The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Not yet.

  “Bedeckt stole from you,” said Morgen, unaware or uncaring of how close he was to death.

  “Stole from me?” Stehlen asked, confused.

  “He killed you and then he left you here. He took from you the chance to avenge your death.” Morgen shrugged, his eyes bleeding insipid apology. “He abandoned you. Again.”

  “I’ll kill the pig-sticker.” The words escaped before she could snap her teeth closed. “No one steals from me,” she hissed. He’s manipulating you. It didn’t matter. Assuming Bedeckt really had left her here, Morgen wasn’t wrong.

  “Bedeckt is alive and you’re dead and he didn’t even try to bring you with him.” Morgen’s lip curled in childish anger. “He used me, used his power over me. He stole from the church. Gold. A lot of gold. He’s wealthy, fat, and lazy. And he left you here.” Morgen glanced at his hands, hidden beneath the table and his eyes narrowed, glazing with tears. “He took Wichtig with him and left you here.”

  The outright lie quenched Stehlen’s rage like a sodden blanket on dying embers. Morgen told Wichtig that Bedeckt abandoned him here. If he lied about bringing Wichtig with him, what else did he lie about? Was it all a lie? Was Bedeckt still here, somewhere in the Afterdeath? No, she felt sure that much was true. Bedeckt was gone. But what if he hadn’t abandoned her, what if that was the lie? Did Morgen return the old man to life just so he could send Wichtig and Stehlen after him? Why would he do that, why would Morgen return Bedeckt to life only to have him killed? Morgen said it himself: Bedeckt killed the boy. The Geborene godling was bound to serve in the Afterdeath.

  But what does returning Bedeckt to life achieve? And why send me? Trying to think this through was like trying to puzzle out one of Bedeckt’s shite plans. Stehlen’s head spun. Planning was for idiots. She didn’t need a plan, she needed to be smarter and faster than those she was up against.

  She eyed Morgen. That shouldn’t be too difficult.

  The godling underestimated her as all did. Of course Wichtig—self-centred, egotistical, and overconfident as he was—never thought to question the boy. Stehlen saw through the lies. I’ll save Bedeckt’s life, ruin the Geborene brat’s plans. One more theft, making her the winner.

  Stehlen’s breath caught and she stifled the urge to laugh.

  No, she wouldn’t save Bedeckt’s life.

  If I kill Bedeckt, he’ll have to serve me in the Afterdeath. And since the godling served him, she’d have control of the manipulative little bastard. Or would she? How did all of this work with Bedeckt having been returned to life? Did he no longer have power over the Geborene godling? She had no idea, the Warrior’s Credo never went into such detail.

  “Do you want to pay him back for his thefts?” asked Morgen.

  “You know the answer.”

  “Will you kill him?”

  “You know the answer to that too.”

  He watched her, gaze flicking about as if searching for some hint as to her intent. Dream on.

  “Promise me you’ll kill him,” said Morgen, “and I will return you to the world of the living.”

  This time Stehlen did laugh. “My promises are worth shite.”

  “Promise me anyway.”

  “I will track down Bedeckt and kill him,” she said. “After I repay him for his betrayals.”

  “Bedeckt is dangerous,” said Morgen.

  She spat on the table in front of Morgen and he raised an eyebrow at the black-flecked yellow phlegm.

  “Wichtig is the Greatest Swordsman in the World,” he said.

  “So we won’t have a sword fight.”

  “Promise me.”

  “On one condition.”

  Morgen frowned. “Yes?” he asked, tone guarded and suspicious.

  She knew how much he disliked change. His control, his belief he could make the world a place that made sense, was purest madness.

  “Lebendig comes with me,” said Stehlen.

  Sitting back, Morgen examined her, calculating. Was that a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, gone before it was really there? He nodded. “Fine.”

  “I promise to kill Bedeckt,” said Stehlen.

  “And Wichtig?”

  “Definitely Wichtig.”

  “Time is different here in the Afterdeath,” said Morgen. “Though Bedeckt and Wichtig left not long ago, they will have a day or more head start on you.”

  Stehlen shrugged this away as inconsequential. “I’ll need money to buy horses and fund the hunt,” she lied, feeling the weight of Wichtig’s gold at her side.

