37
Csilla
The sound of the church bell shook her toenails to teeth. It wasn’t the quick call to prayers and service. These slow, deep peals were the dirge of a funeral.
The dull orange sun hung low in the sky as if not wanting to raise its face to the violence. The crowd pressed tight, their bloodlust reeking of sweat and hunger. Csilla’s heart clenched to hear their words, their eagerness to see bulging eyes and a snapped neck. They wanted so badly to know that the creature who had been stalking their streets and haunting their nightmares was about to be put down. To see that the Incarnate had returned, their breach of faith was forgiven, and all was right with the world.
She tried in vain to turn a few children back. The parents scowled and herded them in front, away from Csilla’s worrying hands and closer to the violence.
Around the courtyard votives had been set up, holding incense to block smells and vials of holy water to purify those whose eyes were about to be sullied by death. Csilla passed a few coins to the priest and took a vial for herself, knowing it was likely from the river and not the broken church. He didn’t even look when she placed the coins in his open palm. His eyes were fixed on the fraying hemp nooses of the rickety platform, hastily built by too-eager carpenters and reluctant priests. It had been decades since anyone had been executed.
The pair of nooses wavered in the slight breeze.
From the long shadow of church stepped the Incarnate, and an awe-struck murmur rose and fell in waves. His gold and white armor shone, polished as if he wore his brilliant soul over his skin, but there were no dents to suggest it had ever been worn in battle. His gaze measured the crowd, and Csilla froze. It was as if he could read each person’s worthiness without even touching their flesh, consecration given breath and form.
Tamas had called him a sham. She herself had touched his merely mortal flesh, but there was power there.
Topaz and diamond rings glittered like the many eyes of the angel hosts, vigilant in every direction, as he raised a hand.
Tamas was led forward, hands tied behind him. The crowd gasped at every stumbling step he took. A few shouted insults and flung splattering handfuls of dark refuse. Csilla pulled her kerchief down more fully over her forehead, shading her eyes as she made her way around the edges of the crowd. No one turned to look at the girl scurrying around them.
A fetid egg hit the front of the stage, splattering yolk and white down the front of the wood. It was followed by another and another, and Csilla winced at the crunch as shells hit wood.
Then there was Mihály. He looked smaller dressed in coarse brown robes, his beard and hair unkempt. But there was still something in his gaze that quieted the crowd, and a hiccuping sob from somewhere in the middle of the mass echoed.
The Incarnate stepped forward.
“Friends, I understand your fear and your rage. These men were behind the evil that haunted our streets, spilling blood on holy stone. They have damaged our connection to the divine. A sure death is the only fit punishment. We have the blessing of Asten today. This is the first step on the path that will lead us back to rights.”
Csilla shook at how he could stand there and lie. How had the church not seen his deception? It should have shadowed his soul like a thunderhead.
He turned to Tamas. “Do you have anything to say on your own behalf?”
The older man shook his head. “Nothing that won’t be proved soon enough. I’m content with what I’ve done.”
The crowd hissed and shifted at that, a low tide of anger tugging them closer to the platform.
“And you, Izir?”
Csilla’s breath caught at the quiet in his gaze. They hadn’t discussed what he would say— if his pride would have his last words be in his own defense, or if he had a final prayer.
“Forgive me,” he said as he stepped forward. “You trusted me, and I used you badly.” His voice was slightly slurred. Csilla wanted to touch her mark but she couldn’t; the comfort would turn into a beacon. She’d done her part of stealing, mixing, and a little helpless praying. Prayers were still instinctive, even after everything.
The roar that erupted from the crowd was what Csilla had always imagined of the screams of demons in hell; joy not from the beauty of the world, but sounds of relishing in its ugliness. Violence was an appetite not sated by its like. The more the church offered, the more the damaged faithful demanded in turn.
Csilla had to stand on tip-toe to see over the crowd, and even then, shoulders and hats and hair blocked her gaze. Ilan was in place, standing by as Tamas was first led to the center. If he was perturbed at his role, there was no outward sign. He could have been at service. Attendant and at peace.
Sandor stood to the side, his expression harder to read. The white around his collar was starting to gray with sweat. He could still turn on them. She squeezed her fingers until her ragged nails cut her palms.
An egg hit Tamas square in the chest, a viscous smear dripping from his heart. He blinked and swayed as if the blow had force.
Another egg landed next to Ilan’s shoe, and he looked out at the crowd. The gaze of the wolf was as effective a silencer as the Incarnate’s voice, the curses and screams dying as if he’d grabbed their throats. He slid the noose over and tightened the knot, no tremble in his arms.
Tamas’s knees half-buckled. Mihály bent for the rope, staggering slightly.
Ilan stepped in front of the man, pushing at Tamas’ shoulder.
“The highest of holies has confirmed this writ sentencing you to death. You may still plead innocent and ask for mercy.”
A show, and the man knew it. There was no mercy for those crimes. He still managed to spit, the glob mixing with thrown rot at the toe of Ilan’s boot.
“Very well.” He touched the man’s eyes, not gently. “May you see the clear path to your eternal rest.” His hand moved to the man’s lips, a hard knuckle against his teeth. “And may you speak only truth when brought before judgment.”
He pulled the lever.
There was a heartbeat second as the door held firm. Then it snapped and the man dropped, noose catching his neck as he gave a strangled groan.
And now for Mihály.
The blood pounding in Csilla’s ears drowned Ilan’s words, and the second lever went down.
Szente Alganka had survived such a hanging and come out wiser. This could also be redemption.
Bile lurched in Csilla’s stomach as the crowd shrank from the swinging body. His lips were turning blue, eyes bulging beneath the lids. There was no fight in his slack body.
He looked like every other corpse she had ever seen.
