Chapter Text
It’s a dark and stormy night. A rather disappointing cliché, Baronet Dekarios thinks as the carriage rattles over the rough-hewn shale and chalk road that cuts through the Buckinghamshire countryside.
He leans his head against the window, feigning an attempt to peer through the rivulets of rain at the indistinct hillside beyond. In reality, the cool of the glass is helping to steady his nerves, soothing against the tempestuous summer heat.
A bolt of lightning illuminates the inky sky and Gale suddenly gets his first proper glimpse at their destination. At the crest of the hill, like a crown of thorns, a huge hexagonal structure looms ominously out of the dark. Its stony walls are broken up by archways and topped with a collection of colossal marble urns. The Szarr mausoleum; he knows this much, at least. It’s a foreboding sight.
The lightning is followed by a loud crack of thunder that rings out over the escarpment, making Gale jump. The horses, apparently just as skittish, lurch forward and hit a rut in the road that almost overturns the carriage.
“You're nervous,” Duke Ravengard’s voice is amused, even if Gale can’t quite see his old friend’s face over the elaborate wooden mask covering half of it. Wyll’s eyes are trained on Gale’s hand, his white-knuckle grip on the carriage door handle.
“I’d be a fool not to be nervous traversing this road in this weather,” Gale mutters, turning to look back out of the window as Wyll chuckles.
A scudding cloud clears the moon and the hill is once more illuminated, enough to make out the church tower next to the mausoleum. The flint-lined edifice of columns is topped by a great golden sphere that gleams in the intermittent moonlight, unsettlingly out of place on the traditional nave.
“The Church of St Lawrence,” Wyll points out, nodding towards the tower. “The patron saint of comedians.”
“Wasn’t St Lawrence burned alive on a gridiron?” Gale asks, peering up at the golden sphere. It’s huge and ethereal, unlike anything he’s ever seen in England. The sight of it gives him a little thrill of anticipation. The lure of the other-worldly is, of course, partly why he’s here.
“Yes. Apparently, halfway through, he told his captors he was well done on that side and to turn him over,” Wyll’s grin is wicked. “Thus, he’s also the patron saint of chefs.”
Gale grimaces. “An insight into our host’s sense of humor, I imagine.”
“Oh, indeed.”
The carriage is slowing as they approach the gravel driveway leading up to the mausoleum and Gale can see several other coaches in front of the church, passengers disembarking with black hooded cloaks pulled up against the driving rain.
“It’s time!” Wyll remarks cheerfully, dragging his own cloak over his head, the two great wooden horns of his mask curling artfully out of the hood. Paired with the white glass of his false eye — the original lost to a Frenchman at the Battle of Plassey — the overall effect is most uncanny. He looks like a demon. Fitting, Gale supposes, considering the night’s activities.
Gale bites the inside of his cheek and pulls on his own mask, a much more modest masquerade-style piece, the silver plating carefully cracked to reveal the blue-white of the zinc underneath, like delicate streaks of lighting that crackle outwards from the corners of his eyes.
“Intriguing,” Wyll nods his approval. “No doubt you'll catch the eye of a new patron in no time.”
The storm outside is unforgiving as Gale exits the carriage, and he’s grateful for his thick cloak despite the charged warmth of the night. Up ahead, the other guests — around 50 or so shadowy figures, all concealed in the same dark capes — are filing through the large wrought iron mausoleum gates. Wyll and Gale join the queue.
“You’ll be given a torch,” Wyll is murmuring. “And then we’ll join the procession down to the cave entrance.”
“We just passed there in the carriage,” Gale grumbles, thinking of his knees on the steep and uneven path back down the hill. “This is daft…”
“Ritual and ceremony,” Wyll tuts in response. “I was under the impression you were partial to this sort of thing.”
“I’m a man of science,” Gale doesn’t bother to hide the pomposity in his voice. “I am merely… intrigued by the occult and the supernatural. You know this.”
“And I am merely intrigued to see Saint Dekarios’ reaction to finding himself in the middle of a satanic orgy,” Wyll smirks.
Gale shudders as they join the ring of guests lining the interior of the huge open mausoleum, hoping Wyll is joking.
