St. Theodosia’s church was quaint, a century old, and built in a stark, rocky, mountain pass. It should have been an artist’s and poet’s inspiration, but it was not. Somehow it was in the wrong place for everything artistic: It was on the wrong side of the road for a good view, it was too close to a black shaley cliff to be picturesque, and the structure was small and homely. Baron Rostov was not the only one to feel so.
“Oh, by the gawds,” drawled the Dandy, “must we stop here? Again? This place won’t inspire, it will drain me.”
“Stop your prattle,” snapped Mr. Porter. “Inside, all of you.” The party went inside.
The narthex of the church—what Mr. Packer or Miss Booles might have called a vestibule—was just as homely as the outside. The furnishings were clean but third-rate. Its pair of modest Holy Doors stood open to reveal an equally uninspired nave. On one side of the narthex, curtains hung before a nondescript hallway. In fact, the Baron noticed, the hallway and its curtains were somehow designed to be extravagantly dull and prosaic, attracting no attention. It reminded him of the No Importance spell on the Djinni’s lamp.
Striding past them, Mr. Porter led the party into the hallway and through the second door on its left, from which stairs led down to the east side of a nave far larger and higher than that of the church aboveground, with majestic columns.
“What?” exclaimed the Dandy. “A pearl under a drab oyster shell?”
Here was religious architecture designed with inspiration in mind, but inspiration of a sort that stood hair up on the back of one’s neck.
On the west wall an ancient fresco depicted the Crucifixion of Christ. But the people in it were not the quiet, even serene, figures of traditional Orthodox icons. Christ writhed, overwhelmed by his suffering, and blood poured from each nail hole. The thieves on either side of him, the armored soldier with the spear and sponge, and nearly all the spectators were shouting and jeering. His Mother and St. John stood by fearfully clutching each other—ready to flee from the crowd, Rostov thought. A fanged, bat-winged creature hovered below each arm of the cross, where angels should have appeared.
Nor did the choice of colors set a person to thinking of good’s triumph. The diffused sunlight shone on deep crimson, purple, and black instead of the usual light and bright colors or the majesty of gold.
The Dandy grimaced and said no more, but the Lich who was Mr. Porter paused as if to drink in the spectacle. Before the Baron could more than glimpse the other frescoes, Mr. Porter led the party across the nave to an inconspicuous door. Beyond was a large, richly furnished dining room, beautifully prepared for a formal meal. It, too, was decorated with frescoes, including a version of the same disturbing Crucifixion scene.
As the “guests” were seating themselves, the Dandy found voice once again.
“What is this place? Have you restored the Temple of Nazadlan?”
Mr. Porter chuckled in a forced way. “Hardly, you foppish fool. This is a shrine outside the gates. We Kalnichovs began restoring this soon after the breaking. This shrine manifests our dedication to recovering what has been lost. Now, please, enjoy yourselves. I assure you the food is quite delicious.”
Mr. Porter clapped his hands. From a door in the wall opposite that leading to the blasphemous church, two white-skinned young serving maids entered, with neat uniforms, long straight hair, and striking features.
They ladled out a fragrant consommé to start the meal, but the Baron had little appetite. On the wall opposite his place, next to the Crucifixion, was the Anointing for Burial. It showed a crowd of Devils and Ghouls looking on hungrily as humans slathered oil onto the wounded corpse.
Then his appetite disappeared entirely. An Imp sat atop each soup bowl and with every mouthful eaten it leaned toward the human. A quick ethereal view confirmed the wizard’s suspicion: The Imps were caressing the eaters’ souls … almost copulating with them. Except that the Imp at Mr. Porter’s place was much more circumspect, tentatively touching the Lich’s body but not his soul.
Returning to our Material Plane, the Baron quietly signed his people not to eat. They obeyed.
Mr. Porter continued mechanically moving the spoon between cup and mouth, while Mr. Packer and Miss Booles ate with appetite as obvious as formal good manners permitted.
Finally the Englishman looked up. “It’s really quite good, you know, Baron.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Packer, but we must be going. We all must be going!” he cried, his voice rising to a shout as he pulled a small pouch from his pocket.
The wizard whirled the pouch around his head, scattering a dust over everyone and everything in the room. The Imps scattered in terror. Mr. Packer and Miss Booles screamed as if their very skins were in flames. Grigor and his men looked quizzical for a half second, then bolted for the door to the church. As the Baron finished emptying the pouch, he moved to follow.
But Mr. Porter had been fast, impossibly fast. He had slipped from his seat and through the serving room door as Rostov’s pouch made its first half circle. Once there, out of dust’s way, he had begun an incantation. Now the Lich launched a mystic bolt that dropped the Baron in his tracks.
The Dandy turned back, but Grigor grabbed him and pulled him on. “Move! There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
The party rushed through the nave and up the stairs. They left behind Mr. Packer and Miss Booles wailing hideously, serving maids cowering silently in a corner, the Baron in a lifeless lump, and a somewhat shaken Mr. Porter ordering, “Clean up this mess, then come to me.”