Act One: The Shadow of the Gods (Part Two)
two
They gathered branches from the ground, tore strips of cloth from their clothes, and tied them together to make torches, which helped them see the path again. Father Ferenc, unable to move, was placed on the horse's back, which was led by Yakov through the iron ring next to the bridle. The horse snorted, exhaling a white mist from his hand, indicating its obedience. The group had traveled along this path for a short while, and after a brief downhill slope, Yakov realized they had crossed the mountain ridge and entered a relatively flat area, much sheltered from the wind and snow. This was a secluded and habitable place, he thought.
The enormous white bat fluttered its wings among the shadowy branches and disappeared at the end of the road. Yakov seemed to see specks of red light floating in the air, like some kind of eerie fireflies.
He led his team closer to take a look. Everyone stopped in their tracks, looked up, and gaped, oblivious to the raging wind and snow.
The red spots of light grew denser and taller. Yakov looked closely and realized they were candle flames. Hundreds and thousands, countless candle flames floated there, placed on the sills of narrow, elongated windows. The mottled glass reflected the swirling snowflakes, yet not a single flame was extinguished by the snowflakes. The fires were a strange, scarlet red, like blood, utterly devoid of warmth. The entire towering building was adorned with these red flames, its outline appearing solemn and imposing in the pitch-black night. Yakov had never seen such a building before. What did it resemble? It resembled a tomb, a church, an altar, a prison, but it didn't resemble a castle, nor a residence. It stood there neatly, sharply, symmetrically, and solidly, hidden behind the back of the deep mountains, concealed by towering trees, perfectly concealing its existence.
"Why isn't there a stable?" the page asked. "And not a servant to lead the horses either."
Yakov was brought back to his senses and looked around. He found no stables, farms, mills, city walls, or clock towers around the building. However, he knew that some eccentric nobles liked to seek tranquility in such desolate places. Some unseemly thoughts began to sprout in his mind. "Let's go in," Yakov said hoarsely. He felt a little thirsty. "Go knock on the door."
The page glanced at him and obediently walked to the front door. Before he could even reach out his hand, the heavy door creaked open.
A warm, spring-like breeze wafted in from under the door. The hall inside was brightly lit, as if it were daytime; the light pierced the gaps in his helmet, dazzling Yakov's eyes. More candles, spots of light, and flames were scattered across the ceiling, the corners, and the hearth in the center of the hall. The light bathed the stone floor in a warm, orange glow.
They didn't care that their snow-covered shoes and horses' hooves would soil the soft carpet; they rushed inside, escaping the long, cold journey. An enticing aroma of food filled the air. A few of them ventured further in and found two dark rosewood tables with huge, mirror-smooth silver platters, each holding a steaming roasted lamb stuffed with apples and rosemary; the silver wine jugs still held the warm, fragrant aroma of wine.
People, starving for too long, rushed forward, tearing off pieces of scalding hot meat with their dirty hands and stuffing them into their mouths, pouring the fragrant wine from the jugs onto their tongues, their gluttonous appearance clearly reflected next to the greasy stains on their plates.
The horse's tail swept back and forth, shaking off the snowflakes from its mane, as it swayed contentedly in the warm, clean room. Yakov pulled the limp old priest off the horse and clutched his clothes tightly. His stomach growled beneath his chainmail, but Yakov dared not remove his helmet. He swallowed hard, burying his hunger in his stomach. He could only cautiously survey the room.
Yakov had visited some ornately decorated churches, filled with statues of saints and frescoes of pristine beauty on their domes. But the owner of this mansion clearly displayed a profound disdain for faith—Yakov looked at the candlesticks, sculpted as a pair of tormented monkeys, their throats entwined and bitten by venomous snakes, blood dripping from their throats; he looked at the pillars, covered with reliefs of terrified sheep being chased by wolves, their victims disemboweled; he surveyed the pristine walls and ceilings, painted with strange, swirling plants in expensive, vibrant paint, each branch covered in thorns, cruelly strangling any furry creatures that darted about. The magnificent, palace-like hall, upon closer inspection, resembled a brutal arena. The victims stared, their gazes fixed on one spot—Yakov looked up, following that gaze.
