined his head in praise. “The miracle was your presence, not hers. Such devotion is commendable.”

Ilan’s back was damp under his gaze.

“Perhaps even sainted.” The Incarnate’s smile was a lure. Ilan had never wanted anything more than the power that came with enacting the will of the divine. The idea that he had worked a miracle and would wear a saint’s crown, be allowed to dispense justice across the Union as he saw fit...

It was a mouth-watering temptation, his desire offered up on a holy altar. Had he not seen the glory in Csilla, he wouldn’t have even recognized its darkness.