"It would be an honor if you remember, Your Divinity. There were many of us there."
Ilan's gaze found Csilla's, and she could read the suspicion, though there was nothing to be done for it at the moment. If the Incarnate was satisfied, they could hardly argue.
The Incarnate gave a slow nod. "Then let me see the sanctuary. I can pray for your dead." He entered alone, his faithful guard with their backs to the door as it shut.
She couldn't get past them, but that wasn't the only way in. She sprinted around the side, to the smaller door where novices carried in the boxes of candles and incense for the altar, an unobtrusive door for the endless menial work that kept the fires of holiness burning.
There were luckily a few older boxes, half-cracked and dirty, that could be pushed around in a show of cleaning. It would be less suspicious to be caught than to confront. As far as she knew he hadn't laid direct eyes on her since she was a small and confounding thing, unlikely to recognize the young woman in gray fruitlessly trying to repair what was better thrown out. With a quiet apology to whoever had carried over the box in the first place, she picked it up and let it drop.
The wood splintered with a sharp crack and crash, and she braced herself as quick footsteps marched toward her.
"Ah, a mercy girl. I didn't think anyone was here."
Csilla smiled, clenching her hand so there was no chance of him seeing the cut. "Your divinity." She took a deep breath, ready to confess, even if she couldn't readily explain. With all of Asten's grace behind him, he would know what she was, and what could be done. It would be wonderful to feel light again. "I—"
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "There's no work for you here. I have asked to be alone."
The voice should be telling him to go to the seal. They should be telling him who she was and why she was here. She waited for the light of recognition in his face, but all that came were further creases of impatience between his brows. He was a hairsbreadth from calling his guards, and there would be no hiding then.
"I'm sorry, Your Divinity, but I have to show you." She reached out, but when small hands touched weathered ones, the Incarnate pulled back like she was something noxious. There was no spark of acknowledgment, much less divine fire. Her mouth only tasted of old spit, her skin only warm with the layers of wool.
He didn't know her at all.
"If you want a blessing, there are other ways to get it. Do you not understand what a dire situation we are in?"
Explanation of her miracles, already stuttering, died on her tongue. Csilla swallowed, hiding her expression with a bow. She wanted to say nothing, but it would be a lie. She was alight with everything, painful as it was. She couldn't say it was nothing.
"The city is suffering, but there is meaning behind it. We will overcome this, and be stronger."
Her mouth twisted. That was what people always said when there was nothing they could do.
The platitude was another piece of dry kindling in her newly-formed kiln of deep anger, and she opened her mouth when fresh commotion outside caused them both to turn.
Mihály. And Tamas beside him, not fighting, not speaking. He looked frighteningly calm for a man being brought for a trial he would never be able to defend himself in, looking at his pupil as proud as a father at his child's first recitations.
Csilla's heart skipped at the wrongness. Of everyone here, she was the only one who seemed afraid.
"Who are you? Who let you in?"
Mihály's smile was cutting as he placed a single hand on the plated door frame. There was no shift at first, but a shiver passed over and through Csilla, deep and cool and picking at the oldest-laid blessings of the church. An answering glow ringed him in silver, pure as morning light and a painful contrast to his grim expression.
The Incarnate sucked in a breath. "You are supposed to be dead."
"Well it's a very good thing I'm not," Mihály said, pushing Tamas to stumble over the threshold. "I've just answered your prayers. This is the man who organized the fall of the city."
Csilla waited for Tamas to speak up and say that Mihály was the man whose hands did the dirty work. He remained quiet, which was worse.
"And you think this buys you pardon?" The Incarnate shook his head and raised his hand.
Freshly drawn blades gleamed behind their backs as the guards strode in and surrounded them.
Mihály's eyes found hers, widened and wild, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't let herself be seen by Abe. Guilty and sick, she turned and fled back through the small door as the Incarnate's order echoed.
"Arrest them both."
34
Ilan
Night brought with it a fresh fall of silence as Ilan escorted Csilla to the cells holding the prisoners. She'd said that when the Incarnate touched her, he hadn't known her. It didn't seem possible that whatever Tamas had done could silence the voice of god, but either Csilla was lying, or the Incarnate was. One of those seemed more likely than the other.
Tamas sat cross-legged on the floor of his cell, unbothered by his lack of over clothing or the dingy surroundings. Perhaps his long association with evil burned him from the inside, for he didn't even shiver at the cold that seeped up through Ilan's boots. For so many nights the image of their enemy had just been a wisp of candle smoke in the dark, and now he was here. The placidity of the man's lined face unnerved him. He should be begging. He would beg.
"The Inquisitor." Tamas's mouth worked awkwardly as he spoke, jaw swollen and yellowing with a bruise in the shape of Mihály's fist.
Csilla stepped right to the bars of the cell, an odd note of pity on her face. Of course she could dredge up sympathy for an enemy.
"Ah," Tamas continued, tilting his chin. "And the mercy girl. Here to stand for me? I tried to save you, you know. How many times did I ask you to leave?"
Only Ilan could see her tremble. "You did. And for that I'll bring you water and a blanket, so you don't suffer before you die. I'll pray; death is not the worst thing that can happen if you confess and accept your punishment. But I can't defend you."
His eyes narrowed, but he nodded, approving. "Perhaps you'll survive the coming shadow after all."
Ilan stepped to her side, resisting the urge to put a steadying hand on her back. "Is that what you wanted, then? Demons can't be controlled. You've only damned yourself."
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I'm truly serving the divine, more than anyone else here in this overbuilt cage of stone and gold has." He dragged his knuckles over the rusted bars in emphasis.
