Chapter 39 Ilan
Ilan
The Incarnate’s chamber was white marble and gold leaf, shining with what was meant to be all the immaculate beauty of the blessed hereafter. Ilan bowed deeply as he entered. Now it looked like the pale bone colour of teeth and fear, and the air in it was stale from months locked away.
Csilla had heard the divine, in some form at least. The thought pounded with Ilan’s steps as he paced outside the Incarnate’s chamber, trying to reason his way through the blasphemy.
He’d seen Csilla deliver a soul. He’d seen her twisted face, the pain as she spoke to someone he couldn’t hear, the way she lit with creative fire.
He’d felt the peace of praying against her fevered skin as Mihály turned from Brilliant to cold.
Blasphemy or madness.
Her sobs echoed in fresh memory with every breath, even the tolling of the bells faint to his ears.
They’d saved the Seal in a fashion, though now it was Mihály’s blood flowing within the sacred spaces. That was what he would have to focus on when he gave his report. The Church still had its divinity, though how this new magic could be used remained to be seen.
Even if Csilla’s ecstatic power proved something about it was wrong. The Incarnate wasn’t who had been called to save them.
‘Welcome.’ The Incarnate rose in greeting, serene and haloed by the cast of light off the diamonds and gold he wore. If he really spoke to Asten, it didn’t weigh on him.
It should weigh on him. Csilla had looked as stricken before the Seal as she had in the torture room, like it was no gift to be a conduit.
The Incarnate had the same aura as his father or any of the other governing cats prowling with as much attention on their physical wares as their souls.
The Incarnate knew his power, clearly, but no more than any mortal man of privilege.
Csilla had burned with holy fire. She’d had a fever-sweat on her and skin that shone like porcelain as he’d pulled her up the stairs, her shivers rocking them both as he held her in the dim corridor until she calmed enough to walk.
Calmed . . . more a shock-induced tranquillised state .
. . enough to where the screaming at the blood upon their emergence hadn’t broken through her haze.
All she’d wanted to look at was Arany, her gold now running like a rock-cutting mountain stream, the people gathering with joy and splashing in the proof of their righteousness like children finding a puddle on a scorching day.
Mercies, how his head ached.
‘Ilan.’ Prelate Abe stood behind the Incarnate, even the deep angel-embroidered red of his robes austere in comparison to the lustre on Asten’s chosen. ‘We’re waiting for the truth of what happened.’
He had to tell them. It was his duty. He wouldn’t forswear his vows.
And yet 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 Apostate infiltrators.’
‘Not soldiers from Seda?’
Of course his mind was still on his war.
‘Not ones aligned with their beliefs, though they’ve borrowed some of their techniques.
’ The explosive sabotage, for one. ‘They are part of a group that believes the key to the return is forcing humanity to confront its darkness. 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. It would have pleased Seda, but they weren’t their soldiers. ’
‘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 your power taken? 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 saved us. 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 Asten, when that is a power reserved for me and mine. To allow others to lie about holy matters 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 recognised 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. You are Sainted, 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 as close to the burning garden as you can, though take care not to get too close – we do want you back. Tell her to make her pilgrimage there and plead what she will. 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, or for any other groups to make cracks in our defenses.
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 would have had hoped for, long weeks ago. Before he’d found something else to believe in.
‘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.
No one condemned had ever come back from that supposed end of the world, and no escort had ever ventured far enough to confirm or deny its existence.
Ilan could see it for what it was: a slow execution in starvation, frostbite, and likely the teeth of hungry creatures coming out of their winter dens.
Csilla would be a bounty in a place the snow wouldn’t thaw for weeks yet.
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.