The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  He drank often and they stopped at every stream to refill their water skins. Nothing slaked his thirst. He felt dry like the Basamortuan, wrung out like a bar rag.

  The world tilted with Arsehole’s every step. Bedeckt closed his eyes, willing it to still. When he opened them again, he blinked stupidly at the sight.

  Gone were the rolling hills and lush forests of Selbsthass. Sparse vegetation, stunted plants and tufts of grass just the green side of grey jutted from rocky soil.

  “Where?”

  “We crossed the bridge into Gottlos a few hours ago,” said Zukunft.

  “Right,” said Bedeckt. “I forgot.”

  “There was a tower at the bridge,” she said.

  “Gottlos garrison. I’m surprised they let us past.”

  Zukunft examined him, head tilted to one side, gnawing on her bottom lip. “There was no one there. The place was swarming with crows. It stunk of death.”

  “Perhaps the war with Selbsthass has begun,” said Bedeckt. Though why Morgen would order the death of a garrison tower and not follow it up with an attack into Gottlos, Bedeckt couldn’t guess. Still trying to make Geisteskranken make sense, eh, old man? Perhaps expecting logic from a mad little boy wasn’t the sanest—

  “I am sane,” growled Bedeckt.

  “Pardon?” asked Zukunft.

  “Nothing. What were we talking about?”

  “You haven’t said a word in hours.”

  “Thinking.”

  “You’ve got cat turd face,” said Stehlen. “And your plans always go to shite.”

  “Shut your festering gob,” said Bedeckt.

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Zukunft. “Maybe we should stop for the night. Sun’s going to go down soon anyway.”

  He glanced around. No sign of Stehlen anywhere. Had he imagined that?

  “We can ride a bit farther,” said Bedeckt. Then he fell off his horse.

  When he next opened his eyes Zukunft had built and lit a fire and sat curled up against him. His guts felt like someone filled them with vipers, doused them in lamp oil, and then set them alight. A helping of bread and dried meat and a water skin lay before him and he ignored it all. The thought of food left him nauseated. The flickering fire danced shadows everywhere, brought the rocky landscape of Gottlos to demonic life. Stunted trees writhed as if draped thick with angry snakes. Rocks pulsated, swelling and shrinking as if they drew breath. Eyes glinted in every crevice, watching, searching for weakness, waiting. Bedeckt bared broken teeth at them in a silent snarl of defiance.

  Tucked in against him, Zukunft snored gently, exhausted. For a moment he considered waking her, telling her to move away and sleep somewhere else; he didn’t.

  Bedeckt examined his side as best he could without awakening the Mirrorist. The bar rags were gone, replaced by his own sleeping roll, and again wrapped tight underneath layers of rot-encrusted leather straps. He was glad he hadn’t been awake to see the state of the wound; sometimes not knowing was better.

  Sweat still poured down his face and even through the new wrapping he caught the scent of decay.

  Changing your bandages changes nothing. You’re still dying.

  He imagined Morgen’s disgust. “When was the last time you washed that sleeping roll?” the boy-god would ask, his face puckered with distaste.

  Bedeckt choked down a laugh. It, like himself, hadn’t been washed since his death some weeks ago.

  The reflection of flickering fire caught Bedeckt’s eye. There, within arms’ reach, lay Zukunft’s mirror. She must have been staring into it before she curled up against him and fell asleep. The mirror’s surface, glinting shards of the fire beyond it, seemed to bulge and stretch as if something sought escape. Bedeckt watched with numb curiosity.

  Small fingers, fingernails broken and chewed, ragged and tattered, hooked over the mirror’s rim. A hand pushed free of the viscous surface, reaching out of the mirror to claw at the rocky soil. Bedeckt watched, some deep part of him screaming that this was wrong, that he should do something.

  Smash the mirror, wake Zukunft, run away. Anything.

  Instead he waited.

  Why not. One end is much the same as another. And I am tired.

  The questing hand found purchase and used it to drag yet more of itself free of the mirror’s surface. Bedeckt glanced about searching for his axe with no real hope of reaching it. When he spotted the weapon hanging from Arsehole’s saddle on the far side of the fire, he gave up.