  Morgen dropped a pouch of coins on the table between them and she scooped it away without thought. She closed her eyes, thinking of Bedeckt, contemplating what he’d do if returned to life with a sack of gold and the knowledge she would come after him once she discovered his betrayal. Bedeckt—like all fat old men—enjoyed the soft trappings of civilization. He’d go east to Geldangelegenheiten, the only city-state that wasn’t a festering pit of shite and bile. And since he’d know she knew that, he’d go south. To Gottlos.

  “What are the relations like between Gottlos and Selbsthass?” Stehlen asked.

  “War is coming,” answered Morgen as if the question were expected. “I will crush them. They shall worship me. I will make this a clean and sane world, one city-state at a time.”

  Pompous snot. “So, when I come riding out of Selbsthass…”

  Morgen made a show of looking her up and down. “No one will believe you are one of mine.”

  Because I’m not. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, hating the smug shite. I’ll drown your pretty theocracy in oceans of mud and blood. She flashed a sweet smile. It died when he paled and glanced away with a look of disgust.

  “Fetch your friend,” said Morgen.

  Stehlen stood and left the boy sitting alone.

  She found Lebendig outside, still mounted. The Swordswoman smiled with her eyes and the slightest hint of a nod.

  “Lebendig, my…” Stehlen wanted to say my love, but her throat strangled the word, “friend, I have a very special surprise for you.”

  “Does it involve killing someone?”

  Stehlen shot her a mock scowl. “Eventually.”

  “Wichtig?”

  “Among others.”

  “I like it already.”

  “There’s more,” promised Stehlen.

  “More people to kill?”

  “Well, yes, always. But that’s not what I meant.” She flashed a smile at the Swordswoman and her heart danced when Lebendig returned it. “Come inside. Don’t bother tying your horse, we won’t be coming back.”

  “That sounds ominous,” said Lebendig, dismounting. She checked the draw of her matched swords and nodded.

  “You won’t need those.” At least not yet. Stehlen held out a hand and Lebendig took it.

  They entered the inn together and no one was stupid enough to say anything and spoil Stehlen’s good mood. She led Lebendig to Morgen’s table and they sat across from the godling, Stehlen grinning, Lebendig guarded as ever.

  “We’re ready,” said Stehlen.

  Morgen blinked, looking confused and maybe a little sad like he wanted to change his mind. She heard him mutter something about reasons.

  CHAPTER SIX

  If the vast majority of the population were not so utterly willing to subsume their own wants and needs, were they not so desperate to be led, freed from the burden of making real choices, there would be no civilization. But civilization only works—only exists—because there are those willing to step forward, willing to take on the burden of leadership. Civilization only exists because there are Gefahrgeist willing to turn their valuable talents to the needs of the masses.

  —Verborgen Liegt, Gefahrgeist Philosopher

  Morgen, god of the Geborene Damonen, sat alone in the Leichtes Haus, surrounded by Stehlen’s dead. Had she even recognized her victims? She’d shown no hint. Not that he expected remorse, but perhaps a flicker of… What? Regret? He tried t
o remember seeing any emotion on her other than hatred, suspicion, disgust, and self-loathing.

  Those could be acts.

  Morgen stopped picking at the table top and willed it to perfection. It was perfect. Flawless.

  If only people were so easily changed.

  Eventually. Once everyone believed in him. Once everyone in all the world knew he could make them perfect, make them clean, he would do that. High Priest Konig—Theocrat of Selbsthass—thought to make for himself a god he could control, a god he could twist to his own selfish Gefahrgeist ends. He mistook Morgen’s naivety for stupidity. Everyone did. He thought the boy’s sheltered upbringing would make him easy to manipulate. Morgen remembered how desperate he had been to please the High Priest and cocked a rueful grin at the perfect tabletop. Bedeckt and his friends ruined the Theocrat’s plans and set Morgen free. Well, almost free. Bedeckt killed Morgen, bringing about his Ascension to godhood.

  Cold pain stabbed through his ribs at the thought, sharp steel parting flesh.

  And those whom you slay must serve.

