Chapter 18 Csilla
Csilla
‘You’re sure about this?’
Mihály pried the wooden boards off the stable floor, broken flakes of hay now pushed all over the room as they cleared the space. While they’d tried to be stealthy, they hadn’t entirely succeeded; Erzsébet had found them, and was perched on the highest hay bale, tail twitching.
‘I know all the back ways into the cathedral,’ Csilla replied, keeping an eye on the cat. She looked far too keen, and if they didn’t flush out any mice she might just pounce on their heads.
Hopefully this was what Ilan had meant when he had asked them to come in quietly. If not, they were in for a dark, cold wander.
The tunnels under the cathedral ran fifteen metres deep along the foundations, coupled with wells and trenches washing waste out to the river and cesspools best avoided.
Some passages stretched out under the eight districts of the city, quiet except for the occasional sinkhole.
The diggers had thought that one day there may be an emergency that required quick removal of the most holy treasures or safe passage for the Incarnate.
Now the tunnels were sealed off at their ends and nothing more than places for Church-raised children to scare each other with ever more outlandish stories of the ghosts of saints and mad anchorites chasing visions in the dark.
‘And what’s down there besides rats and the dead?’ He heaved again, and Csilla winced as slivers of old wood shattered.
‘I don’t think there are any dead.’
She bit her lip. The other children used to whisper that even the mortar used to bind the foundation stones had been mixed with the ashes of the Faithful, their devoted bones given immortality as the cathedral’s skeleton, and the occasional bones of an unlucky craftsman only fed the rumours.
The true holy relics were nearer the Seal.
‘A saint, maybe.’
‘And the Seal.’ Even Mihály’s voice took on a dark note that verged on reverence.
Vihar and a cart pony paced and kept watch, keenly interested in what was happening to their food. Csilla tossed a few handfuls of hay to them, then winced at the ear-pinning and squeals. The pony won, and Csilla sighed as the large black horse sulked, head hanging inside the rough-cut window.
‘You could defend yourself, you know. You’re much bigger,’ she clucked, but Vihar only lowered his dark head to lip at what little hay he could reach.
The floorboards gave way to reveal a covered entranceway. She pulled at the handle of the round cover set on top of dark inlaid stone just an inch high, barely moving as she tugged.
‘A well?’ Mihály asked, taking a step back and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘I suppose you think we’re going to swim our way down in holy water? Angels aren’t fish.’
Csilla smiled and turned so he wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. He likely wasn’t trying to be difficult, but if he’d listen to her this would go more quickly.
‘There hasn’t been any water there for centuries.
You could stop talking and help me move this,’ Csilla said, with a tug that gained them another few groaning inches.
Mihály grabbed the handle and, with a single pull, the entrance was open.
Csilla rubbed her own strained fingers. At least he was useful for moving things.
‘Go on.’ She gestured to the hole, the floor below hidden by swallowing dark. ‘I’ll cause less damage if I fall on you than the other way around.’
Mihály looked doubtful but climbed down anyway. Csilla followed him.
The holds carved into rock were narrow and chipped towards the bottom, the grey stone weak from the years it held water.
Csilla held her breath with every step down, the rock threatening to give way under her, but they both landed in the inky blackness.
What light there was above was pale and dim, the narrow glow like a crescent moon.
The air was thicker, with a cool and dewy humidity, the scent of mould and loam surrounding them.
‘Now what?’ Mihály’s voice was only a trickle of his normal volume next to her, and she jumped as he grabbed her arm. For a heartbeat, she remembered being in his room, pressure on her wrist like it would break.
She moved his hand down to hers, her fingers dwarfed by his. It was merciful that the dark hid her expression at the slide of his smooth palm against her scabbed one, bringing a tingling awareness all over her skin.
‘Follow me.’
As they walked down the sloping ramp the space became a pit, and the damp squeeze on her hand tightened.
The echo of their steps made her startle, but it was only a trick of the sound in the dark.
Knowing that didn’t stop the feeling of being trapped, or watched, or even followed.
Anything could – and did – happen in the dark.
‘I didn’t know these tunnels were here.’
Mihály’s tone was light, but there was a choked note beneath it. Something skittered in the blackness, and Mihály stepped into Csilla so hard she was pushed a half-step forward and nearly lost his hand.
