He spoke quickly, trying to create a shield of excuses to cover Csilla’s power. “I believe it was a miracle, but not mine. And not blasphemy. This is the city of miracles—“

The Incarnate raised his hand. “Your humility is a credit to you, but this glory is not yours to claim or deny. Szente Ilan.”

Abe uplifted praise as bitterness filled Ilan’s mouth.

“You will be lauded,” the Incarnate continued, and Ilan made a noncommittal noise he hoped sounded pleased. “But in such a turbulent time, blasphemy will not be tolerated. You saw what heresy did to our city. And I will have to leave again soon, to make sure every territory is secure. We’ve been given the grace of a second chance.”

They wanted it all over, quickly. Ilan respected few things like he did order, but order was a home. If it were rebuilt on a rotten foundation, they’d find themselves in the same broken pit again. The Church was just wrong about the source of the rot. It wasn’t the people below that were the problem. It was decaying up to the roof.

“Take her out to the wastes, to the pit of burning Shadow. If she does miracles, one will save her.” The Incarnate stood, looming. “We’ve seen the power our enemy holds. We can’t allow them any more toeholds. When you return, I’ll have you at my side, bringing justice to the entire Union. “

Ilan started. It would have been exactly what he had hoped for, long weeks ago. “Incarnate, that’s…generous. Abandoning the girl, though...”” Csilla had done what she set out to, save them all, and this was what they gave her. The north was a slow method of killing, especially with hungry creatures coming out of their winter dens. She would be a spring bounty in a place the snow had barely thawed.

Hints of purple anger bloomed on the Incarnate’s cheeks. “Are you hesitating? Do you still serve Asten?”

The slap of the question drew Ilan’s shoulders straight. “Of course.”

It was only that Asten wasn’t here.

40

Csilla

The pressure of Erzsébet on her chest only exacerbated the ache in Csilla's back as she lay in the cramped room. She'd heard the whispers of those who'd come in to check on her, ones who prayed and ones who cursed, none of whom had dared touch her while she squeezed her eyes and pretended her heart was light enough to rest. The feel of Mihály's soul on her palm lingered like smears of altar oil, staining and sacred.

One thing had been clear in all the voices. The Incarnate had sentenced her to death. That's what this banishment was.

The low angle of the sun told her she'd been out for hours, lying in hot-skinned wait. Strength was coming back to her limbs, her parched throat cracking. Soon it would be dark enough to move. She had to, whether or not she was ready.

She shifted the cat and sat up enough to look out across the cathedral's steep slanted roofs, wondering what parts of the wood were still good, what could have been damaged. How she could get out without plunging through and ending up a broken body speared on a blessed statue. She wished she could call it a mercy that they put her here where she could look over her dear city, not in the bowels, but it was only because there were fewer ways to escape with a guarded door and a sure fall outside.

A sharp knock rattled the door, and Erzsébet stopped her kneading to raise her head.

Ilan entered, Marthe shadowing him. He wore white and gold, and there was a line of gold across his brow.

The colors of a saint. It might have been her imagination, but she would have sworn his cheeks colored as he caught her noticing.

Of course he would be the one to carry out the sentence. She'd claimed to speak for Asten, taken power that wasn't hers. The best she could have hoped for would have been to have her tongue cut out and another whipping, but now no one was inclined to mercy. She'd saved the church, and he was the church. It was too much to hope he'd choose her. She didn't have the right to want it.

If I was right to act, tell me. Better yet, tell them.

The silence ate at her bones.

"Leave us, " Ilan said, face grave and voice thick.

You watched me grow up, she thought as the woman left. Fresh grief drowned her. You watched me grow up, and now you'd abandon me.

Ilan turned the lock, then sat on the end of the bed. Csilla winced as Erzsébet stood to greet him, each paw a dig into her bruised flesh as she walked down Csilla's body to sniff his hand and say her hellos. As if this were a social visit.

Oh, for the innocent self-assurance of a cat.

"How are you feeling?"

She shrugged, trying uselessly to smooth her tangled hair. "As well as anyone sentenced to die." She'd never been so aware of the fragility of flesh and bone, the thinness that separated every soul from the ether. She didn't know how it was to be done; a blade, a noose, being dragged to the end of the world and boiling in the dark, but she knew the order had been given.

"Do you think I'm going to let that happen?"

A small smile ghosted her face, bringing with it an ache as newly healed skin stretched. He thought he had a plan. Maybe he did.

"What kind of servant would I be if I let the Incarnate die?"

The worship in his voice made her shiver even as she wanted to laugh. The Incarnate sat on a throne of marble and passed judgments sung to him from above, didn't lie on sweat and blood-stained sheets, waiting to run in the dark.

But she'd saved the city, in a stumbling, terrified way. She'd taken two lives, given one back, and saved the faith of thousands.

A timid calm lapped through her, gentle waves on a softly worn shore.

On the day she'd willingly gone to bleed for the church, the Prelate said that Asten didn't ask how she wanted to serve but how she would serve. She closed her eyes so tightly tears squeezed out, clinging to the fading echos of holy strength.

I don't understand what You want me to do.

The answer didn't come from the ether but from herself. It was the same calling she'd always felt, a fierce love threatening to pull her apart. Perhaps she'd never hear Them in the way that she wanted.

Perhaps it didn't matter. She'd done good work before, and she would continue, even if she had to do it alone.

"Csilla?" Ilan's urgency drew her back to her present misery. She may have found a calling, but it was as an enemy of the church.

"You offered to help me leave once." She pressed her hands together. He reached out and covered her clasped hands with his own, warm and sure.

"I never rescinded it."

She nodded, spreading her hand slightly to let their fingers lace together, her throat full of acceptance and gratitude and other things she couldn't voice. The relief on his face hurt all the more knowing he wasn't going to like what was coming. Saika would be wild and beautiful, and safe for a time. But if word got out that she was there, the false Incarnate would see it burned and call the blaze redemption. She could rest there, plan and pray, but not stay.

And she couldn't tell him that.

"Are you ready?" His voice cracked like he wasn't.

This wasn't a thing one could be ready for. If she had time, there was still so much she would do. Ask, one last time, if anyone knew anything about her family or who she was. Who it was who had known she needed to be hidden. Pray over Ágnes' ashes, sit longer with Mihály while all his beauty turned gray and cold deep below them. Someone should.

For a moment, her ears echoed with the Izir's laughter, warming and drowning her at once, and she pressed her hand to her heart. For all the bitter things he'd taught her, there would always be a small crack there that was his.

Csilla bent down and rubbed Erzsébet's head, and the cat stretched into the touch with an appreciative purr. Maybe Ilan would let her share his pillow.

"I hope you've gotten better at mousing," she told her sternly, and the rough tongue lapping the ends of her fingers in answer brought a smile to her sore face.

It was as much of a goodbye as she was going to get from the only one who would care. She offered Ilan her wrists.