Chapter 34 Ilan
Ilan
The Izir had accepted his imprisonment with uncharacteristic quiet. Ilan could see the weight of the truth Csilla had dragged out in the press of shadows on his cheeks and the sag of his shoulders. Wilting didn’t suit him.
Night brought with it a fresh fall of silence as Ilan escorted Csilla to the cells holding the prisoners.
She’d said that when the Incarnate touched her, he hadn’t known her.
It didn’t seem possible that whatever Tamas had done could silence the voice of Asten, but either Csilla was lying, or the Incarnate was.
One of those seemed more likely than the other.
Tamas sat cross-legged on the floor of his cell, unbothered by his lack of over clothing or the dingy surroundings.
Perhaps his long association with evil burned him from the inside, for he didn’t even shiver at the cold that seeped up through Ilan’s boots.
For so many nights the image of their enemy had just been a wisp of candle smoke in the dark, and now he was here.
The placidity of the man’s lined face unnerved him. He should be begging. He would beg.
‘The inquisitor.’ Tamas’s mouth worked awkwardly as he spoke, jaw swollen and yellowing with a bruise in the shape of Mihály’s fist.
Csilla stepped right to the bars of the cell, an odd note of pity on her face. Of course she could dredge up sympathy for an enemy.
‘Ah,’ Tamas continued, tilting his chin. ‘And the mercy girl. Here to stand for me? I tried to save you, you know. How many times did I ask you to leave?’
Only Ilan could see her tremble. ‘You did, and at least three. And for that I’ll bring you water and a blanket, so you don’t suffer before you die. I’ll pray; death is not the worst thing that can happen if you confess and accept your punishment. But I can’t defend you.’
His eyes narrowed, but he nodded, approving. ‘Perhaps you’ll survive the coming Shadow after all.’
Ilan stepped to her side, resisting the urge to put a steadying hand on her back.
‘Is that what you wanted, then? Demons can’t be controlled. You’ve only damned yourself.’
‘Perhaps I have. Perhaps I’m truly serving the divine, more than anyone else here in this overbuilt cage of stone and gold ever has.’ He dragged his knuckles over the rusted bars in emphasis.
‘How would death serve Them?’ Csilla’s voice was cut with anger.
‘Any chance we had at true faith was stolen when Arany left her mark on the world. Just a little bit of stolen divinity, vague enough that the Church could twist it to suit its own needs.’
‘You may have broken Silgard, but you didn’t win.’ She nodded, firm. ‘There are still priests who can fight.’
Not many, and not well. And not when they didn’t know where an enemy would turn up next. Not when the next body it took could be someone dear.
‘There’s nothing to win, child. Everything, the false safety you cling to, that warmonger on his throne, everything but that blood in the dirt is a lie. Go see what’s left for yourself.’
That was what they wanted to do. It sent a curl of wrongness to him that Tamas would want that too.
‘You say I hate the Church,’ he continued.
‘I do hate the Church, but I love the Faith. Asten left us, and pretending They care how well we model piety and pray isn’t going to bring Them back.
They never wanted this, never wanted us.
Humanity has to stand alone through the long darkness to prove ourselves worthy and come out purified on the other side.
The Seal was holding us back, not saving us.
Has there been a single miracle in all the time we’ve kept the doctrine?
Anything at all to show that the Church is right to keep us in its service? ’
‘One,’ Ilan spoke up before Csilla. ‘There was one.’
Tamas sat back, mouth coy. ‘Indeed.’
Now Ilan leaned heavy on the bars. ‘Where did you send the demon?’
Tamas shrugged. ‘What makes you think I didn’t banish it now that our work is done?’
‘If we can’t, I know you can’t. Who did you send it to? How many of your people are in Silgard?’
‘A handful here, more elsewhere. Those of us who have seen enough to know how we’ve gone astray. Silgard’s walls are a blindfold.’
‘I don’t want your reasons. I want names and numbers. I want to know how we can stop this.’ Ilan reached forward but was stopped by Csilla’s hand on his arm.
‘We already have him here. You don’t have to hurt him further. He’s already going to die.’ She should hate him for what he did to her and the blood his zealotry put on her hands.
‘And I’ll give you one part for free,’ Tamas said, shifting so shadows fell across his face. ‘You can’t stop it.’
A dull clang of a foot hitting metal ricocheted, and Csilla stiffened.
‘Mihály.’ She gave another warning look at Ilan before hurrying to the other cell. He watched as she went to her knees and reached between the bars towards the angel tied in the dark and felt a dull, unwelcome ache.
Easier to think about hurting the man before him. He wrapped a hand around the bar and leaned forward again.
‘You’ll never be pardoned, but confessing now will save your soul.’
The answering laugh was hollow. ‘And if I say my soul is fine, you have no way to verify.’
It was true and caustic.
‘At least confess that the Izir had nothing to do with it, and they’ll let him go. You can do that much.’ That was almost a lie; Ilan wasn’t sure of it at all.
Tamas shook his head. ‘He didn’t plan to kill, but he had everything to do with it.’
There was an answering slam of a heel against metal and a grunt from further down, Csilla jumping back with soothing words.
‘Were you also the one who burned the cathedral? More ritual? Or was that simple distraction?’ Tamas had known where they were and that Csilla had to be alone. The man inclined his head, a teacher’s quiet praise of a clever student.
‘Shall I confess something you don’t know, Inquisitor? Something that might help you understand why I did what I did? Come closer. I’d like to see your face when you hear, and Misi broke my glasses.’
Good for him.
‘There is nothing that would justify what you did.’ He would know. Ilan had spent his whole life weighing one thing against another, finding the purest path. There was no justice that could balance the current suffering.