He’s heard the rumors, of course. What the ‘Brotherhood’ get up to during their infamously secret meetings. Their host for the evening, the enigmatic Lord Ancunin, is the sole heir to the Szarr fortune, and he is said to be single-minded in his determination to bring about the ruin of his father’s reputation and legacy.
The Brotherhood of Cazador was reputedly formed around four years ago under the motto Fais ce que tu voudras — Do What Thou Wilt. Publicly, the club is a group of like-minded members of high society, interested in the appreciation and preservation of ancient Greek and Roman arts. Yet the whispers amongst polite society are that these cultural ideals are merely a front for hedonistic debauchery, wild parties that happen underground in the dead of night. They are said to be attended by some of the most upstanding members of the House of Lords, though no one seems to know quite who.
But it’s the other whispers — the deeper, darker rumors — that have drawn Gale to the gathering this evening. That, and Wyll’s dedication to finding him a new patron. With Lady Mystra withdrawing her funding, Gale’s scientific research languishes. The richest men in England are at this gathering, Wyll assures him. Gale will no doubt find a new sponsor among them.
His thoughts are interrupted by a nondescript cloaked figure handing him a burning torch that hisses and spits in the rain, and the procession begins. Moving single-file in slow and solemn silence, the walk takes them almost 15 minutes and Gale’s cloak is nearly drenched right through by the time they reach their destination.
By now, his heart is in his mouth, and it’s only partly because of the treacherously steep path underfoot. Ahead, lit by more flickering torches, he can see what looks like the ruins of a much older church, buried deep into the hillside. In the crumbling, ancient chancel, an eerie archway yawns. The entrance to the Hellfire Caves. One by one, it swallows up the line of guests.
Gale pauses when it’s his turn to pass through the archway, suddenly claustrophobic at the sight of the small tunnel stretching out before him, angled downward into the bowels of the earth.
“Pay no heed to the chatterings of the easily scandalized,” Wyll turns, seeming to sense Gale’s hesitation. “I am the only demon you’ll encounter within these caves.”
Gale gives the Duke a weak smile and follows him into the darkness.
The tunnel descends steeply, and the red brick walls soon give way to roughly carved chalk, pickaxe marks still visible in the stone. The heat of the summer’s night dissipates rapidly and Gale pulls his cloak around his shoulders, suddenly regretting the scant costume he’s wearing underneath. The steady drip-drip-drip of water accompanies the steady tramp-tramp-tramp of the procession as they make their way deeper and deeper into the caves.
Gale tries to keep track of their progress but the twists and turns of the tunnels are disorienting in the flame-flickering darkness. He’s starting to feel dizzy with it when a burgeoning warmth tugs his mind away from panic. There is a glow up ahead, and the faintest strains of eerie chamber music echoing down the tunnel. He recognises the piece: Purcell’s opera, Dido and Aeneas.
“Dido’s Lament,” he mutters to Wyll as they draw closer. “Fitting.”
“Hmm?”
“When I am laid, am laid in earth, May my wrongs create, No trouble, no trouble in thy breast,” Gale quotes the aria, sotto voce. “I feel as though I am laid in earth myself.”
“Yet much trouble awaits us,” Wyll grins back, before adding hopefully: “And breasts.”
Gale scoffs at him.
The light ahead is growing stronger and Gale can see yet another doorway, much larger than any they've passed through so far. It appears to lead into a huge open space.
“The Banquet Hall,” Wyll whispers. “We’ve arrived.”
“Is it true what they say, that there are tunnels and chambers beyond the hall as well?” Gale asks.
Wyll shrugs, keeping his voice low. “I’m not a member of the Brotherhood so I’ve never been permitted, but there is said to be an inner temple that lies 300 feet directly below the church.”
“And it’s there where Lord Ancunin practices his occult rituals?” Gale’s nerves are making him ramble. “Many say he’s working on infernal ways to gain limitless power…”
“Many say he’s succeeded,” a voice behind them whispers and Gale starts, turning round.
The gentleman behind him is older, if his voice is anything to go by. His only distinguishing feature is a large mustache, elaborately curled at the ends, upon which sits a traditional Venetian mask.
