The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  It will be beautiful, a testament to our achievements, a symbol of what a united humanity can achieve.

  The world bent to the desire and beliefs of humanity and Morgen would bend humanity into something better. Something perfect.

  Morgen entered the church, making his way up the spiralling stairs leading to Konig’s chambers. Was Nacht correct, had his plans truly gone to shite already? Again he grimaced in anger. Even his friends’ coarse language infected him. How long would it take to scrub such contamination from flesh and soul?

  Too many questions plagued him and unanswered questions were doubts. Why did Bedeckt bring a Mirrorist when he returned to life? What did the woman believe, and how did her delusions manifest? Perhaps she thought her mirrors were portals to other mirrors, and Bedeckt sought to use her to jump quickly from city-state to city-state. It would only prolong the inevitable. With Stehlen on his trail, nothing could save the old man.

  What if the Mirrorist had stranger, more exotic delusions? What if she believed mirrors were portals to other worlds? Could another Mirrorist reach a world of her creation? For that matter, were the worlds to be found through such mirrors the creation of the Mirrorist, or were they as real as this world? A troubling thought. If they were real, Morgen had enemies beyond counting, entire realities he’d have to bring to heel.

  These were problems for another day, he decided. No need to invent enemies when he had plenty right here.

  Morgen entered Konig’s chambers unannounced and smashed the Theocrat to the floor with a thought. He would never forgive the man for his failures and lies.

  Failure watched from his place within the hand mirror. Where the new Konig looked worn and tired, the Reflection looked like the Konig Morgen remembered, shoulders straight, eyes sharp.

  Walking to the massive window on the south wall he threw open the shutters, letting the autumn sun fill the room. Morgen had broken the new Konig’s will over the last decade and the man no longer took care of himself as he once did. The room stank of musty sweat and stale air. The young godling looked south, toward the Flussrand River, the geographical border separating Gottlos and Selbsthass. King Dieb Schmutzig of Gottlos refused Morgen’s attempts to initiate talks, and killed his diplomats–sending their still-raving heads back to the Geborene.

  A nice trick, that. Morgen wondered how he achieved it. Some Wahnist Geisteskranken in his court, no doubt. King Schmutzig, a tyrant and Gefahrgeist, made it clear: There would be no Geborene presence tolerated within Gottlos’ borders. And for that he must die.

  It didn’t hurt that Gottlos was small, rife with poverty and dissension, and unable to muster a real military force. If anything, the city-state was the perfect first opponent in Morgen’s Holy War. An easy kill. Something to blood the troops, swell their chests with pride. Remind them they were invincible, backed by a god.

  He’d played long enough. He’d moved his troops here and there across the board, getting a feel for command. He’d studied his cadres of the mad, insane men and women with the will to twist reality to their delusions. Geisteskranken like Gehirn, his favoured Hassebrand, were rare. Where she burned armies to ash, most achieved meagre effects at best, altering reality in an extremely localized area and effecting no more than a handful of people. Those few who could manipulate reality on a large scale were invariably too unstable to be reliable. He wished Gehirn were here. The Hassebrand would make short work of his enemies. Unfortunately, he sent her to Geldangelegenheiten with her lover, Eleve, himself a minor Hassebrand, to oversee the completion and consecration of Morgen’s new temple there.

  Morgen spent many nights imagining battles, dreaming his glorious Holy War. Now he was ready. Again he thought back to moving his wooden soldiers across the tabletop, playing at war.

  It was time to stop playing.

  “Konig,” said Morgen.

  The Theocrat whimpered from where he lay crushed beneath his god’s will, supine upon the floor.

  “Have you begun moving the troops out of the city?”

  Konig whimpered an affirmative from his place on the floor.

  “Prepare them to march. We’re moving ahead of schedule.” It was time to test the strategies perfected with his toy soldiers. Gottlos would fall and it would be clean and fast and perfect.

  “Who will lead them?” Failure asked.

  “Konig will lead.”

  “Best you don’t leave the centre of your power,” agreed Failure.