  A dozen heartbeats later a small girl of perhaps ten years sat by the mirror, staring at him with huge, dark eyes. She wore a white nightshirt marred only by a slash of bright crimson over her heart. A shard of glass, dripping fresh blood, jutted from her chest.

  Checking Zukunft, he saw she was still asleep. What the hells? I’m no Mirrorist. This didn’t make sense. She must be dreaming, he decided. That’s it. She’s dreaming and I’m seeing the results because…because… He gave up, unable to figure out the why of it.

  “I’m dreaming,” said Bedeckt.

  “All life is a dream,” said the girl. “We never wake up.”

  “Piss off,” said Bedeckt. “You’re a damned fever dream.”

  “My name is Vergangene,” she said.

  “Piss off, Vergangene,” repeated Bedeckt.

  “I tell you so you know it’s not a dream.” When he stared at her she continued: “You can tell Zukunft and she will confirm it for you. As she has never mentioned my name, you will both know this is real.” She laughed, the open, unembarrassed laugh of a child. “As real as anything,” she added. The girl glanced at the mirror. “Oh, you’re not going to mention this to her.”

  “I don’t believe you.” But he did. “It was an accident,” he said. “When Zukunft pushed you, she didn’t mean to kill you.”

  Vergangene ignored his words. “You’re dying,” she said.

  “Crawl back into your damned mirror. Leave her alone.”

  “We aren’t supposed to come back. Death is supposed to be final.” She shrugged petite shoulders and flashed an impish grin. “But it’s all falling apart.”

  “And yet here you are, dead and telling me death is supposed to be final.”

  “I didn’t die,” the girl said, staring up at Bedeckt, eyes reflecting the flicker of flame. “Zukunft was never a Mirrorist. It was always me. When she pushed me into the mirror and that shard cut me, I thought the mirror would steal my soul, swallow me up.” She blinked, her eyes now bottomless pits of black. “And it did.”

  “It didn’t,” said Bedeckt. “You’re dead.” He nodded at Zukunft, cradled in his arms. “She’s delusional and you’re nothing but a Reflection. You seek to shatter her mind so you can escape your prison.”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t want to escape. I never could deal with reality.” Vergangene huddled her arms about her and shivered. “I’m safe in there.”

  “The mirror ever lies,” said Bedeckt. “And I am not some foolish little girl.”

  “You’re a foolish old man.”

  “I won’t let you hurt her.”

  Vergangene smirked. “Really? She’s on your list now?” Those empty eyes knew him. “She’ll get you killed. Turn back. Ride for Abgeleitete Leute. There’s a Geisteskranken there who can save you. You don’t have to die.”

  “More lies,” said Bedeckt, his heart thumping in his chest. I don’t want to die. Leave this delusional girl and ride east. Don’t be a fool. “You want me to abandon her.”

  “Look in the mirror,” said Vergangene, pushing it closer. “I’ll show him to you. I’ll show you exactly where he is. I’ll show you the scene where you arrive, at the edge of death. I’ll show you leaving, whole and alive, free to continue doing what you do.”

  She’s lying. But what if she wasn’t? He didn’t want to return to the Afterdeath. Not now, not ever. How long will you last in the Afterdeath before someone kills you there? Whatever lay beyond the Afterdeath scared him even more than the Afterdeath. “Perhaps I’ll take th
is mirror east with me,” he said, watching for her reaction.

  Vergangene shrugged, unconcerned. “I am in whatever mirror my sister carries.”

  “If I go east, if I save myself…”

  She leaned close, watching him with expectant eyes. “Yes?”

  “What happens to…” He wanted to ask about Morgen, about his plan to undo the damage he’d so carelessly done the child. “What happens to my friends?”

  “Men like you have no friends. You abandoned them in the Afterdeath.” She barked a mocking laugh of derision. “You pretend sanity, but you are deluded in the extreme.”

  “Guilt is for fools.”

  “Your words,” she said, “not mine.”

  He glanced away, staring into the fire, watching tendrils of flame. “And I am sane.”

  “How many of your choices have been made because of the guilt you pretend not to feel?” she asked.

  “Horse shite,” he said, fidgeting.

  “You let Zukunft distract you on the merest chance you might save the boy and his family. Why?”

