Chapter 5 Csilla #3
Csilla swallowed, unable to control her tremble at his concern, and the knowledge that he was right about the threat. She was hoping to not have to tell them anything.
‘Stay here tonight, then come with me. It’s not that far past the gates.’ His eyes were shining, convincing, that lulling voice so tempting until the words themselves registered.
‘Outside Silgard?’ She jerked her head away. ‘Be glad I warned you.’
‘Oh, I am.’ Mihály looked at the bottle. ‘What is the poison?’
‘Why?’
He swirled the contents, a black whirlpool in green glass. ‘When you tell them, they might want details of how I met my demise.’
Csilla swallowed. ‘Scorn’s Friend.’
He snorted. ‘I’d have thought I rated something more elegant than that. No nightlight tonic to send me gently to the evermore?’
What a bizarre man. ‘I didn’t have a say.’ She twisted her hips further from him, closer to escape.
Mihály sighed. ‘No matter. When that poison is administered, the throat closes first. It’s useful in crowded spaces because the victim rarely has time to scream or gasp. The face will turn violet, and when they die there will be a large exhale as the muscles relax. There’s no sweat or vomit.’
Csilla couldn’t suppress her grimace as the angel-touched man described the grisly symptoms. He chuckled slightly.
‘Now you know what to say if they ask. Though something tells me you have trouble with lies.’
She shivered at being read so truly.
The bottle still lit under his touch, and the expression on his face made her wonder if he was going to drink it anyway. Perhaps in addition to his powers he had Blessed Imre’s incorruptible tongue, nullifying poison on the spot. Maybe this whole venture was damned from the outset.
Gritting her teeth, Csilla swung the rest of the way out of the window and went hand over foot down, palms searing on the rungs as she hurried.
‘Csilla, please, wait. I’m not mad.’
One step, two, a crack . . .
Her foot skidded, and she tumbled.
Csilla screamed as she fell, grabbing at the ladder which came away with her.
‘Csilla!’
Mihály’s voice sounded far away as she hit snow slush, not quite deep or solid enough to cushion the impact of the ground. Was the black how dark it was, or was her vision going dim?
Pricks of candlelight and shadowed shapes appeared in neighbouring windows.
‘Are you hurt? Can you come back up here? Put the ladder back, let me . . .’
His voice sounded like it was coming from much further away.
Dazed, Csilla stood and stumbled to the street, letting the dark take her, though Mihály’s cries grew more and more insistent at her back.
It was foolish to have gone out without a lantern. Tears of pain and frustration pricked her eyes, and she tried to hold them back lest they freeze on her lids. She could barely see in front of her as it was, and her shoulder ached something terrible.
She was worse than a liar, the worst kind of hypocrite. She’d thought herself the perfect servant, but when finally given a true way to serve, she’d failed.
She pressed her cut palm to her cold lips, skin alight with the ghost of Mihály’s touch. The Church had been right not to trust someone who Asten didn’t even consider worthy of a soul.
A light and hoofbeats approached behind her. Csilla tried to step aside from whoever was so clearly hurrying past, but a voice called out.
‘Stop.’
She knew that voice like she knew the evening prayer. The High Inquisitor. Ilan.
You’ve no need to be scared of him, she told herself as he rode close, lantern in hand.
He was righteousness itself, lauded for the viciousness that served the Faith.
But his work wasn’t nearly far enough from the rooms used by the mercy crews, and she’d sewn up the backs and packed snow on the crushed fingers of those he purified with pain.
‘Csilla.’
She turned her face upward at the address. The moonlight turned his expression more fierce than usual, the angle of his cheekbones like a stone carving, his long lashes casting shadows.
She hadn’t even known he knew her name. She hadn’t been officially clergy for more than a day, but she’d been there when he arrived from the north, with a retinue almost worthy of the Incarnate himself.
He’d appeared a perfect priest of Justice even then, looking at everything with a gaze that said things were as they should be, and if they weren’t, he would quickly make them so.
ágnes had always had her thoughts about him, his youthful arrogance that should have been tempered with longer service before being given such a post, his relishing of the lash, his disinclination to consider the benefits of mercy.
