The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Assuming the shite didn’t lie about all of it.

  The albtraum had it all wrong. Not surprising it failed to understand the depth of emotion Wichtig felt for his family. The damned thing was a stupid worm, a figment of delusion manifesting to feed on fear and doubt.

  And blood, thought Wichtig, again fingering the wound in his belly.

  If anything, the albtraum proved Wichtig right. If the Swordsman didn’t love his family so much—if returning to them weren’t the most important thing in all the world—the stinking creature would have found some other topic to pick at.

  Feeling marginally better, Wichtig nibbled at what little food he had. Yes, the albtraum was wrong about everything.

  Time crawled past like a thousand regrets drowning in blood and guts and an infinite ocean of lies and deceit. Wichtig wobbled as he rode. Someone did a shite job of tightening the girth straps. Was that what they were called? He couldn’t remember.

  Upon reaching the Flussrand River, Wichtig promptly toppled from Ärgerlich’s back. He lay groaning on the cobbled bridge, staring up at the beast, which in turn glared down at him.

  “Why do you hate me so much?” Wichtig asked.

  The horse was too angry to answer.

  “I bought you that beautiful—albeit incredibly uncomfortable—saddle. The lovely blanket…” From down here he saw where the wet blanket chafed the beast’s back raw.

  “Shite. Sorry.” He laughed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Weak from blood loss, Wichtig lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Your system for the classification of Geisteskranken is flawed. Even your attempt at sub-classifications is a failure. There are as many flavours of Gefahrgeist as there are people. The term Gefahrgeist—used to denote Geisteskranken craving worship—not only ignores what drives the need, but also fails to take into consideration the many ways in which that need might manifest. One Gefahrgeist becomes king, while another the kingdom’s torturer. One starts a new religion while the other vies for rank within the Wahnvor Stellung.

  Labelling something does not mean you understand it.

  Give up.

  —Umtrieb - Gefahrgeist Scientist

  Stehlen and Lebendig followed Wichtig south through rolling hills and lushly verdant farmlands. The never saw the Swordsman, but witnessed the melancholy remains of his passing. Something about the thought of Wichtig travelling alone made Stehlen’s bottom lip tremble and her eyes sting, but only when Lebendig wasn’t watching. Without Bedeckt’s guidance, the idiot would wander lost, forever distracted, forever chasing a goal doomed not to last beyond the next pretty smile or glint of coin. And what would Bedeckt do without Wichtig to distract him from his memories and old man miseries?

  And you?

  What would she do without Wichtig and Bedeckt? Stehlen stole a glance at Lebendig. Happiness seemed a possibility for the first time.

  You’re not going to find happiness chasing after those two idiots. Be honest with yourself. Stehlen stifled the urge to laugh. When had honesty—even with herself—ever been desirable?

  Perhaps Wichtig isn’t the only coward.

  She glanced over her shoulder, looking back toward Selbsthass. No, there was nothing north for her. Religion left her uncomfortable. Bedeckt might spout his old man wisdom about how guilt was useless, how it was a tool for controlling the foolish, but he didn’t understand. Some childhood scars were too deep to outgrow. Some lessons you never forgot. Some crimes were unforgivable. Some people could never be saved, never be redeemed. That each and every religion offered exactly that twisted her guts with sickness. They were liars offering false promises. They had to be.

  Perhaps she’d never earn forgiveness. But maybe some day, if she took enough, she’d earn her punishment. The thought that she rode free—the world ignorant or uncaring of her crime—contemplating happiness, left her wanting to retch the bile of her soul.

  Stehlen leaned away from Lebendig and spat bitter phlegm.

  She blinked, surprised. How long was it since she last spat? She had, she realized, stopped almost immediately after meeting Lebendig. Not that the Swordswoman ever commented on it or disparaged the habit. Darting a guilty glance at Lebendig she saw the woman lost in thoughts of her own.

  What is she thinking about?

  She’d ask, but then Lebendig might tell her and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Wichtig is not the only coward.