  “It was the only way—”

  “You decided that. You never actually asked.”

  She examined him, eyes dancing and flickering like the fire they no longer reflected.

  She’s looking for weakness.

  “Why did you try and save Morgen from the Slaver?” Vergangene asked.

  Bedeckt grunted a sour laugh. “Look how that turned out. The wee shite wants me dead.”

  “Only because you don’t fit in to his nice, neat world,” she said. “You told Wichtig you would use your power over Morgen to make you both powerful and wealthy. But you didn’t. You didn’t even try. Instead you fled.” She sat back, sucking at her teeth. “Guilt,” she said.

  “It was a shite plan,” said Bedeckt. “It wouldn’t have worked. He’s a god.”

  “Even gods are bound by rules,” she said, and he knew she was right. “It’s time to be the man you pretend to be.” Her eyes caught the fire, sparked to life, became nuggets of molten metal. “Be the cold and uncaring killer. Abandon my sister. Save yourself.”

  “The mirror ever—”

  “Want to see your death?” she asked. “You can’t save your friends. Something cold and reptilian and evil follows them, far above in the sky. It’s waiting for them to find you.” Her eyes burned holes in him. “Your finding your friends may well be what kills them.”

  “May well be? You sound less than sure.”

  “Prophecy is hypocrisy,” she said. “This thing in the sky, it will end you forever. It will incinerate your soul. Nothing will survive to see the Afterdeath.”

  That didn’t sound as bad as she probably meant it to. Whatever lay beyond the Afterdeath scared the hells out of Bedeckt, but nothing? It was difficult to be afraid of nothing. Sitting here, guts skewered, drowning in his own rot, nothing sounded pretty damned good. Nothing sounded peaceful.

  Bedeckt closed his eyes, watching the Reflection through narrow slits. She’s trying to manipulate you. That ancient rage bubbled, hidden beneath a calm façade. Everyone and their gods-damned delusions wants a piece of Bedeckt Imblut. He’d give them a piece, see if they enjoyed the flavour of rot and death.

  “I’m not staying with Zukunft to save her,” Bedeckt said, grinning at the little girl. Any real child would run screaming. The fact she didn’t reminded him who and what she was. “I don’t care what happens to your sister. My list only says I won’t harm her. And I’m not saving Wichtig and Stehlen out of guilt. I need of them. I have plans beyond—”

  “Your plans are shite, old man,” said Vergangene, sounding like Stehlen. “You should know that by now.” She turned, dipping her feet into the mirror’s surface as if it were a puddle. “You doom yourself.” She slipped into the mirror, somehow, impossibly, fitting.

  With one foot Bedeckt flipped the mirror upside down.

  “One of the most powerful Geisteskranken I ever met,” said Vergangene, voice muffled, “didn’t even know he was a Geisteskranken.”

  “Most Geisteskranken don’t realize they’re insane,” said Bedeckt.

  “Sane people don’t talk to mirrors.”

  Bedeckt stared at the overturned mirror, chest tight. He couldn’t breathe. The world pulsed sheets of red agony, threatening to shiver his skull apart, shred everything he was.

  “One more word,” he said. “One. More. Word.”

  The mirror said nothing.

  It was, after all, just a mirror.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A man washed up on the shore near Müll Loch. He was alone, though his ship was clearly meant for scores of crew. He wore purple robes and told us he was a wizard from the Empire of Mashtrim. We tolerated his madness until he blasted our church with lightning. Then we opened his ribs to the sky and hung him by his intestines.

  —Vornig, Wahnvor Stellung Priest, Müll Loch

  Stehlen woke wrapped in Lebendig’s strong arms. The sleeping roll they shared held them like twin caterpillars in a cocoon. She hadn’t meant to sleep here. Usually she returned to her own sleeping roll after any intimacy, but last night, after all her doubts and fears, she hadn’t wanted to leave. Lebendig didn’t seem to mind.

  The Swordswoman slept on, breathing deep and heavy, the way Stehlen imagined a dragon would breathe.

  Stehlen’s heart kicked in a moment of fear when she saw the guttered fire. Seeing the dawning of a new sun, the sky black above, but fading to the deepest blue near the horizon, she relaxed. They spent the night without a fire and no albtraum came. Lebendig’s iron sanity protected them.