  Failure bowed low and Morgen glared at the Reflection’s bald skull. Was that a hint of a victorious smile? It bothered him that the Reflection agreed so quickly. Too quickly.

  Konig will be alone with the majority of my troops and most of my Geisteskranken. What if his lack of Gefahrgeist power was a ruse? What if he merely awaited exactly such an opportunity? With the troops beyond the Selbsthass border, Morgen would be unable to reach them. Konig might bend them to his purpose. Could he turn them enough that they’d invade their own country? Such action would end in failure but not before causing grievous destruction and a terrible mess. Quashing a rebellion would stall his plans for invasion for months, maybe years.

  Morgen glanced at the Theocrat still whimpering on the floor. How could he be so different from the original Konig. It must be an act.

  I’ll lead the troops. If Konig and his Reflection were so foolish as to attempt a coup in his absence, Morgen could return and crush it.

  “Perhaps I shall lead the troops,” said Morgen, watching Failure.

  The Reflection scowled, a flash of emotion gone before it was truly there. “Are you sure that’s wise? Beyond Selbsthass…” He shook his head, disapproving, and Morgen wanted to apologize for letting him down. “Your power will be reduced the further you get from your believers.”

  Morgen turned away from the mirror so Failure wouldn’t see the hurt. He crushed the desire to beg forgiveness. He’s manipulating me. Somehow knowing didn’t help. This man was the closest he ever had to a father. He glanced at the Theocrat prostrated on the floor. Failure wants me to send Konig. If the Theocrat failed, he’d be further reduced in power.

  On the other hand, the Reflection did have a point. Outside of Selbsthass, Morgen would be separated from the strength of his followers. Only the faith of his troops would support him. It would have to do. He couldn’t trust Konig and Failure not to pursue their own agendas.

  Did Failure want Morgen to leave, did he think that he’d be left in charge? Surely not. He must know Morgen could move freely, be anywhere whenever he wanted.

  At least that was true within the borders of Selbsthass. Those borders, made of nothing but the delusions of the sane, defined the limits of his power. On his own, he could not leave the Geborene city-state. Somehow he felt sure that with his army marching at his side, borders would not stop him. My belief will define reality and I am a god. But would he be able to return at will? Could he move himself between his army and the church? What if he returned home but was then unable to rejoin his troops?

  “Konig will rule while I am away,” he said.

  Failure scowled at the man whimpering on the floor but said nothing.

  ***

  Failure allowed himself no hint of emotion beyond those he feigned until Morgen left to inspect his troops. “Get off the floor,” he told prostrate Konig.

  The loss of the deep and rich carpets still saddened him. The barren walls made the place look poor, neglected. He spent decades collecting those tapestries, spared no expense. Morgen had them dragged away like they were nothing, grimacing in disgust like they were filthy. The little bastard did it to hurt me. Left unchecked, Morgen would scrub the character from all the world. I wanted to make things better, to make for us a god deserving of our worship. Morgen ruined that, spoiled everything Failure worked for, when the boy became infected with the rot of those murderous thieves he fell in with.

  Konig rose with a groan, brushing himself off even though his robes remained spotless in spite of his pathetic grovelling. “I had
to be sure he wouldn’t return.”

  Coward. “That went well.”

  Konig, finally happy with the fall of his robes even though they were wrinkled and in such a state the real Konig would never have worn them, seemed mollified. “So what’s next?”

  The fool had no thoughts of his own, following Failure’s every suggestion. Could a man who was once a Reflection somehow not know to distrust his Reflection?

  “I need you to do something for me,” said Failure.

  Konig studied the man in the mirror. “A favour?”

  “For you as much as I. If we don’t bring our god to heel, we’re both doomed.”

  The Theocrat nodded. “I feel myself crumbling. I’m losing—” He glanced at Failure. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you?”

  “Some.”

  “Ever think that making a god was a bad idea?”