  With an utter lack of drama, the endless grey sky opened like blood leaking from abraded skin. Though it never quite managing a proper fall of rain, Stehlen and Lebendig were soon soaked through. After stopping to don the oiled cloaks they purchased in Selbsthass, they continued on in silence. Stehlen took some small pleasure in the thought of Wichtig riding in this icy misting in one of his pretty shirts. She imagined him shivering and cursing the sky, unable to understand he was to blame for his misery.

  They rode alongside an endless forest of trees growing in straight lines. Stehlen couldn’t decide if this was a comfortable silence, an uncomfortable one, or something else all together. Maybe the discomfort was hers alone.

  The forest, trees too tall to be new saplings, enthralled and disturbed Stehlen. Were they here last time she rode this route? Were they planted this way—and why would anyone bother?—or was this a manifestation of Selbsthass’ obsession with order? Neither were particularly happy alternatives. The godling’s doomed attempts to hurl himself against the inevitability of decay was sad. Or pathetic. Or both.

  Stehlen spotted the scattered remnants of Wichtig’s camp. The fool slept in the mud. Stopping at a sodden pile of ash, she dismounted and bent to sniff at it. “Typical.”

  “What is?” asked Lebendig, alert and ready for trouble.

  Stehlen loved her for it. The Swordswoman never let her guard down, not for an instant. Except…Stehlen sighed. Except when the two were intimate. Which they hadn’t been since escaping the Afterdeath.

  “No scent of animal fat on the fire,” said Stehlen. “Wichtig forgot to purchase supplies before leaving Selbsthass.” Then she remembered taking his money and laughed. The fool would have wasted it on pretty clothes and women anyway. “We’re less than half a day north of the Flussrand River,” she said. “There’s a bridge there we can use to cross into Gottlos.”

  “You’ve been here before?” asked Lebendig.

  Stehlen nodded.

  Lebendig raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “We met a priestess in Unbrauchbar,” she finally said when the silence stretched long. How the hells does she do that to me? “She told us about the Geborene god. At that point, he was a boy, a stupid little shite.” She laughed. “He hasn’t changed. The priestess, I killed her.” She shrugged, remembering the scarves she took from the girl as she died, bleeding from a cut throat, in the dark alley. “We came through here on our way north to steal the boy.”

  Lebendig watched her, expression unreadable.

  “It’s pretty much when everything went to shite,” said Stehlen.

  “Not everything turned out badly,” said Lebendig.

  Not yet. Stehlen remounted her horse. “Let’s go.”

  She turned the beast south, following the tracks left by Wichtig’s stallion. Lebendig rode at her side.

  Hours passed, Stehlen wondering what she would do when she found the Swordsman. Judging from the tracks they followed, Wichtig wasn’t riding particularly quickly. If they pushed the pace, she and Lebendig could catch him by nightfall. Maybe sooner.

  So why are we riding so slowly?

  “What are we doing?” asked the Swordswoman, distracting Stehlen from her thoughts.

  “Following Wichtig.”

  “Why?”

  “Morgen wants me to kill him.” Stehlen flared her nostrils and spat, knowing she hadn’t really answered the question. “And Bedeckt.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Plan?” Stehlen snorted. “You sound like— No plan.”


  “Are we going to kill them?”

  Stehlen nodded. I think so.

  As they neared the Flussrand River, the hills stretched and flattened. Though still rich with life, the land faded from deep green to something pale as if nearing Gottlos poisoned it. As the sun set the cold mist which plagued them all day, finally lifted. She caught sight of the tower jutting from the Gottlos side of the river like a blunt cock trying to rut the sky.

  No doubt built by men, she decided. A woman would never build something so obviously and ridiculously phallic. Only men stumbled about littering the landscape with monuments erected to their little stickers. Such colossal insecurity. She imagined women building domed breast-like structures and laughed.

  Lebendig glanced at her, an eyebrow lifting in query.

  “Looks like a cock,” said Stehlen, nodding at the tower. “Why don’t men ever build anything that looks like a set of teats?”

  “They do,” said Lebendig. “The grassland tribes build domed reed huts and go as far as to mount woven nipples on the roofs.”

  “We should go there,” said Stehlen, joking.

