We were wrong.
Ilan sliced the rope.
It didn’t give.
We were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong. The line between success and a dead man was hair-thin as it was. With every second Mihály looked more certainly dead, and Ilan’s slices against the fraying rope became more frantic.
Finally the Izir’s body fell through with a thud, crumpling between beams of the framework. Csilla pressed her lips thin as two other inquisitorial priests pulled him out with no more care than they would handle a sack of garbage. Her heart thumped at the chalk-dullness of his face, the stiffness of his lips, but it was out of their hands now.
Tamas was hauled to a cart, Mihály laid on the side of the platform. Sandor stepped mercifully close, partially shielding his body from watching eyes, all the while appearing appropriately somber.
The Incarnate raised his hand again, his weathered face a beacon of calm. Csilla wished she could have that confidence. Even the smallest pains to creation ground on her, and he could stand before death and smile.
“Holy judgment has been passed. Our terror has ended,” he announced. “Take the body from our city as we celebrate Their ever-hastening return.”
As she tried to get close to the body cart, she found herself pushed away by others wanting to see him for themselves. You’ve seen enough death, she wanted to say. Go home and hug your loved ones.
But it wasn’t enough. One person ripped off Tamas’ boot, another grabbed at his hand, scratch marks streaking his palm as they pulled him grimly forward. Another grabbed his hair, yanking a fistful of strands and waving them in the air like a thready banner. The guards made no move to stop the desecration as the fevered crowd stole talismans of safety.
A few moved towards Mihály, wanting bodily tokens or a sliver of their own vengeance, torn flesh for torn flesh.
The hanging was supposed to quell their violence. Csilla’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird in her chest. She stepped back, foot finding a rotten potato peel and nearly coming out from under her.
Stop. She edged backward to the fringes of the crowd, pressing against the wall of the church.
The air thickened, suddenly hot and humid, droplets beading on her skin. Violet-tinged clouds rolled across what had been perfect sky, and drenching rain came down as if buckets were being freshly dumped. Electricity like the sizzle before a lightning spark danced on her skin, transformative and keen.
The Incarnate bent for Mihály, and a flash cut through the air, sending him stepping back. The light didn’t stop. It danced between the onlookers, not burning, only bouncing and sparking.
As she stepped away from the platform, her eyes caught on water pooling on the stone, glinting with rain-diluted gold. Arany was weeping, not just a few drops, but a stream of tears.
Good. She should weep to see what they were doing to her kin. What her church had become.
Sandor gestured to Csilla, and she pulled her head covering further to shadow her eyes.
She could see the signs of life in Mihály. Or at least that’s what she told herself. The eye twitch was life, not a final spasm. That his skin was not quite so pale, the bruises darkening to the color of browning apple on his throat no sign of anything permanent.
Sandor wasn’t looking at Mihály. He watched the cart with Tamas’ body leave, ready to be dumped for the Servants he’d once found a home with. Maybe there would be someone he knew, and he could be sat for. That would be a mercy that even Csilla couldn’t offer.
The Prelate and Incarnate stood before the body and Csilla bent forward, hoping to look awed. When she glanced up through her eyelashes, Abe’s look was knowing.
The Incarnate bent forward, touching Mihály’s forehead. Nothing happened.
She hadn’t even known a little part of her still wished something would, to let her hold onto the last tatters bits of safe belief. All the people here had been deceived by what they’d believed in. But they’d also been fed by it. Brought joy from it. Found purpose in it. Nothing one man had done could make any of that less true. And she would still try to give them back their hope.
The Incarnate raised his hand, a vision of divine authority. “Anyone, no matter how divine, can be misled. Burn him.”
Csilla’s mouth dropped. That wasn’t what they’d agreed to.
“Incarnate.” Sandor stepped forward. “He asked to be laid with Arany’s remains.”
He would be listened to. He had to be. She’d forgive the man every cruelty if he came through for them in this.
The Incarnate stared over the body, and this time the miracle she prayed for was for Mihály to remain as still as death.
“There’s nothing of her down there anymore. But very well. If he’d rather rot, leave him and lock the tomb.”
38
Csilla
The seal had been a living thing, feeding on the holiness of the Union. Now it was starved.
Dark, light, then speckled like mica in a stone. Bright flecks turned black as seconds dragged into minutes. Perhaps the Incarnate hadn’t been wrong in giving up the location. There didn’t seem to be anything left here worth guarding.
Csilla’s fingers itched to touch it, an impossible urge to heal the damage. She stretched out her scarred hand and something rippled in the magic. It was faint, a twist of flickering white undulating in the pale glow.
Mercy breeds good. That’s what she’d always believed. And now she was in the belly of the church, watching the holiest place in the world die.
But she could try to save it. She didn’t know how, but if she were meant to be an instrument, let her be wielded here.
First Mihály. His body was stark in the dirt, lips parted in a stiff gasp. He had given her the precise dosage to wear off within an hour of the hanging. It wouldn’t work if his neck was already damaged beyond healing; repairing crushed cartilage took more than mercy skill. And she knew well enough that medicine was like a miracle- it could save, but it couldn’t always be counted on. As Sandor lit rushlights to illuminate the tomb-like chamber, the red and raw abrasions on his neck only looked more gruesome.
She knelt next to Mihály, placing a hand on his chest, her palm rising with a shallow breath. A small knot of tension uncoiled. She met Ilan’s eyes, and he nodded.
Now to try.