  Morgen remembered convincing the old warrior to slip the knife between his ribs. Even then he knew he couldn’t trust the man. Had anyone else survived Gehirn’s fire to do the deed, Morgen would have turned to them instead. And so he manipulated an old man who wanted to cling to the few things remaining on his precious list of things he wouldn’t do.

  What kind of man defines himself by the crimes he is unwilling to commit?

  He knew the answer: A man willing to commit every other crime.

  Could that sad little list have been Bedeckt’s path to redemption? Had Morgen blocked that path with his manipulation?

  Reasons should matter.

  But what of Morgen’s own reasons?

  He’d lied, of course. Lied to all of them. Even Bedeckt, the man who both killed and saved him. Funny, as it was Bedeckt, Stehlen, and Wichtig who taught him the art of deception.

  I’ll be the god humanity deserves.

  Was Nacht lying about Bedeckt’s reason for escaping the eternal grey of the Afterdeath? Was not returning to life reason enough?

  Why would Bedeckt work against me?

  Redemption.

  Morgen cracked a slight smile at the thought. No, not Bedeckt. He was as mercenary a man as any Morgen had ever met in his short life. He’d only plot against Morgen if there was something tangible in it for him. Had Nacht offered Bedeckt something to seek Morgen’s downfall or was all of it a lie?

  I told my own lies and I sent Bedeckt’s friends to kill him. And they would. Of that he was sure. Stehlen would never forgive Bedeckt for killing her, and she could never forgive him for abandoning her in the Afterdeath. In truth, sending Wichtig was unnecessary, a back up plan he didn’t expect to need. But the Swordsman arrived first—it was so annoying that these mortals couldn’t be moved like he moved his toy soldiers about the tabletop—and Morgen made the best of the situation. In all likelihood, Stehlen would catch and kill Wichtig long before the Swordsman made it anywhere near Bedeckt. Once the old man was dead and returned to the Afterdeath, Morgen would see his soul was moved quickly along to whatever came next.

  Morgen’s friends taught him well. From Wichtig he learned lies and deception, manipulation of even those closest to you; especially those. He learned thievery and a willingness to violence from Stehlen. As the deadliest of the deadly trio, she taught him the fastest way to victory was to kill before your opponent knew the fight started. Preferably before they even knew there was going to be a fight. And from Bedeckt he learned betrayal. Abandoning his friends in the Afterdeath was his most recent treachery.

  Morgen would win before his opponents—Wichtig, Stehlen, and Bedeckt—knew they were in a fight for their lives. Of course he stacked the odds in his favour. Trusting these devious deranged to kill each other in a neat and predictable manner would be insane.

  Where are you now, my friends?

  He reached into a pocket to caress the three figurines—one for each of his friends—carved as if pieces of some strategic board-game.

  And found nothing.

  Morgen stopped in the street and the dead moved around him, parting as if he were a stone in a river. Or a god.

  Had someone robbed him while he sat in the tavern? No, impossible.

  “Shite,” he swore in ungodlike anger. “Stehlen.”

  Could she have lifted the carvings without his noticing? Surely not. She might be a powerful Kleptic, but he was a god.

  There must be some other explanation. Had he left them somewhere? He might be a god, but he was still fallible. Sometimes he got distracted, sometimes he—

  Sometimes he got pick-pocketed. He saw no other explanation. Stehlen robbed him.

  He laughed, a mirthless chuckle tinged with fear.

  At least it’s Stehlen. She’d never figure out what the little carvings were and if she did, she’d use them to kill her friends. This might make it more difficult to find and kill her after, but he knew she’d come looking for him once she murdered her friends. Sometimes the most unpredictable people were the most predictable.

  Not what he planned, but not a complete failure of his plans either.

  Morgen noticed his Reflection, Nacht, face stained and bloody, watching from a nearby store window. The window was spotlessly clean.

  The end of everything you work for begins with one small mistake, said Nacht. You learned more than lies, deception, and manipulation from Wichtig.

  Morgen turned away.

  You learned some of his overconfidence too.

  He left it behind, feeling its blue eyes—identical to his own—on his back. Its words followed after him. One small mistake. Why did I bring the carvings to the meeting? He knew Stehlen was going be there and he knew better than to ignore the unassuming thief.

