Once everyone was brilliant, Asten would return and make the world perfect again, the way it was always meant to be.
A flutter of hesitation rose in her throat as the Izir smiled down at her, his face as radiant as a saint’s vision.
She bowed, touching her still-aching palm to her chest. The seal was weak, but the Church was strong, and she would be strong for it.
“If you would, Izir.”
Hopefully preaching made him thirsty.
5
Csilla
With the city ringed by walls, the faithful built towards heaven. The Izir's room was a converted attic in an upriver district, the window enlarged to the size of a door, with a ladder leading up and the whole thing clearly a newer make and more hastily wrought than the sturdier building below. Csilla blanched. Not only did he expect her to follow him home, she had to climb into it?
"Sorry about this," he called over his shoulder as he climbed, and she dodged the grit falling from his boots. "I don't entertain many guests."
From the knowing hunger in the crowd, she doubted that, but it didn't seem polite to say.
"You live up there?" It was barely suitable for a poor apprentice, much less an Izir. Surely among all those ardent followers was someone who would have been honored to host him in a home that actually had a door.
"Reminds me of where I grew up." He pulled the shutters open then looked back, holding out a hand she didn't take. "Be careful."
With a deep breath she stepped up another too-thin rung, stomach lurching every time her eyes caught the dark stone of the ground below.
This is the worst idea you've ever had.
This is what you're meant to do.
Both thoughts were true.
At last she crawled through the window, breath as unsteady as her feet as she tumbled in. The Izir closed the shutters with a snap as she adjusted her skirts, and it took her eyes a moment to settle as everything washed pale yellow in the glow of the oil lamp he'd set burning. The room was even smaller than she'd expected, just a sagging straw-stuffed mattress over a hemp rope bedframe, a lamp, a travel sack. Green and brown glass bottles, lots of them, all empty and most toppled, and the lingering smell of brandy and smoke. The whole thing was claustrophobic, the slanted ceiling not tall enough for him to stand at full height.
"You climb that every day? It's dangerous." The old ladder had rocked against the wall, and at least two rungs were splintered. "But if you fall, I suppose you can fly..."
His laugh sent her shoulders up around her ears and heat to her cheeks.
"You believe that?" He let his outer cloak fall and his fingers found the top button of his jacket.
Csilla's stomach seized and her eyes darted to the window in quick calculation. He was standing between her and the only exit. The room was small, and he was large, and there was nowhere more than an arms-length away.
"Izir, please don't..." Her words choked as she backed up as far as she could. "I only came here to talk." He couldn't have misunderstood.
Or maybe she was the one who had misunderstood. She touched her mark, the sharpness of each metal point. From the look of the crowd, he must have been used to people offering their bodies instead of just praise and spirits.
And she was darkly sure he wasn't used to being told no.
He turned, sliding one arm out of his jacket. The movement revealed the linen collar of his undershirt, but she lowered her eyes to avoid any glimpse of things best left covered. "Do you see room for wings?"
Csilla's gaze fixed on her fingers as they clenched into ineffectual fists. But she glanced up, caught by the jest in his tone.
No, no room for wings.
"No wings, no extra eyes, no tail, nothing useful." He slid his jacket back on quickly, muttering about the cold. "And you can call me Mihály," he continued. "I'm not vain about my title."
He raised an eyebrow at her little chuff of relief. He hadn't been trying to touch her, and she pretended she'd known it all along.
"Then Mr. Nemes..."
"Mihály," he stressed. "I promise it's not a sin to call me by my given name. And what should I call you?"
"Csilla." She bit her lip. "Just Csilla." Servants shed their family names when they joined the church, but the admission she never had one to give up scratched at old loneliness.
"Well, that's lovely." He smiled, and she warmed in spite of herself. "And how old are you? You hardly look of age to be out and about at night." There was a touch of condescension in his kind expression that stole the pleasure of being paid attention to.
She pulled herself up to her full height, unimpressive as it was. "Twenty," probably, "though I hardly see why it matters."
"Then why steal wine? Even in Silgard there's no shortage of friends willing to treat a pretty girl in the tavern. You look like you could use a good night." His wink set off a fresh wave of indignation that smothered the shock of the compliment. With her unwashed hair and work-worn hands she wasn't pretty, and he was supposed to be holy. But though she'd just seen him heal with a divine touch, he spoke like any common man. He didn't even have a novice's reverence for the city.
But Izir were still mostly human, for all the touches of power on them. That mere humanity should have made her task easier, but instead her hands began to shake.
"You were right. It's an offering." She rubbed her fingertips against her skirt, silently begging for intercession. If there were a time for their god to hear her, it was now. "Just take it." If he took it, he'd take the damning choice away.
She hated how she wanted that loophole.
"People don't bring offerings unless they want blessings." Mihály deftly pulled the quilt from his bed and folded it on the wooden floor, gesturing for her to sit on the faded red and green squares. The joviality leeched from his eyes. "What have you heard?"
