When Langdon arrived at Charles Bridge, he saw that the smooth blanket of snow was no longer pristine, now dotted with footprints of other early risers. As he entered the bridge, Judith Tower rose on his right, the lone surviving piece of the original medieval structure. In the distance stood the "new" fourteenth-century guard tower where decapitated heads had once been displayed on spikes as a reminder to anyone who might question the Habsburgs' rule.
They say you can still hear their moans of pain as you pass.
The word "Prague" literally meant "threshold," and Langdon always felt like he crossed one each time he came here. For centuries, this magical city had been steeped in mysticism, ghosts, and spirits. Even today, guidebooks claimed the city had a supernatural aura that was palpable to all those who were open to it.
I'm probably not one of them, Langdon knew, although he had to admit Charles Bridge felt otherworldly this morning, with the falling snow casting spectral halos around the gaslights.
For centuries, this city had been Europe's nexus for the occult. Prague's King Rudolf II had secretly practiced the transmutational sciences in his underground Speculum Alchemiae. Clairvoyants John Dee and Edward Kelley had traveled here for scrying sessions to conjure spirits and converse with angels. Mysterious Jewish writer Franz Kafka was born and worked here, penning his darkly surreal The Metamorphosis.
As Langdon continued across the bridge, his eye fell on the Four Seasons Hotel in the distance, perched directly on the river, the deep waters of the Vltava lapping at its foundation. Above the glimmering surface, the second-floor windows of their suite were still dark.
Katherine's still asleep, he thought, not at all surprised considering the nightmare that had kept her awake much of the night.
About a third of the way across the colossal bridge, Langdon passed the bronze statue of St. John of Nepomuk. Murdered on this very spot, he thought with a chill. Ordered by the king to break his vow of confessional secrecy and reveal the queen’s private confessions, the priest had refused, so the king had ordered him tortured and thrown off the bridge.
Langdon was lost in his own thoughts when his attention was drawn to an unusual sight up ahead. Approximately halfway across the bridge, a woman dressed all in black was approaching. Langdon guessed she was returning from a costume party because she was wearing an outlandish headpiece—a kind of tiara with a half-dozen slender black spikes emanating directly from her skull, fanning upward and outward, encircling her head, like a black...
Langdon felt a chill. A radiant crown?
The bizarre coincidence of seeing a radiant crown this morning was startling and a bit unnerving, but Langdon reminded himself that ghoulish costume play was common in Prague.
As she drew closer, though, the scene became stranger. The woman in the spiked halo seemed to be in a trance, walking as if half-dead, her doe eyes staring blankly ahead. Langdon was about to ask if she was okay when he noticed what she was holding in her hand.
The sight stopped him short.
But that’s...impossible!
The woman was clutching a silver spear.
Just like in Katherine’s nightmare...
Langdon eyed the pointed weapon, immediately wondering if maybe now he was dreaming. As the woman drew level with him, Langdon realized he had stopped walking, paralyzed by his own confusion. Snapping out of his stupor, he turned and called to the woman, trying to get her attention.
“Excuse me!” he blurted. “Miss?!”
She never broke stride, as if unable to hear him.
“Hello!” Langdon shouted, standing still, but the woman simply drifted past like an apparition...a blind spirit drawn across the bridge by some unseen force.
Langdon turned to run after her but advanced only two steps before halting in his tracks, this time arrested by a putrid smell.