  Another filthy Reflection watched from another glinting store window. You know the answer, it said as he passed.

  “Horse shite,” swore Morgen, grimacing at his crude language. He learned too much from his friends; they tainted everything he was meant to be. He wanted to return to the Geborene church at the heart of the city and torture Konig for his failures.

  Ahead, he saw another Reflection, clothed in torn rags, and it bowed in mockery. You want to fail, Nacht said as he passed, shoulders hunched.

  From every window on both sides of the street, Nacht followed his progress. A thousand voices whispered and he tried to shut them out. His chest ached where Bedeckt slid the knife between his ribs to puncture his heart. It was a moment of mercy and, much as Morgen didn’t want to believe it, a moment of self-sacrifice for the old warrior.

  Again he heard Bedeckt’s burnt voice, the dry rasp of cooked lungs. ‘It’s on the list. I don’t kill children.’ The big man pleaded, begging Morgen for some other path.

  Morgen pushed Bedeckt into betraying what little honour the man possessed. The warrior slipped a knife into Morgen’s heart to save him from an Afterdeath of servitude to either Erbrechen the Slaver, or Gehirn, the Hassebrand who burned them both.

  “I don’t want to fail,” said Morgen, defying his Reflection.

  Have you ever noticed, said Nacht from another spotless window, how you still refer to them as friends?

  Noting the dried blood staining his hands again, Morgen picked at it, peeling away flakes and letting them fall in his wake like a litter of dead roses at a wedding. It didn’t matter that the blood wasn’t real, that it was nothing more than a manifestation of his own guilt. It didn’t matter that the blood always returned. His hands must be clean. If just for an instant.

  They weren’t.

  Morgen transitioned from the Afterdeath to the world of life and basked in the perfection of the streets, the white of his priests’ livery, so bright as to be near blinding. Here, in the land of the living, the towering wall around Selbsthass stood complete. For whatever reason, time in the Afterdeath moved differently. While two weeks passed there since his death, near a decade passed in life. Another small su
rprise for his friends to discover.

  He watched his people pass, unaware their god stood among them. Seeing a man bent with age, hands shaking with palsy, begging in the shadows of an alleyway, Morgen went to investigate. The beggar stunk of sweat and sour breath. He sullied Morgen’s perfect street with his existence.

  I’ll have my priests remove the man. He’d order them to kill the vagrant should he return to befoul Selbsthass.

  Turning away, Morgen walked the streets, returning to the church of the Geborene Damonen. He passed the priests guarding the entrance, remaining hidden from their sight. This ancient church, rumoured to have been built before the Menschheit Letzte Imperium, before humanity came to these lands, had changed in the last decade, shifting to meet the desire of the god now inhabiting its walls. The hallways, once bent and twisted, shrinking and growing seemingly at random, were now straight and true. Its walls, impossible monoliths of stone, once dark and stained from thousands of years under sun and rain and snow, had faded to a pale grey. Someday they’d be white. In the many basements, the accoutrements of countless dead religions lay piled in long abandoned catacombs. Statues of forgotten gods haunted rooms men had not seen in generations. Even Morgen, the latest god in residence, hadn’t seen the church in its entirety. There were rooms—entire sub-basements—which scared him, terrified the little boy he still in truth remained.

  Changing your flesh changes nothing.

  Morgen pushed the thought away. It wasn’t true. People reacted to the flesh. They listened in awe to the stupidity of a man where they ignored the wisdom of a boy.

  Morgen returned his thoughts to the basements. How deep did they go? Curiosity drove him to venture there when he could, which was rarely. Running a theocracy left little time for exploration. Were these human gods, or the gods of creatures now dead and gone? Had they been sane or mad? Certainly the building it had been before his Ascendancy seemed insane, with its perverse layout. Seeing how much it changed in the last decade, however, left him wondering if perhaps humans hadn’t built it after all.

  Like the world we live in, it reacts to our desires, changes to match our beliefs. What would it be when Morgen finally completed his task and united the world under a single god, a single religion of sense and sanity and rules and cleanliness?