Two curved staircases run along the walls of the hall, extending deep within where the candlelight cannot reach. They extend and converge discreetly in the shadows cast by the firelight, forming a commanding indoor terrace at a central elevation. At the confluence of the terrace's walls and the curved roof, a massive mural is painted.
The painting depicts three lifelike figures. On the left stands a dignified and noble young woman. She has vibrant red hair, tightly bound behind her ears in braids. Her eyes are upturned at the corners, as if in disdain or mockery. On the right, a refined young man stands tall opposite the young woman, his light brown hair loosely tied back. His hand gracefully rests on an exquisitely elegant chair. In front of these two, on another exquisitely elegant chair, sits a mature and beautiful pregnant woman. Her belly is prominently swollen, suggesting she is about to give birth. Her silvery-white hair, like that of an aged and melancholic old woman, falls loosely onto her clothing. On her left hand, she wears a peculiar ruby ring set in obsidian. The color complements her eyes perfectly.
Yes, each of them had a pair of red eyes, calmly watching Yakov in the darkness. Like vampires in the bard's words.
Yakov was terrified. He had never seen such a lifelike portrait, as if the three enormous figures in the painting were now behind the mortar, looking down at him like gods from hell. He felt like the monkey bitten by a venomous snake, the goat hunted by wolves, the rabbit and mouse imprisoned by thorns. His heart pounded violently, as if it would burst from his chest. "Where is this?" he grabbed the weakened Father Ferenc, completely forgetting that he was still pretending to be someone else. "You've lied to me. This is definitely not the Grand Duchess's castle!"
Before the old priest could respond, Yakov heard a woman's laughter echoing through the spacious hall, its source unclear. "Beautiful, gentle, bloodthirsty succubus, you enter her lair, you succumb to her grasp; she sees all human desires and temptations, using the ugliness of humanity as bait, trading blood and life to nourish evil." The verses rang like alarm bells in Yakov's mind. Yakov turned and looked at the railing of the terrace, in front of the large portrait, where a woman's figure stood, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. She was voluptuous, dressed in a white, loose-fitting, Greek-style dress, as if it were the height of summer, not the dead of winter.
“Father Ferenc, it seems your attendant has some reservations about my taste.” The figure gracefully descended the curved staircase, her thin, almost transparent train swaying lightly on the steps, as if her feet were floating in the air, not touching the ground. “On such a snowy day, the journey must have been arduous.”
Her face emerged from the shadows, illuminated by the candlelight. A pair of crescent-shaped, blood-red eyes, gleaming with a maniacal laugh, were hidden in the shadows of her eyelashes and behind her tousled, wild, silvery-white hair. She looked at Yakov's face, her gaze seemingly able to see through his helmet and know all his secrets.
Yakov realized this was the same pregnant woman from the portrait, her features identical, but her abdomen was flat, clearly indicating she had given birth. As the woman drew closer, a chilling coldness enveloped him like a ghost, as if he had been thrown into a lonely grave. Yet her demeanor was warm and inviting, her speech elegant and gentle. Yakov hesitated, looking at Father Ferenc's face, hoping for a response, only to find the old man already weeping uncontrollably, his face wrinkled and fragile like a baby's. "Master..." he murmured.
Those who had been feasting at the table suddenly stopped, bewildered, in front of the mansion's owner. They wiped their greasy fingers on the corners of their dusty clothes, unsure where to look. "Don't mind me, young men. You can eat as much as you want," the mansion's owner said cheerfully. "But it's getting dark. Let me show you where you'll rest, shall I?"
“Very well, you must be Lady Noctennias!” the pageboy answered quickly, though his lips were also greasy. “I… I apologize on behalf of these rude fellows…”
“No need to call me Madam.” The woman smiled sweetly, smoothing her disheveled long hair and revealing a large expanse of her ample bosom. Yakov noticed the bloodshot eyes in her eyes. “Call me Camilla.”
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