  It was Aufschlag’s idea and Failure stole it, made it his own. He made the man Chief Scientist of the Geborene Damonen—put him in charge of his most important works—and Aufschlag betrayed him. I gave him everything. He remembered pushing the knife into his friend’s chest, watching the life fade from dull eyes. “No.”

  Konig snorted. He had none of Failure’s practised class or poise.

  What part of me is he? Failure couldn’t understand how this man came from his psyche. There must be some connection, something linking the two. If he could but figure it out, it might provide some point of leverage. And leverage was everything.

  “I need you to fetch three Geborene priests for me,” said Failure, hating his helplessness.

  “Can’t get them yourself?” said Konig, knowing the answer. He grinned at the Reflection, waiting.

  Failure hated that smirk. Men in positions of power should never grin, never show anything but calm control. This escaped Reflection was a fool. “You know I can’t,” he said. “Please, will you bring them here?”

  Konig shrugged, examined his unkempt fingernails. “Maybe later.”

  “Do it now—” Failure stopped, breathed calm. Here in his mirror he could do nothing. Konig was his eyes and hands in the world beyond. “If you don’t do it now we will never control Morgen. The choice is yours.”

  “Who do you want?” Konig asked.

  “Erdbehüter, Ungeist, and Drache.”

  Konig’s mouth fell open, his lips moving in mute disbelief. “Are…are you mad?”

  “They will—”

  “Morgen told me to send them far from Selbsthass on some make-work quest. He wants them far from the city before they—”

  “That’s why they’re perfect. They aren’t part of his cadre of Geisteskranken. They won’t be missed.”

  “They’re near the Pinnacle. Any one of them could snap!” Words rushed from Konig in a panic. “Morgen drove Erdbehüter hard to finish the wall. It broke her. Rocks move whenever she is near. Sometimes they crush people. She has no control. Ungeist…” He shivered, huddling his arms about his chest.

  “Calm—”

  “He looks inside you, sees the evil there. You know we have evil.”

  “I can handle—”

  “Your inner demons manifest. He sets them free. They claw their way out!” Hysteria tinged Konig’s voice, scaling it upward in pitch. “And Drache? She’s a gods-damned Therianthrope dragon! Her breath—”

  “Silence!”

  Konig sputtered to a stop, glaring at Failure. “You do not command me.”

  “Then control yourself. They are exactly what I need.” He didn’t want to tell Konig any more than necessary, but he needed the fool to understand. He shared the parts Konig would figure out on his own and hoped it was enough. “Bedeckt killed Morgen. They will kill Bedeckt for us. Through them we will regain control of our god.” Except there was no we, there was only Failure.

  “If they can’t control themselves, how can you control them?”

  It was a good question and one Failure dare not examine too closely. Doubt was weakness. “I can.”

  The Theocrat studied him, striking the pose—one hand on chin, the other holding that elbow—Failure always took when thinking. “Will your Gefahrgeist power reach beyond the mirror?”

  Another good question. Perhaps not as stupid as Failure thought. “Yes.”

  “I will be the go-between,” said Konig. “Once you’ve bound them, all orders will come through me.” He grinned at his Reflection. “I won’t have you turning them against me.”

  Failure growled frustration and argued but it was all for show. Allowing Konig to be the point of contact once Failure bent the three Geisteskranken to his will would serve as an added layer of protection should things go badly. Morgen would believe Konig acted against him.

  “What about Bedeckt?” asked Konig. “Nacht said—”

  “Lies and distractions,” snapped Failure. “Now please, fetch the priests.”

  Three priests, a dumpy middle-aged matron, a woman in her early twenties, and one short but surprisingly solid man, gathered in Konig’s chambers. The Theocrat stood behind them, arms crossed over his chest, face set in a serious expression like he might actually be thinking. Though all wore the white of the Geborene, nothing could hide the madness lurking behind their eyes, the rotting filth of their souls. They were perfect.