‘I tried to kill Csilla to save her from all this,’ he said. ‘Tried to poison her as surely as your Church tried to kill Misi. But she walked away.’
Ilan didn’t trust himself to speak as a slow rage spread, crimson licking the edges of his vision.
‘Tried to save yourself so she wouldn’t get close enough to figure out what you were doing.’
The man gave a little laugh.
‘It was kill her or use her to kill. Two sides of a coin. Do you think she’ll like remembering cutting that woman’s throat? But it doesn’t matter. She lived. And so did the Varga woman.’
‘You made a mistake.’ It was common enough for a physician to mix up one bottle with another, or not realise a herb had lost its potency. Even the most experienced mercy worker sometimes showed up with a confession that the mushroom they thought would nourish had turned out to be something fatal.
‘I did indeed, but not the one you think. What does it mean, when a poison neutralises on the tongue?’
It was a question for first-year seminary.
‘The miracle of Imre. A few Izir also share the gift, but we would have known if she were that blessed.’ If only she had been from the outset. She would have served the world so much better than the man tied up scant feet from them. Her life would have been quiet, and happy.
‘The incorruptible tongue, the miracle of Imre, and every Incarnate after him. Or so they say.’ The man glanced aside, though from the angle there was no way he could see Csilla. ‘I don’t think they actually make them drink to prove themselves.’
‘Impossible.’ His head pounded with the idea. ‘She would know.’ The entire point of the Incarnate was as a conduit. There was something special about her, but she didn’t hear Them.
‘We succeeded in breaking every other ward. Including whatever was on her; I wasn’t the one who made a mistake. I just wasn’t open to the impossible.’ He shut his eyes momentarily. ‘I didn’t expect my little angel to end up with a perfect saint in his ear.’
A saint. More than a saint, the true Incarnate, the one human hand allowed to brush the edge of the Severing and hear a part of the divine will. He turned his head to look at Csilla kneeling in the shadows, stroking Mihály’s bound hands while silver danced around them.
‘Now where did the demon go? You’ll die soon enough. Telling me won’t erase your victory.’
‘As you will.’ There was a dark glint in his eye. ‘I’ve already been a far better servant than you.’
The man’s fingers were callused, but no trace of burns or caustic oils. Ilan grabbed his smallest finger.
He hesitated. Tamas would scream, and Csilla would find a new reason to fuss.
But he had tried to kill her.
Now the man flailed, a fish caught on a barbed hook as Ilan twisted. The joint separated with a rewarding pop and an even more satisfying scream.
‘You’re going to say what you like regardless of what I do,’ Tamas hissed as Ilan moved to his ring finger. ‘I’ve told you all I will. I’ll accept the rope around my neck.’
‘Oh, this is just because I want to.’ He twisted the second finger, bending it back and stretching skin and tendon as the man’s eyes went glassy with pain. Leaning close, Ilan could see his reflection, sharp and well-justified.
‘Ilan!’ Csilla was beside him in an instant, a reprimand in her hazel eyes. ‘You said you wouldn’t hurt him.’
‘No, you told me not to hurt him.’ And it’s not like he extended you the same courtesy.
Her eyebrows drew together in frustrated censure. ‘I’m going to get them water,’ she said simply, turning. ‘You won’t hurt him further. Especially not for your own enjoyment.’
He almost snorted at how simply she gave the order, expecting him to obey. But this care was her element, as surely as bones breaking under his hands was his.
Tamas’s soft moans drowned in the slide of the door as she left with a final glance over her shoulder. Ilan gritted his teeth and turned from Tamas’s cell to Mihály’s, working the lock open with a bent key.
‘Mihály.’
The Izir had been allowed to keep most of his clothing, though his pants were creased and filthy and his linen undershirt stained.
Ilan worked the gag out of his mouth with quick fingers, nose wrinkling at the stale smell of it as Mihály rubbed sensation back into his face.
Who would have ever imagined he’d be wanting the angel to talk.
‘Took you long enough. Csilla couldn’t get the door or that knot. Is she gone?’
Ilan resisted the urge to shove the gag back. ‘Gone to get you water. How are you feeling?’
‘Do you actually care? I’m fine considering I’m tied up and can’t even piss except under guard. Which is quite unfair considering I brought you the man behind all this.’ His nostrils flared in indignation.
‘Your hands were the ones that held the knife.’ But he did have a point.
Mihály went very still. ‘And I was the one who gave him a chance to use his magic. Believe me, I know.’ He swallowed. ‘Csilla seems upset.’
That was an understatement. She was still sore, no doubt, and heartsick. Confused. Perfect.
‘Did you hear what the man said about her?’ He kept his voice low, though Tamas was unlikely to hear anything over his own laboured breathing.
Mihály’s face lit with a strangely innocent illumination. ‘It’s all true. You’ve seen it. She lights brighter than the Eye itself at the touch of the divine. I wouldn’t be shocked if the rest of her was incorruptible as well.’
Incorruptible. The quick healing of her flesh, how those red welts and plum bruises had faded to pale canvas within hours. The only marks that stayed on her were holy scars. No wonder poison turned to sugar on her tongue.
Another miracle from the yellowed pages of history that the current Incarnate had never shown.
‘But there’s no sign she hears the voice?’ The craving for guidance hit with a pang of hunger. One word to show they were still being watched, that though perhaps some parts were misguided, their efforts were acknowledged, appreciated.
‘Maybe They don’t speak to her, but she can certainly speak to Them.’
‘We still need to get her to the Seal.’ They hadn’t had any luck finding a true entrance. They were as likely to die in the labyrinth as find what they needed. ‘With the Incarnate here there will be more clergy around. We’re not going to be able to search.’
Mihály closed his eyes, lashes pale on his cheeks.
‘I have an idea for that. She is going to hate it.’