Csilla had only been grateful to be ignored for once.
It made sense that she would be beneath his notice; she had no soul for him to save.
‘Inquisitor.’ She bowed as he nudged his horse forward, the animal’s breath huffing pale clouds in the chill air.
‘Why are you still out? Was that your scream?’
She froze. Shouldn’t he know? Her task was a matter of Church justice.
‘I had an accident. I’m going—’ Home. She stuttered on the word. The cathedral had stopped being home the second she’d told Mihály not to drink.
The inquisitor muttered something that surely couldn’t have been a curse.
‘I’ll take you. Too many bodies around lately.’
She wanted to refuse. Justice was one of the four sharp tenants of the Church, and she wore it on her breast with the rest of them, but the way he delivered it had never sat easy.
Still, it was a long, cold walk back and a much quicker ride, and he wasn’t wrong about the bodies. She looked down at her scraped knuckles, her fingers numb from the fall. Ilan wouldn’t have hesitated to carry out his orders. He would have served the Faith, no matter what.
She offered him her hand. ‘Thank you.’
Ilan dropped his stirrups and helped her step up and slide onto the saddle in front of him. He shoved the lantern into her hand. ‘Sit lightly.’
The black horse covered ground quickly and Csilla leaned forward, both in an attempt to sit lightly, as directed, and to avoid the stiffness and irritation radiating off Ilan.
The horse, Vihar, was a friendly sort, even if his master was not.
He always took an interest in her when she walked through the stables, even if his affection had been bought with apple scraps.
She scratched his neck in silent thanks and he swivelled an ear in acknowledgement.
‘I didn’t think you’d be out this late,’ Csilla said as the long seconds of quiet scratched at her. He should have been at prayers, but she wasn’t one to correct him. ‘Did you find anything? Mihály said . . .’
His sharp intake of breath that ate the end of her sentence told her it had been the wrong question.
‘I thought we’d had a lead with that scream, but it was you. What were you even doing with that blasted Izir?’
He really didn’t know, and her heart skipped at the incongruity. The Church was hiding her task even from their appointed Head of Justice.
‘I . . . I was curious.’ She twisted strands of Vihar’s coarse mane around her fingers as she spoke the shallow lie, but it was simple enough it might not be questioned.
‘I thought better of you than that.’
Her cheeks burned that he’d ever thought of her at all.
The cathedral was as central to the city as Silgard was to the Union, and Csilla gritted her teeth and gripped the front of the saddle as they moved into a high-stepping trot that carried them until they finally reached the broad courtyard.
The clouds had blown away and the stars were out, their sparkle adding an extra layer of infinity as the gold-plated spires reached toward the silver speckle above.
In the centre of it all was the statue of Arany, the golden feathers of her eight wings and a dozen gold-dripping eyes alight from the ever-glowing candle fires at her feet.
The shadow of her judgement was inescapable.
She’d died so the world could still be good, and Csilla was leaving her legacy in tatters.
Ilan brought Vihar to a halt. ‘You can let yourself in from here. And for all the saints, stay off the streets at night.’
Csilla slid off the horse and smiled as Vihar reached around to lip her hand in case the small miracle of a treat appeared. She clucked her tongue, about to tell the sweet thing that he had to wait for breakfast, just as she did.
The little warm feeling died as she realised Ilan was still staring at her, waiting for acknowledgement.
‘I will.’ It wasn’t like she’d wanted to be out there anyway.
He nudged Vihar away, trotting hoofbeats echoing on the stone walls as they faded into the dark.
Arany’s eyes followed her to the short steps to the entranceway. The shame of disobedience chafed, and the only thing stemming her rising desperation to apologise was that she wasn’t sure who she should apologise to.
There was still light in the sanctuary hall, the tall glass windows lit with a ghostly glow and a crack of pale orange visible under the heavy doors.
No doubt the Prelate was there, tending the ever-seeing Eye.
He would ask what had happened, force her to take refuge in a lie or admit the truth and break herself.
Both were intolerable. Csilla crept away from the doorway, toward the darkness of her room. She could at least rest before facing punishment for ill-timed mercy.