  Crawling from the sleeping roll and stretching like a cat, Stehlen turned and nudged her lover with a toe. “Time to get up,” she said.

  Lebendig swore and scowled, but rose to stand naked alongside Stehlen.

  The Kleptic admired her body, the interplay of muscle and the way her skin glowed, pale and freckled. Lebendig noticed the attention and made no move to cover herself, instead taking the opportunity to nod approvingly at Stehlen’s own nakedness.

  “Probably unwise,” said Stehlen.

  “Hmm?”

  “Us sleeping naked, all wrapped up in that sleeping roll.”

  Lebendig shrugged. “Can you imagine what we’d do to anyone who dared bother us?”

  True enough.

  The women dressed quickly, the Swordswoman donning her chain hauberk and tying her hair in intricate braids to tuck it up beneath her helm. Stehlen wore pants of soft leather and layers of increasingly large shirts, all designed to hide what was beneath; mostly knives and stolen scarves.

  “You should wear armour,” said Lebendig, gesturing at Stehlen’s many scars. White lines crisscrossed her body, often overlapping. There wasn’t much of her that hadn’t been cut.

  “Slow me down,” said Stehlen.

  “Could get hurt.”

  “Get hurt all the time.”

  “And?”

  “And?”

  Lebendig huffed in mock annoyance and set about breaking camp while Stehlen saw to the horses. Wichtig’s big stallion stomped and strutted and puffed its chest to make strapping on the saddlebags difficult. Stehlen whispered in its ear, explaining what she’d do to the beast if it didn’t behave. The horse’s ears lay flat and it stopped moving and released the held breath.

  Facing the horse, her back to Lebendig, Stehlen drew the three wood carvings from where she hid them. The carving of herself she didn’t look at, immediately shoving it back into the pocket. She glanced at the carving of Bedeckt. The old axe man looked exhausted and ill, pale and haggard. Worry wounded his eyes, stained them with something that might have been madness were he not the sanest arsehole she ever met.

  “Cat turd face,” she whispered to the carving before returning it to its pocket alongside the other. The carving of Wichtig looked drawn and tired. Red rimmed eyes stared in fear. Its arms were wrapped tight around its torso as if shielding itself from attack. The carving showed no wounds beyond those the Kör
peridentität inflicted.

  “Rough night?” Stehlen asked the statue in a whisper.

  She wondered if the Swordsman made good time and knew Wichtig was half a day south of them. She could almost picture his surroundings. Why can I see—?

  “We’ll hit Unbrauchbar before nightfall,” said Lebendig, interrupting her thoughts.

  Stowing the carving with the others, Stehlen saddled the remaining horses.

  Clouds filled the sky, hung low and fat, threatening a cold rain. Stehlen grinned at the thought of Wichtig—wearing nothing but his stained bed sheet—huddled against the weather.

  “You seem happy,” said Lebendig as she swung into the saddle.

  Stehlen waved at the sky. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  The Swordswoman gave the clouds a doubtful look, shrugged, and nudged her horse into motion.

  A frigid misting of rain fell as they rode south toward Unbrauchbar, allowing the horses to decide the path and pace. They were in no hurry, and every time Stehlen thought about Wichtig she knew exactly where he was. The idiot wasn’t moving very fast, which was unusual for Wichtig. For all his endless spew about being an artist and a poet, she never once saw him slow or stop to admire a beautiful scene. Not that there was much to look at in Gottlos. Unless one had a finely-honed appreciation for endless dirt and stones.

  Gods, Wichtig is such an arse.

  And what a fine arse he had too. You could bounce coins off it. She thought about the way his broad shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, the way the sun caught the red in his brown hair. And the way he stared at her with those flat grey eyes every time he desperately wanted her to believe something stupid. How many times had he offered to bed her? She knew each and every offer was yet another pathetic attempt at manipulation—aimed at her or Bedeckt—but still regretted never taking up his offers, insincere as they might have been. He may have been trying to use her, but she’d have been using him just as much.

  Feeling a little warm even in the icy rain, Stehlen darted a guilty glance at Lebendig. Her lover looked to be lost in thought, staring off into the distance.