  Erdbehüter, a lithe girl with the long pitch-black hair and equally dark eyes of the GrasMeer tribes, twitched, gaze darting to the walls. “Worked stone is dead,” she said. “We killed it. Murder. The earth wants its revenge.” Where Morgen found this crazy girl Failure had no idea. She hadn’t been with the Geborene more than a year before the godling put her delusions to work building the wall surrounding the city. He must have subsumed her will to convince her to do something so clearly against her beliefs. I didn’t think he had it in him. The work broke her mind, shattered an already fragile sanity.

  Ungeist and Drache stood behind Erdbehüter. Failure had told Konig to bring them before the mirror one at a time. Ungeist, short and wiry with a receding hairline and limp brown hair brushed forward in a pathetic attempt to hide his growing forehead, stood like he was trying to be taller. Failure would have towered over the man when he was real. Shorter people were so much easier to intimidate. Drache stood a pace behind Ungeist, a matronly looking woman, soft and greying at the edges. The only thing surprising about her was how incredibly normal she looked. She could have been a librarian or someone’s mother. Except of course she didn’t have a nurturing bone in her body. She probably ate her young.

  Failure returned his attention to Erdbehüter. “And the earth shall have it,” he said, beckoning the Wahnist closer. She was one of those Geisteskranken who thought herself sane. She truly believed she did the earth’s bidding.

  She leaned in close, petite nose wrinkled as if confused by what she saw. “The mirror reflects a different room.” She glanced over her shoulder before returning her attention to Failure. “It shows the Great Hall.”

  Failure’s mirror forever reflected the room in which he’d been when imprisoned. The doors behind him lead nowhere, walking through them returned him to the hall. There was no escape.

  “Morgen has a very important task for you,” said Failure.

  When she made eye contact he locked her there, his Gefahrgeist will subsuming hers. This girl sacrificed much of her sanity to build the walls of Selbsthass. She’d do anything for her god, give her life in an instant. That was her pivot point, the fulcrum by which he would bend her to his will. As long as she believed she served her god, she would be malleable to Failure’s manipulations. And as the most loyal of the three, she was perfect. Loyalty is naught but emotion. And emotion was weakness.

  “Anything,” she said, staring into Failure’s flat grey eyes, unable to pull away.

  As always, partial truths were best. “A man killed our god. He must be slain before he can make use of his power over Morgen.”

  Her eyes widened. “But Morgen is a god.”

  “Even gods are bound by laws.”

 
“Even gods,” she said.

  Failure gloried in his power. It felt good to once again influence the world beyond his prison. He’d bend these insane wretches to his will, send them to kill the man who murdered the Geborene god. If Morgen’s friends found and killed the man first, these three would hunt whoever survived. With Drache flying overhead, nothing could escape them.

  When Failure finished with all three, reduced them to tears of gratitude at the chance to serve their god, he added one last command.

  “Gottlos seeks to war against us.” He glanced at each in turn, making sure he had their attention. “Morgen leads the army south. You must get ahead of him, be his advanced guard. You must teach Gottlos to fear the Geborene.” Failure locked eyes with Erdbehüter. He used their own insane beliefs to bind them. “All the world shall bow before our god, man and tree and rock. You know this to be true.” And she did. She had no choice. “The infection shall resist. You shall be the Geborene Voice of Earth and Stone. Crush the unbelievers.” He turned to Ungeist, drawing his attention and spearing the man with his Gefahrgeist-driven need for worship. By distracting them with how much they desperately wanted to serve their god—how desperately they needed Morgen’s approval—Failure would bend them to his will. “They worship the old gods, those who abandoned us. You shall be The Geborene Exorcist. They are evil. Set free their inner demons.”

  Failure turned his attention to Drache. She looked like nothing, a middle-aged woman who might have been a mother or even a grandmother if not for the madness staining her eyes. Erdbehüter was the most important of the three. She would keep them together, keep them united in purpose. Her loyalty to Morgen allowed no less. But Drache was the most dangerous. When twisted into her dragon form, her breath shredded reality, left seething chaos. Nothing survived her rage. Her victim’s souls, ravaged by Drache’s madness, were torn asunder. Nothing remaining to escape to the Afterdeath.