“The ‘Rite of Ascension’ it was said to be called,” the man whispers conspiratorially. ”A deal made with Mephistopheles himself…”
“Nonsense,” Wyll sneers. “Lord Ancunin is a known prankster, he merely weaves these tales around himself to-”
“However else does a bastard son inherit such a fortune?” the man cuts him short, his tone more pettish now.
There is something about the stranger’s voice that’s nagging at the back of Gale’s mind. He stares at the mustache, a memory surfacing from somewhere deep in his brain.
“Professor Geddarm?” he asks, slightly incredulously. Volothamp Geddarm is a renowned Don at Oxford, Gale had personally attended his lectures on Classical Philosophy during his time at the University. “Is that you?”
The stranger’s head turns sharply and Gale wonders whether it’s poor form to acknowledge the other guests’ identities. Thankfully, the man’s eyes are twinkling.
“The devil will tell you ‘tis I but the angels will swear blind I was never here...” The old man taps the side of his nose and turns away, disappearing back into the queue of cloaked figures behind them.
Gale is about to pass comment to Wyll but the doorway into the Banquet Hall is upon them and the thought dies on his tongue.
The great, round hall is absolutely spectacular. It looks to have been carved directly into the chalk itself and it’s impossibly vast, the domed ceiling and its gothic candelabra towering overhead. More candles have been set into small recesses in the white stone and the walls are lined with velvet-curtained alcoves, each one containing a plush seating area of cushions and blankets. Nooks on either side of each alcove feature ancient-looking statues of Greek gods and goddesses. He can see the source of the music too: a small chamber orchestra set up at the far end of the cavern, now playing a macabre waltz that Gale doesn’t recognize.
In the middle of the space, a large table is laden with a banquet. Iced plates of oysters sit next to hunks of roasted meats, thick-crusted pies, and steaming tureens of rich-smelling consommé. At even intervals along the table, heaps of sweet jellies and candied fruits surround large silver jugs of claret. Dotted amongst it all are decorations appropriate to the season: bushels of late summer hay and wildflowers, alongside skulls and bones and huge dripping candles of blood-red wax.
And, at the head of the table, seated on an elevated golden throne and shrouded in a pure white cloak: their host.
Gale has never met Lord Ancunin before and, from the silvering curls emerging from his hood, he at first assumes the man to be advanced in years. As Gale’s eyes grow accustomed to the glare of the myriad candles, however, Lord Ancunin’s face becomes clearer and Gale can see that he’s not old at all.
Half of Ancunin’s face is obscured by a mask of pure gold, a crown of aureate pinnacles emerging from its top like rays of sunlight. The nose beneath the mask is long and straight, with a slightly upturned end, and the mouth is rounded and full. Gale might go so far as to describe Ancunin’s lips as cherubic, had they not been twisted into a bored pout as the man lazily gives his approval to each guest entering the hall.
“Remember what I told you,” Wyll is whispering urgently, tearing Gale’s attention away from their host’s face. “Step up onto the platform, bow, remove your cloak, and present your costume. It is then you’ll learn whether your admission is granted or not…”
Gale watches as the guest ahead of Wyll nervously follows the procedure. A group of servants dressed in Greek attire are lined up in a loose semicircle around the hall and one steps forward to remove the man’s cloak. Underneath, he's dressed as a centurion, in a skirt of scarlet and leather, his gold mask topped with a plume of red feathers.
The costume is impressive, but Lord Ancunin barely gives the man a second glance, slouching on his throne and giving only the minutest wave of his long, elegant fingers. Gale sees the guest’s shoulders drop with relief as one of the servants escorts him to his place at the banquet table.
“This is ridiculous,” Gale scoffs. “I don’t see why I should bow just because he’s a Lord-”
“Then you shan’t be admitted,” Wyll replies simply. “And he’s not a Lord. Tonight, he’s the King…”
“Duke Ravengard!” A portly Master of Ceremonies standing by the door announces Wyll’s arrival and Gale’s friend is forced to take his own turn on the platform.
There’s a ripple of murmurs amongst the other guests as Wyll sheds his hood, revealing the ornately carved horns of his mask. The rest of his costume is red and black to match, an elaborate belted tunic paired with breeches and knee-high black boots, a curved blade affixed to his hip.
