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It was cold inside the Temple of Jalat, as if it were winter rather than summer, as if life itself had been banned from this place. Mist lingered everywhere, in every corner, every niche, between all the columns. The temple was cast into a perpetual twilight, and it was quiet. Even in the late hours of the darkening when the priests celebrated their mass it was quiet, as if those black marble walls swallowed any sound. Vicent would discover that the sound of his footsteps was barely audible.
This was a place of death. The living were only tolerated here, that was clear from the first moment on. People came here to honor the dead, to pray for the dead and not for the living.
A few candles had been placed on the altar, but otherwise there was no light. At the moment the temple was almost empty. A single woman was sitting on the bench closest to the altar. Her head was covered by a hood. She was dressed in dark colors, and her hand were folded in prayer. She noticed neither Vincent nor his companion. A dead chicken was lying in front of her, on the floor in front of the altar, a sacrifice for some people believed that Jalat would be more likely to answer them if they gave him blood –or souls, even if they were just the souls of animals.
From another part of the temple singing could be heard. The priests of Jalat never rested. They spent day and night honoring their god in whatever way they could. But Vincent would not be able to understand what they were singing about now. They were too far away. But what he would be able to notice was that the song was oddly melancholic, and yet it was comforting …
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