  Lebendig nodded agreement and the Kleptic understood what the Swordswoman hadn’t said: We should go there instead of where we are going.

  If she asks, I’ll go.

  Lebendig said nothing.

  As they reached the river, Stehlen saw the remains of a second tower, long toppled and buried by centuries of dirt and growth, lying alongside the first. A matched pair. She reined her horse to a stop at the apex of the stone bridge and sat staring at the standing tower. There was something in there she wanted.

  “We’ll stay the night,” she said.

  Lebendig remained motionless, studying the bridge, looking into the muddy stone-strewn landscape of Gottlos and then glancing over her shoulder to frown at the greenery of Selbsthass. If she heard Stehlen she gave no sign.

  Stehlen dug her heels in, urging her horse forward. Lebendig followed.

  Two guards came out to meet Stehlen and Lebendig. One looked old and lean like a strip of leather left too long in the sun, eyes lit with a glint of humour. The other appeared to be nearing middle age and sported a paunch hanging low over a pair of skinny legs. The fat one looked nervous. The old one held his over-sized halberd in such a way as to say he had no intention of using it for violent purposes.

  “Reason for visiting Gottlos?” demanded the fat man.

  Stehlen laughed and spat at his feet. “No one visits Gottlos,” she said as he scowled at the mucus smearing the stone between his well-worn boots.

  “The mad god’s minions are unwelcome here,” he said, glancing at Lebendig as if maybe she might step in and make everything better.

  The Swordswoman looked at him as if he were a bug she considered stomping.

  “Mad god?” Stehlen asked, guessing the answer.

  “The minions of Selbsthass—”

  “These aren’t his,” interrupted the strip of sun-faded leather.

  “Could be a disguise,” said the fat one, scratching at his stubbled chin with blunt fingers.

  The old man gave him a sceptical look. “Well have fun then,” he said, already turning away.

  “They could be spies.”

  “I don’t see any damned spies.”

  “Have any rooms available?” asked Stehlen. “It’ll make spying on you a lot more comfortable if we can do it from somewhere dry.”

  The old man turned back. “Have money?”

  Stehlen grunted. “Some.”

  “You been paid this month?” the old man asked the younger. “That’s what I thought,” he said when the other shook his head. “We have a room.” He nodded at Lebendig. “Swordswoman?”

  Lebendig glanced at the matched swords hanging from her hips.

  “No one worth killing here,” he said. “Gutting old men will do shite-all for your reputation.”

  Lebendig shrugged like maybe she didn’t completely agree. It was as close as she ever got to cracking jokes. Stehlen wanted to flash a quick grin at the woman to show her appreciation of the humour but spat instead. If I smile and either of these idiots looks sick, I’ll have to kill them both.

  The old man led them into the tower. “It ain’t much,” he said over his shoulder, “but it’s dry.”

  The fat one followed with a look of dejected acceptance.

  “Food?” asked Stehlen.

  “The only person who likes Faulfett’s cooking is Faulfett,” said the old man, nodding at the man trailing them. “But I suppose it’s better than stale trail bread and dried meat.”

  Stehlen and Lebendig were shown to a small room that probably doubled as a cell. The door, heavy wood banded with iron, looked like it would hold back an army. Were it not impossible to keep Stehlen in or out of anything, she might have worried. As it was, the guards showed little interest in their guests beyond a curious look when the men realized there were women present. They then promptly decided Stehlen and Lebendig were either unattainable, unapproachable, or more likely, undesirable.

  Once the door closed behind them, the two women stood in silence, examining the room. Grey stone dominated and Stehlen wondered if perhaps this was all a cruel lie and she was still dead. The corners hung thick with dust-clogged spider webs and the corpses of the spiders who built them.

  A huge fireplace stood barren and caked black, a pile of split logs and tinder ready and waiting at its side. Lebendig removed her steel helm, allowing long braids of strawberry blond hair to fall free. The Swordswoman had none of the curvy softness Wichtig looked for in a woman. Stehlen loved her for her undisguised strength, for the way she ignored the judging looks of men as if she didn’t even see them. The Kleptic watched as Lebendig threw a few logs in the stained alcove. Once she had a roaring fire and the room’s harsh cold was blunted, the Swordswoman stripped out of her wet clothes. She hung them from the rusty grill keeping sparks from leaping into the room.