The approving nod from Lord Ancunin sets everyone murmuring again, and Gale only just hides his eye roll at the pleased grin on Wyll’s face as he makes his way to the table.
“Baronet Dekarios!”
Despite his outward disdain, a shiver of anticipation runs through Gale’s veins. As he steps up onto the wooden platform, he reminds himself that he is above all of this. He is a renowned natural philosopher, his baronetcy conferred by the King himself as an acknowledgment of services rendered to the Sciences. He cares not for this vapid Lord’s approval. If Gale is rejected, he will walk away from this nonsense with his head held high. He won't be missing out on much. A man with such frivolous and ostentatious tastes surely can’t be making any meaningful contributions to the study of the occult…
Trying to convey his lack of deference, Gale casts off his cloak in one fluid motion, handing it to the waiting servant.
The gasps that echo through the Banquet Hall are more pronounced now and Gale simultaneously worries that his costume is both too much or too little. The theme he had been given was ‘Myth and Legend’. Of Greek descent himself, and fascinated by the folklore of his ancestors, Gale has opted to dress as an Arcadian god. His purple toga is hemmed with gold thread and crosses his torso from one shoulder, leaving half of his chest exposed, and his bare arms are clad with ornate golden cuffs. The skirt of his robe is split to the hips on both sides, exposing the golden sandals that are laced up his calves.
However, he’s most pleased with the effect he has applied to his skin. It had taken some work to perfect the formula in his study but the metallic powders have given his complexion a silvery shimmer that makes it shine in the candlelight, defining and highlighting the musculature wrought by decades of fencing.
If the other guests are staring though, it’s not at Gale. As one, the revelers seem to be looking to their host. If Gale is not mistaken, Lord Ancunin is sitting up straighter in his chair. From this closer position, Gale can now make out the piercing green eyes behind the mask, and their gaze is trained on him.
“Welcome, Baronet,” Ancunin drawls and, good God, but his voice is captivating. It manages to sound both heavenly and sinful at the same time, as silky and rich as the claret that fills the jugs on the banquet table.
Disconcerted, Gale gives the man a nod in lieu of a bow and walks over to sit by Wyll, trying not to acknowledge the other guests ogling him or show the strange relief he feels at having been accepted.
“My, my,” Wyll murmurs as Gale takes the seat next to him, his voice tinged with jealousy. “Aren’t we the honored guest??”
Gale merely digs him in the ribs, and they turn to watch the rest of the procession in silence.
Only one guest is turned away in the end, a sniveling, whiny whelp that Wyll identifies as Viscount Petras Szarr, another of the former Lord’s bastard sons.
“It’s said he used to bully Ancunin when they were children,” Wyll whispers with a laugh. “Now he’s invited to every gathering and turned away each time.”
“I see our host is petty as well as vainglorious,” Gale remarks and Wyll shoots him a disapproving look.
When all the guests are seated, the Master of Ceremonies makes his way to stand next to the golden throne.
“Welcome, esteemed guests, to the annual Ball of the Sun King!” The man’s voice rings out over a chorus of bawdy cheers and applause, many of the guests already making headway through their goblets of wine.
“As will always be and 'twas before, do what thou wilt is the whole of the Law. Yet of this night may thy lips remain sealed, lest thine own skeletons be hereafter revealed.”
Gale’s nose wrinkles at the thinly veiled threat, nearly dislodging his mask, but the other guests raise their chalices in solemn agreement.
“All hail, the Sun King!” The MC cries, the attendants dutifully echoing his words.
“All hail!”
The Master of Ceremonies seats himself at Lord Ancunin’s right hand and then the man himself is standing, gazing around at his guests. After a pregnant pause, Ancunin dramatically stretches out his arms and two servants step forward, taking hold of the sleeves of his cloak and pulling it off and away.
Underneath, the Lord is entirely naked. A large gold fig leaf is all that protects his modesty, hanging from delicate chains that drape over his narrow hips. His alabaster skin is so pale that he resembles one of the marble statues that circle the room; a real, living Adonis.
