And yet he when he took a breath to speak, he found himself still. He was always careful with his punishments. He would be equally careful with his words.
“We’ve been the victims of a group of western infiltrators, one that believed in the sanctity of the Severing. They summoned a demon. The demon used the Izir to kill, destroying the territory tethers, and ended up in Sandor. A conspirator.” The recitation of facts was barely any explanation at all. “Their goal was to destroy the seal so that the Church could no longer banish Shadow, and let things play out as they would. Likely with a goal of swaying the tides of your campaign.”
“So I’ve been told. And is that all they believed?” There was a knowing glitter in the man’s eyes.
“I’m not aware.” He’d left a life of politics, but it wasn’t that he couldn’t see the pieces of the game. Accusing the Incarnate now, with nothing but assumptions and dead bodies behind him, would take him from a lauded place of strength into somewhere with much weaker footing. “There is nothing more I can say.”
The Incarnate’s lips pressed into a satisfied smile. So silence was the answer he’d wanted. “And you banished the demon, even with the seal gone? And then had the idea to use the Izir’s blood.” The warm approval in the tone chafed. Ilan wasn’t entirely sorry to see Mihály gone, but the death of an Izir deserved respect.
He shifted, looking down at the aisle cloth leading to the Incarnate’s seat. It was barely worn, the fabric still white. A reminder of how privileged this audience was, and how it demanded the truth. And with the seal restored, they could see lies.
“I didn’t.”
The Incarnate pursed his lips. “But the only other person down there was that mercy girl. The one who was cast out, if I’m not mistaken.”
Ilan didn’t say anything.
“How?” Now it was Abe who looked concerned. “Csilla has no soul. She shouldn’t have any access to power. I cut her, but it was just for her own sake...”
“Asten worked through her, and the Izir’s blood refreshed the seal. A miracle.” Let them think it was a singular event. Let them let her go. It was the threat to power, not the heresy, that had put the first target on Mihály.
“That’s a large claim.” The Incarnate’s eyes glittered in a way that set Ilan’s lip to curling. “How do you know it was Asten? Perhaps more than one demon was present. We know there is only one Incarnate.”
And would you prove it? Would you let us test it with your lips to a bottle of poison? Csilla would.
Ilan swallowed. “She was able to touch his soul. She was the one who saved us.” He hadn’t been able to see it, but he’d seen her. Righteous and broken and brave.
“She says she spoke for the Divine, when that is a power reserved for me and mine. To allow others to lie about the Divine is to risk our perfection.” The disapproval in his tone was one step from an execution order, and Abe’s face was grim agreement.
If Ilan said it wasn't a lie, he'd be branded a liar himself. So he remained silent, to see what path the Incarnate's words would lay.
“Then clearly you, one of mine, were the one who did the banishing, and the girl is a blasphemer.” The Incarnate inclined his head in praise. “The miracle was your presence, not hers. Such devotion is commendable.”
Ilan’s back was damp under his gaze.
“Perhaps even sainted.” The Incarnate’s smile was a lure. Ilan had never wanted anything more than the power that came with enacting the will of the divine. The idea that he had worked a miracle and would wear a saint’s crown, be allowed to dispense justice across the Union as he saw fit...
It was a mouth-watering temptation, his desire offered up on a holy altar. Had he not seen the glory in Csilla, he wouldn’t have even recognized its darkness.
He spoke quickly, trying to create a shield of excuses to cover Csilla’s power. “I believe it was a miracle, but not mine. And not blasphemy. This is the city of miracles—“
The Incarnate raised his hand. “Your humility is a credit to you, but this glory is not yours to claim or deny. Szente Ilan.”
Abe uplifted praise as bitterness filled Ilan’s mouth.
“You will be lauded,” the Incarnate continued, and Ilan made a noncommittal noise he hoped sounded pleased. “But in such a turbulent time, blasphemy will not be tolerated. You saw what heresy did to our city. And I will have to leave again soon, to make sure every territory is secure. We’ve been given the grace of a second chance.”
They wanted it all over, quickly. Ilan respected few things like he did order, but order was a home. If it were rebuilt on a rotten foundation, they’d find themselves in the same broken pit again. The Church was just wrong about the source of the rot. It wasn’t the people below that were the problem. It was decaying up to the roof.
“Take her out to the wastes, to the pit of burning Shadow. If she does miracles, one will save her.” The Incarnate stood, looming. “We’ve seen the power our enemy holds. We can’t allow them any more toeholds. When you return, I’ll have you at my side, bringing justice to the entire Union. “
Ilan started. It would have been exactly what he had hoped for, long weeks ago. “Incarnate, that’s…generous. Abandoning the girl, though...”” Csilla had done what she set out to, save them all, and this was what they gave her. The north was a slow method of killing, especially with hungry creatures coming out of their winter dens. She would be a spring bounty in a place the snow had barely thawed.
Hints of purple anger bloomed on the Incarnate’s cheeks. “Are you hesitating? Do you still serve Asten?”
The slap of the question drew Ilan’s shoulders straight. “Of course.”
It was only that Asten wasn’t here.
40
Csilla
The pressure of Erzsébet on her chest only exacerbated the ache in Csilla's back as she lay in the cramped room. She'd heard the whispers of those who'd come in to check on her, ones who prayed and ones who cursed, none of whom had dared touch her while she squeezed her eyes and pretended her heart was light enough to rest. The feel of Mihály's soul on her palm lingered like smears of altar oil, staining and sacred.
One thing had been clear in all the voices. The Incarnate had sentenced her to death. That's what this banishment was.
The low angle of the sun told her she'd been out for hours, lying in hot-skinned wait. Strength was coming back to her limbs, her parched throat cracking. Soon it would be dark enough to move. She had to, whether or not she was ready.
She shifted the cat and sat up enough to look out across the cathedral's steep slanted roofs, wondering what parts of the wood were still good, what could have been damaged. How she could get out without plunging through and ending up a broken body speared on a blessed statue. She wished she could call it a mercy that they put her here where she could look over her dear city, not in the bowels, but it was only because there were fewer ways to escape with a guarded door and a sure fall outside.
A sharp knock rattled the door, and Erzsébet stopped her kneading to raise her head.
Ilan entered, Marthe shadowing him. He wore white and gold, and there was a line of gold across his brow.
The colors of a saint. It might have been her imagination, but she would have sworn his cheeks colored as he caught her noticing.
