"As quick as I can."
"Did you know she was special?"
The corpse didn't answer; of course she didn't. It was a struggle to get the robes over stiff arms, and he apologized silently as a rough tug sent her neck lolling. Church dead were never sent out with even their clothing; cloth was far too dear to waste. That didn't mean Csilla would have appreciated seeing this. He turned them out to the rougher ride of working grays; better to avoid attention.
"You must have known something." He'd never had much cause to speak with Ágnes, save at clergy meetings; he preferred to take care of himself and leave the mercy crews out of it. "Otherwise you wouldn't have spent so much time on her."
But maybe Ágnes had just been better than the rest of them.
There wasn't much in the kitchen, either; they'd taken what was good to the families housing the displaced clergy. The onions and potatoes that had been left were spongy with rot, and the bread that had been missed was stale. It was still better than nothing.
He opened the door quietly when he returned, in case Csilla was sleeping.
By her quiet, even breaths, she was, but there were damp spots on the pillow. She hadn't let him see her cry.
He folded up the robe and placed it by her head when he caught sight of her splayed hand. The chaffing on her wrist, the angry red where he'd tied the leather, was gone. Sucking in a breath he leaned forward, combing back a thick hank of her hair and tugging down the neckline of her shift enough to see what had just been bruise-mottled skin.
She looked untouched. Freshly born.
A prayer rested on his lips as he knelt beside her in silent worship as she slept on the altar of his bed. It wasn't miracle enough to be worth waking her for, but it was a miracle all the same.
33
Csilla
Ágnes' robes were heavy, the hood drawn so far down she had to turn her whole head to see anything but the shade of the cloth. She traced the embroidered poppies, loose threads she had sewn back herself for practice, the hem worn ragged from walking the streets in service. They had been well-filled in their life and even now kept her safe, knowledge that was an ache in her heart with each whisper of fabric on rubble. If anyone looked they would see a mercy worker sweeping up ash and stone, persevering in caring for what had already been lost. She wouldn't give them a chance to see her face or cross-marked hand. She wouldn't let them see what she was really looking for.
And Mihály still hadn't returned, though she glanced at the open gates time and time again. It had only been a day and some hours, but it only took moments for things to go wrong.
She pushed another chunk of broken rock, bringing a puff of pale dust with it. A small, annoyed meow echoed from the hollow in the wall.
"There you are!" Csilla grabbed the cat despite the claws catching her arm, dropping a kiss on the dirty fur of her head. Erzsébet squirmed, jumping from Csilla's arms and then twining against her legs as if to say there was no harm done.
A catch rubbed in her throat at the normalcy in this broken place. The cat didn't know what had happened, save that Csilla was no longer around to slip her dinner. And even that she forgave. Csilla reached to give her another scratch, for a moment absorbed by the illusion of the life she wanted: service and her cat.
Bells sang across the city, calling brilliance in the blue sky. A quick tolling pattern she hadn't heard in far too long- not horror, but celebration.
Finally.
Asten spoke in whispers, but the Incarnate came with a gale. The gold of his carriage caught the shafts of sun breaking through billowing clouds, tossing off light that people leaning out windows raised their hands to like coin. The hooves of his horses, a gleaming team six strong, cracked against the cobblestone with hammer-strike precision as they approached the church courtyard, and he was followed by a half-dozen of his militant guard, the oddly cheerful jostle of their armor joining the ringing bell choir. It was enough to make anyone believe in a coming judgment.
Csilla stepped back against the stone, watching from behind an outcropping. Abe was in front of the sanctuary, in his high day vestments, the billowing robe embroidered with silver thread marks of four and Arany's golden hands and wings. The picture he made was marred by the dark shadows under his eyes and the weighted slump of his shoulders.
Ilan stood at his right, lips pressed in a thin line. Sandor was on the left, slightly back, equally grim. The horses pulled so close to the stairs Csilla's breath caught.
The Incarnate stepped from the carriage onto ground that seemed too filthy for his feet. Prelates and Elders were allowed a white lining on their robes to show how close they were to brilliance, but the Incarnate dressed in white so bright it hurt to look at, embroidered with golden words of holiness, such a contrast to the scattered dirt stone that he almost appeared to hover. The head above the robes was wizened but strong, gray hair closely cropped and the warm brown shade of his eyes not matched in the judging look in them. He was an image of church authority that could have easily joined the ranks of painted saints in the cathedral's heart, and Csilla dipped in a habit-born pointless genuflection.
"It's a joyous thing to have you back in the city," Abe said, but the Incarnate was eyeing the damage to the Cathedral and Arany's dry gold. A shamed pang grabbed her chest at the contrast of his gilded splendor and the sorry state of the church grounds.
"A necessary thing, by the look of it." His disapproval radiated. "Why was I not informed of how much damage there was directly? I had to hear from pilgrims and lay priests from our stops. What is there left for us now?"
Abe and Ilan exchanged a glance, and Csilla bit her lip at the simmering anger there. He would leave them, too, and then there would be nothing. She wrapped her arms around herself, a metallic taste filling her mouth as the nameless ocean washed her again.
A metal splash echoed, followed by another and another. Abe gave a soft cry of praise as dripping gold beaded on the courtyard, falling from each of Arany's dozen eyes.
"She weeps again. Your presence gives us hope, Incarnate."
The drops condensed to a puddling sheen on the stone, the clear sky and spires above reflected in perfect gold.
Sandor coughed, and the Incarnate glanced at him, looking between him and Ilan in puzzlement as if seeing for the first time. "Who is this new head inquisitor?"
Abe stilled. "You sent him to us, your divinity."
Csilla pressed her hand harder against the wall, leaning forward to hear.
"I can understand his confusion," Sandor said. His voice was placid, no stress on his face. "The man I replaced broke his leg near Mitlosk. Word was sent to you, but we decided it was better if someone went than no one at all and far better than waiting the months it would take him to recover, if he did. Was the message missed?"
"He had your writ, stamped with your seal," Abe confirmed.
"I thought you said you came from the front," Ilan said, a trap hook look in his eyes.
"Perhaps you misremember, Ilan." Sandor offered his hand to the Incarnate who inspected the seal ring, twisting it with narrowed eyes. "I was on the front two years ago, yes. After spending time with the Servants of the Road."
At this the Incarnate stepped back with a slight nod. "Your face does look familiar." It seemed like a lie, if a polite one.