Ancunin reaches down and swipes up a goblet, taking a deep swig that leaves a drop of claret running down the corner of his chin. It may be Gale’s imagination, but those sharp green eyes seem to meet his again as the Lord languidly raises a finger to catch the droplet, inserting it into his mouth and slowly sucking the wine from his skin. Then he turns to address the entire table.
“Feast!” is all he says and the Banquet Hall immediately descends into Bacchanalian madness. The band strikes up a lively gavotte and the guests begin to tear into the food and wine, some already leaping to their feet to dance or find acquaintances and friends, laughter and gleeful shouting echoing around the stony walls.
To Gale’s horror, several people make straight for the alcoves in couples, or threes, or even fours, tumbling onto the cushions, removing their clothing, or removing the clothes of others. He can see now that what he took to be comfortable seating areas are actually large beds.
Wyll laughs at Gale’s expression. “I did inform you of the nature of these gatherings...”
“You said they were meetings for a brotherhood of the occult,” Gale hisses. “I was expecting candlelit circles summoning specters and phantasms, not- Good God…” Gale averts his gaze as one lady guest exposes her breasts to the chill of the cavern air. “Not… this!”
“I believe the precise term I used earlier was ‘satanic orgy’,” Wyll bites thoughtfully into a roasted chicken leg. “I’m not entirely sure I could have spoken more plainly.”
“Good God,” Gale repeats as one man at the table sticks his tongue down the throat of another.
“You heard the MC,” Wyll shrugs. “‘Do what thou wilt’ is the motto of the club. You’re only here to solicit favors of the financial kind, after all. You needn’t partake. You wouldn’t be the only one...”
This last is said with a more pointed tone of voice and a flick of the eyes toward their host.
Lord Ancunin remains seated on his throne, surveying the chaos. His face is impassive, his fingers toying with the stem of the chalice that rests on the arm of his throne.
“He never participates. Only watches,” Wyll murmurs. “Some say these parties are merely a ploy to gather damning evidence against his fellow Lords, should the need for blackmail ever arise in the future. Worth bearing in mind before you let loose; I can see you’re just itching to take yourself off into one of those beds…”
Gale snorts at his friend’s teasing and he helps himself to a slice of what looks like game and ale pie. “I don’t suppose I’m going to find out anything interesting about Ancunin’s mystical research this evening, am I?”
“I don’t know,” Wyll shrugs. “Your reception was the most enthusiastic I’ve seen from him. Perhaps you’ll be invited to his Inner Temple…”
Gale flicks a grape at his friend and they both laugh, tucking into the feast with abandon. Yet, every so often, Gale cannot help but sneak the occasional glance at their host. Could this really all be in aid of gathering evidence for extortion and bribery? It’s an elaborate method, to be sure. A dangerous one, too, considering the illegality of many of the acts Gale can currently see occurring around him.
The next hour or so passes perfectly pleasantly, as Gale and Wyll feast and converse, their topics ranging from old university chums to politics and international affairs. But then a large woman, with hair so red it looks like fire, drapes her arms around Wyll, entreating him to dance.
“Wyllyam,” she slurs. “I’ve missed you…”
“Miss Karlach, how many times…” Wyll laughs as the woman kisses his cheek. “That is not my full name.”
“Don’t make me pick you up and carry you to dance,” she responds with a grin. “Not again…”
Around them, the festivities are growing ever more raucous and Gale is suddenly fearful of being left to fend for himself amidst the rabid mob.
“Don’t abandon me,” he begs, several glasses of claret sloshing around in his brain, making his lips fuzzy.
“You’ll be fine,” Wyll laughs, taking the woman’s hand. “You just need to relax. Might I recommend the massage rooms for that?”
“Massage…” Gale has heard of the new practice making its way from the east to the west via France, but he’s never experienced it for himself. All he knows is that the name originates from the Greek term massō — to work with the hands. “That sounds worryingly… intimate.”
“It can be as intimate as you like,” Wyll winks as he’s pulled to his feet. “The rooms are just through there; all you need do is go in, lie down, and wait. The girls are well-trained. If you desire more… intimacy, you may indicate this by turning over...”
“Like St Lawrence on the gridiron,” Gale winces and Wyll laughs.
“It’s truly a wonder you remain a bachelor, Dekarios,” he snarks, before being dragged into a whirling crowd of dancers.
