"How would death serve Them?" Csilla's voice was cut with anger.
"Any chance we had at true faith was stolen when Arany left her mark on the world. Just a little bit of stolen divinity, vague enough that the church could twist it to suit its own needs."
"You may have broken Silgard, but you didn't win." She nodded, firm. "There are still priests who can fight."
Not many, and not well. And not when they didn't know where an enemy would turn up next. Not when the next body it took could be someone dear.
"There's nothing to win, child. Everything, the false safety you cling to, that warmonger on his throne, everything but that blood in the dirt is a lie. Go see what's left for yourself."
That was what they wanted to do. It sent a curl of wrongness to him that Tamas would want that too.
"You say I hate the church," he continued. "I hate the church, but I love the faith. Asten left us to Shadow and demons, and pretending They didn't isn't going to bring Them back. They never wanted this, never wanted us. Humanity has to stand alone through the long darkness to prove ourselves and come out purified on the other side. The seal was holding us back, not saving us. Has there been a single miracle in all the time we've kept the doctrine?"
"One," Ilan spoke up before Csilla. "There was one."
Tamas sat back, mouth coy. "Indeed."
Now Ilan leaned heavy on the bars. "Where did you send the demon?"
Tamas shrugged. "What makes you think I didn't banish it now that our work is done?"
"If we can't, I know you can't. Who did you send it to? How many of your people are in Silgard?"
"A handful here, more elsewhere. Those of us who have seen enough to know how we've gone astray. Silgard's walls are a blindfold."
"I don't want your reasons. I want names and numbers. I want to know how we can stop this." Ilan reached forward but was stopped by Csilla's hand on his arm.
"We already have him here. You don't have to hurt him further. He's already going to die."
"And I'll give you one part for free," Tamas said, shifting so shadows fell across his face. "You can't stop it."
A dull clang of a foot hitting metal ricocheted, and Csilla stiffened. "Mihály." She gave another warning look at Ilan before hurrying to the other cell. He watched as she went to her knees and reached between the bars towards the angel tied in the dark and felt a dull, unwelcome ache.
Easier to think about hurting the man before him. He wrapped a hand around the bar and leaned forward again. "You'll never be pardoned, but confessing now will save your soul."
The answering laugh was hollow. "And if I say my soul is fine, you have no way to verify."
It was true and caustic.
"At least confess that the Izir had nothing to do with it, and they'll let him go. You can do that much." That was almost a lie; Ilan wasn't sure of it at all.
Tamas shook his head. "He didn't plan to kill, but he had everything to do with it."
There was an answering slam of a heel against metal and a grunt from farther down, Csilla jumping back with soothing words.
"Were you also the one who burned the church? More ritual? Or was that simple distraction?" Tamas had known where they were and that Csilla had to be alone. The man inclined his head, a teacher's quiet praise of a clever student.
"Shall I confess something you don't know, Inquisitor? Something that might help you understand why I did what I did? Come closer. I'd like to see your face when you hear, and Misi broke my glasses."
Good for him.
"There is nothing that would justify what you did." He would know. Ilan had spent his whole life weighing one thing against another, finding the purest path. There was no justice that could balance the current suffering.
"I tried to kill Csilla to save her from all this," he said. "Tried to poison her as surely as your church tried to kill Misi. But she walked away."
Ilan didn't trust himself to speak as a slow rage spread, crimson licking the edges of his vision. "Tried to save yourself so she wouldn't get close enough to figure out what you were doing."
The man gave a little laugh. "It was kill her or use her to kill. Two sides of a coin. Do you think she'll like remembering cutting that woman's throat? But it doesn't matter. She lived. And so did the Varga woman."
"You made a mistake." It was common enough for a physician to mix up one bottle with another, or not realize an herb had lost its potency. Even the most experienced mercy worker sometimes showed up with a confession that the mushroom they thought would nourish had turned out to be something fatal.
"I did indeed, but not the one you think. What does it mean, when a poison neutralizes on the tongue?"
It was a question for first-year seminary. "The miracle of Imre. A few Izir also share the gift, but we would have known if she were that blessed." If only she had been from the outset. She would have served the world so much better than the man tied up scant feet from them. Her life would have been quiet, and happy.
"The incorruptible tongue, the miracle of Imre, and every Incarnate after him. Or so they say." The man glanced aside, though from the angle there was no way he could see Csilla. "I don't think they actually make them drink to prove themselves."
"Impossible." His head pounded with the idea. "She would know." The entire point of the Incarnate was as a conduit. There was something special about her, but she didn't hear Them.
"We succeeded in breaking every seal. Including whatever was on her; I wasn't the one who made a mistake. I just wasn't open to the impossible." He shut his eyes momentarily. "I didn't expect my little angel to end up with a perfect saint in his ear."
A saint. He turned his head to look at Csilla kneeling in the shadows, stroking Mihály's bound hands while silver danced around them. "Now where did the demon go? You'll die soon enough. Telling me won't erase your victory."
"As you will." There was a dark glint in his eye. "I've already been a far better servant than you."
The man's fingers were callused, but no trace of burns or caustic oils. Ilan grabbed his smallest finger.
He hesitated. Tamas would scream, and Csilla would find a new reason to fuss.
