I marched out the garden gate, with Bern and Lille in tow. When Astrid saw that we were actually going through with my plan of confronting Luther, she and her German Shepherds made themselves scarce, sidling away into the plaza where the other guards were quelling some sort of commotion.
As we approached the church, a pack of huskies came bounding out of the vestibule.
“Oh crap. Not more dogs.”
They wheeled around to face us, ears perked, snouts down, beady eyes watching us. When we came nearer, they stood up and formed a cordon on the steps.
“State your purpose,” they said in a tinny chorus.
Lille cleared her throat. “We’re visiting to the chapel to—”
“We’re going to see Luther,” I said, cutting her off.
The dogs howled. “Speaking the master’s name is forbidden!”
“It’s just a name.”
“Is the master expecting you?” said the huskies.
“Yeah, sure. Why not? He should be.”
Lille stepped forward. “We have come to pray. To … to the master.”
This, apparently, was just what the dogs wanted to hear. They trotted off the stairs and let us pass.
“Hah!” said Bern. “Who knew that Luth… um, Mr. L. … fancies himself a god?”
“Pfft. For someone of his vanity, it was inevitable,” said Lille.
We passed through thick, oaken doors twice our height. It certainly smelled like a church inside, a Catholic one, at least—all incense and resins and molten wax. Racks of burning candles lined several niches where a few people knelt, praying.
The pews were arranged orthogonal to the entrance, with an altar to the far left and some sort of baptismal font to the right behind the back most pews. Two simple doors flanked a larger, more ornate one clad in swirls of wrought iron, and opening into the wall opposite the vestibule.
Something about the décor seemed off, and then I realized that there was not a single Christian symbol inside—no crosses, crucifixes, angels, saints or cherubs. Nothing. This was a secular place. Even the stained glass bore only geometric patterns suggestive of no particular faith. There were no graven images of Luther, either, but that would probably be remedied with time.
“Fascinating,” said Bern. “I’ve never been in here, before. It’s like a journey into Luther’s skull.”
“Hallo?” called Lille. “Anybody home?”
“Lille! Shush! People are praying.”
There was a creaking from the pews. A few heads turned our way.
“Oh my,” said Lille, touching her fingers to her cheeks.
“Let’s find a pew and sort this out,” said Bern.
We knelt together in the backmost row. On the altar was a large, throne-like chair of rough-hewn wood, like something someone would slap together at a hunting cabin in the middle of a forest.
“There goes Harvald,” said Lille as Luther’s lieutenant came lurching out of a dim room. He passed through the vestibule, with yet another pack of six Dobermans trotting at his heels.
“Jesus,” I said. “Just what we need. More dogs.”
“Do you think Luther’s even here?” said Lille.