  Stehlen sat on the lone cot admiring the roll of hard muscle beneath pale and freckled skin, the criss-cross slashes of scar, many long whitened with age. Some few newer scars, ridged and pink, the Swordswoman earned fighting at Stehlen’s side in the Afterdeath. Stehlen adored each and every one of those scars, saw them as badges of love. She bore more than a few of her own badges. Thinking of scars reminded her of Wichtig, and she snarled and spat into the fire. Somehow, no matter how bad things got, the fool always managed to escape unscathed. As if there weren’t enough other reasons to hate the idiot.

  As Lebendig passed Stehlen on her way to fetch dry clothes from her pack, the Kleptic reached out a hand to caress a strong flank. Lebendig shook her head, eyes saying not now. Stehlen hid her anger at the rebuke. Was something wrong or did the woman not feel safe here? Stehlen opened her mouth to ask and then closed it.

  Once dressed in dry clothes, a dull brown shirt and matching pants, all loose and allowing freedom of movement, Lebendig sat beside Stehlen, far enough away no part of them touched.

  “Things have changed,” said Lebendig. “We’re not dead.”

  “I know,” said Stehlen. “We should celebrate. We should get drunk and rut.” Again she reached a hand toward Lebendig and again the woman stopped her with a look. Stehlen bit her bottom lip and nodded as if she understood.

  “I need some time,” said the Swordswoman.

  That sounded bad. “Time?”

  “We’re not in the Afterdeath any more.”

  “Though you’d never guess for how grey the last few days have been,” joked Stehlen. “Remember how that first bite of food tasted after leaving the Afterdeath? I want to taste you like that.” She trailed off seeing the Swordswoman’s bruised look.

  “Those whom you slay,” whispered Lebendig.

  Stehlen scowled, feeling her lips curl back to expose yellow teeth. “Must serve in the Afterdeath,” she finished the catechism.

  “We’re not there,” said Lebendig, examining Stehlen for her reaction.

  “I already said—” Stehlen
blinked. “Oh. You’re no longer bound to me. I forgot. I thought—” You thought she wanted to be with you? Fool! Stehlen clenched her jaw so tight she thought her teeth would explode. She blinked again, refusing to look at her lover, praying her eyes remained dry. Never show weakness. Say something. Tell her you don’t need her. Tell her to go stick goats. Stehlen’s throat seized shut. She could hardly draw breath.

  “I don’t have to serve,” said Lebendig. “I don’t have to be here. I can leave any time I want.” Touching Stehlen’s chin with a strong hand, she turned the Kleptic’s face until they locked eyes. “I could kill you if I wanted to, and I do kind of want to. You killed me, cut my throat to annoy that pretty fop you’re in love with.”

  “I’m not—”

  Lebendig silenced her with a slight narrowing of her eyes. “That’s not an easy thing to forgive, even if our time together hasn’t been entirely unpleasant.”

  Stehlen turned away, stared down at hands clenched into fists. Forgiveness? Stehlen crushed the urge to laugh, bit down on the mad cackle with sharp teeth. Forgiveness was the last thing she deserved.

  “So?” You’re leaving? You’re leaving me? If the Swordswoman stood to leave, Stehlen wasn’t sure what she’d do. Would she cut her down, or watch? No one steals from me.

  Stehlen turned to again face Lebendig. The Swordswoman’s eyes were rimmed red, her cheeks stained with tears.

  What does that mean? Why sadness? Why tears? Stehlen dared not let hope set her up for the inevitable crush of disappointment.

  “So?” she said again. For the first time she hated how calm she sounded. Now, when she wanted them, when she needed them, tears were nowhere to be found. She couldn’t cry. Her face betrayed no hint of the anguish within. What the hells is wrong with me? Why could she not admit to her emotions? Something deeper than simple fear of rejection stopped her but she couldn’t begin to understand what. Something deep in her past.