‘Don’t worry. I think we’re almost there.’ She paused, then led them further left, mentally trying to reconstruct the halls and stores above.
‘Good,’ he muttered, clinging to her hand. Sweat beaded where their palms touched.
Csilla sighed. Her angel was scared of the dark.
‘Csilla? Mihály? Where are you?’ Ilan’s whisper echoed towards them, and they moved closer to the sound with stumbling steps until they found each other. A blaze of silver light lit the area and Csilla winced as her eyes protested.
When she opened them, the light revealed walls streaked with black dirt and rivulets of water stain, a few areas patched with a lighter chalky clay.
Ilan had passed Mihály something holy to illuminate the path.
It also showed the low ceiling, a handspan above Mihály’s head, and layers of spiderwebs like dusty lace.
By the look on his face, he’d been happier in the dark.
The silver burned spectral as they made their way across the tunnel.
The depth meant the walls were still frozen, and every breath brought the taste of dirt.
There were miles of similar passageways, all cold and indifferent to the souls walking over their heads.
If someone died this far below, they’d never be found, never blessed, never burned.
Every time they rounded a corner she scanned for forgotten bones.
Csilla squeezed Mihály’s hand harder on instinct, regretting it when he pulled her closer.
After long minutes winding through corridors that were a kingdom of the holiest rats and spiders in the land, the floor began to slope upwards again, landing in front of a wall. A dead end. Mihály looked at her in confusion, but she had no answer.
Ilan pushed. The wall cracked and opened, and they were standing in the hall of cells.
‘What . . .’ Csilla ran her hands along the expanse of rock. Her fingertips caught the slight raise of the seam, but even the full pressure of her weight didn’t move it. ‘I didn’t think blessed magic could do that.’
‘Asten gives us the power we need to protect what must be protected,’ Ilan said simply. ‘But the Church also had clever architects.’
And one had left this pocket room, for prayer or protection.
As she stepped into the small space, she froze for another reason. The body, the one she’d last seen in the cells during her own imprisonment, was now here with them.
The days had not been kind to the victim.
The white sheet drawn across him was stained with oils and excrement, and though a small forest of incense sticks surrounded him, the smoke only gave the putrid smell false notes of cloves.
Csilla touched her chest and covered her mouth, bending close to the wounds.
Ilan’s voice was steady.
‘We haven’t even gotten in contact with his family, and they’re going to burn him. So look quick.’
She reached out and touched the cuts, now too old and clotted over to bloody her hands.
Her fingers burned like touching frozen metal. She snatched them back and tucked them into her palm, hoping they hadn’t noticed. But Ilan was only looking at Mihály.
The scar on her palm began to itch. The Izir’s face was pure horror as Ilan gestured to the mutilated body.
‘I spoke to him that same night.’ He knelt down and touched his face, a loving caress, as if not seeing the bloat and sunken eyes. ‘He was a pilgrim, not from Silgard.’
‘Was he one of your followers?’ There was a new, sharper note in Ilan’s voice. Csilla stepped to Mihály’s side.
‘A new one, but yes—’
‘And Kovács Lili? Twenty. Long blonde braids. Wanted to join the Church. Here, this one.’ He produced a sketch, one Csilla sighed to see was stamped with half a cat print.
Mihály was blinking rapidly now, his face paling to the colour of linen. Csilla put a hand on his back, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘I noticed she’d stopped visiting, but I thought she’d taken her vows.’
Ilan raised an eyebrow.
‘She died.’
He went through his record, every person listed bringing a new twisting grief to Mihály’s face. Csilla clenched her teeth. Mihály, self-absorbed to the marrow, hadn’t bothered to learn the names of the people who followed him. He only knew the accusing faces etched in dark charcoal.
Finally, Ilan stopped. Mihály’s hands were on his knees, white knuckles clutching tight.
‘They really are mine.’
Csilla’s chest squeezed at the shake in his voice.
In a way, the Church had been right, even more right than they’d known.
Those people had also put their faith in Mihály.
The hands that healed and bought them precious days of hope and ease had also painted a target on them.
Comfort wasn’t meant to have a price, let alone one so high.
Ilan nodded as if he’d already known as much.
‘I don’t suppose you have an explanation?’ Mihály shook his head, wordless. ‘I could try to get one out of you, I suppose. Why would you be the only connection?’