Then Gale is alone. He grips the stem of his chalice, taking another swig to steady his nerves, trying to avoid looking into the alcoves that line the Banquet Hall. Some of them have eight or more people inside now and not every group is making use of the accompanying curtain.
Without warning, the air in the cavern feels stiflingly hot from the candles and the food and the growing body heat of the revelers packed in. Gale is viscerally and uncomfortably reminded of how deep below the ground he sits, and he finds himself suddenly in need of air. Slightly unbalanced by the alcohol, he stands, pushing his way through his fellow guests to the archway Wyll indicated, on the opposite side of the cave from where they’d entered.
The noise of the convocation is immediately muffled as soon as he steps through the archway and Gale leans against the damp wall, breathing heavily.
Like the others he traversed earlier, this tunnel banks steeply into the depths and Gale momentarily considers setting off to find the Inner Temple himself. The scientific part of his brain shouts down the drunken one, however. He has no desire to become the Lost Baronet, wandering the Daedalian labyrinth forever more, without even a ball of string to mark his passage.
Instead, Gale makes his way to the first of several dimly lit chambers he can see leading off the puddled path. Perhaps Wyll is right. Perhaps Gale needs to relax.
Inside the chamber, he finds a low stone bed and not much else. Like the alcoves in the main hall, the room has a velveteen curtain and the bed is set about with comfortable cushions. Small nooks in the walls are filled with flickering candles and there’s a ceramic pot of what appears to be scented oil on a shelf next to the bed.
Feeling foolish, Gale draws the curtain, laying down on his stomach, forehead resting on his folded arms. Is he supposed to do something to signal the beginning of the massage? Did anyone even see him come in here?
He loses track of how long he waits; the room is pleasantly cool in comparison to the Banquet Hall and he relishes the chance to quietly catch his breath. Eventually, though, he begins to sober up and the self-consciousness grows too much to bear. Imagining his fellow guests looking in on him and laughing, he’s about to sit up when he hears the curtain gently draw back.
Gale presses his forehead into his arms again as the unseen woman closes the drape. Her perfume wafts in with her, an enticing scent of bergamot and rosemary, mixed with the heady smell of the claret they’ve all been drinking throughout the evening. Gale inhales deeply, wondering if he should look up or say anything.
Before he can do either, cool hands are moving his costume off his shoulder, easing the toga down and exposing his back. Then he hears the pot of oil lift and feels warm liquid pool between his shoulder blades. The maidservant begins to smooth the oil over his back and Gale starts to relax.
The sensation is unlike any other he’s experienced. As a bachelor of 35, Gale is by no means a virgin, but his experiences have been limited to clandestine fumblings with fellow students in the dark of his Oxford rooms, or the odd dalliance with a dancing girl in London’s rowdier pubs.
He’s never been touched like this before. The woman’s hands are surprisingly strong as she begins to rub the muscles at the top of his shoulders, her nails dragging lightly up the nape of his neck and into his hair, scratching pleasantly across his scalp. Her long fingers trace up and down his spine and she rolls her knuckles into the muscles in the small of his back. Gale feels tingles originate in the top of his head and lap across his skin with every stroke.
He’s almost on the verge of drifting off into sleep when the woman’s touch strays lower. She begins to massage his hips, sliding her palms down his sides in a way that pushes the skirt of his toga down, exposing the top of his behind. Gale swallows nervously but he doesn’t stop her, tentative arousal tugging at his gut.
Seemingly encouraged by his lack of protest, the woman begins to smooth her soft, cool hands up his legs, massaging first his calves, then the back of his knees, and then his thighs. She pauses when she reaches the loose hem of his underdrawers, before gently pulling them down, her fingers continuing their slow slide upward.
Gale inhales a sharp intake of breath as the woman’s thumbs caress the base of his cheeks, slipping down to knead at his inner thighs, so close to brushing against his most private of places. He can feel himself hardening against the soft cushions of the bed. Before he loses his nerve, he screws his eyes closed and turns over.
A low chuckle has his eyelids flying open in horror. Kneeling by the side of the bed, still dressed in only his golden chains and mask, is Lord Ancunin.