Beyond Redemption

by Michael R. Fletcher

  —VERMÄCHTNIS DES WAHNSINNS

  Acceptance and Trepidation stood shoulder to shoulder, watching those within the massive mirror. The reflections huddled, bald heads almost touching, over the reflection of Konig’s desk, writing and arguing.

  Acceptance watched, tonguing the broken shards of teeth that were always catching at his lips. The eye patch covered the ragged wound Abandonment had left when he tore out his eye, but he wished there was something he could do about the mess Trepidation had made of his mouth kicking his teeth in. He glanced to the Doppel at his side. I’ll have my vengeance.

  “They know something,” said Trepidation.

  “They will share it with me,” said Acceptance, hiding the ruin of his mouth with a hand. Hadn’t Aufschlag done much the same? The thought was unpleasant. He’d hated Aufschlag not because he couldn’t be trusted, but rather because he had been the closest thing Konig had to a friend. Revealing the scientist’s betrayal would truly have been a coup for Abandonment had Acceptance not acted first. “They know the balance of power in this relationship.”

  “Abandonment’s words before they dragged him into the mirror,” Trepidation muttered.

  Acceptance ignored the Doppel, gesturing to the mirror. “See?”

  The reflections turned from the desk to face the Doppels in the room and held up pieces of paper covered in hasty scribbles, the letters and words all backward.

  “Gods,” muttered Acceptance, “Konig’s penmanship is atrocious.”

  Trepidation, keeping a safe distance from the mirror, squinted at the spidery swirl of reversed letters. “I can’t read a thing.”

  “I have an idea.” Acceptance drew out the small mirror he used to examine his ruined face. “I’ll read the message in my own mirror. This way the words won’t be backward.”

  He could feel Trepidation’s eyes on him as he turned his back on the large mirror and held up a small hand mirror of the sort ladies carried about.

  Acceptance stared, mouth hanging open, at his hand mirror. The reflection of the reflections gathered in Konig’s mirror all wore eye patches and sported the battered visage he saw daily in his own mirror. They held up a sheet of paper with their own badly written message. Acceptance slammed his mouth shut, hoping Trepidation—somewhere on his blind side—hadn’t seen the look of confusion. He tasted blood as ragged teeth tore fresh wounds in tender lips. He craned his neck, looking over his shoulder at the reflections in the big mirror. They looked as they always had, exactly like Konig. Unmarred by the beating Acceptance had suffered. He spun to look at Trepidation, but the Doppel still squinted at Konig’s mirror, trying to puzzle out the backward message.

  Trepidation glanced at him. “Does your mirror help?”

  “Not much,” he said, returning his attention to the hand mirror.

  The reflection of himself holding the mirror stared at him intensely with a single eye. Behind his reflection, in the reversed mirror image of Konig’s mirror, Acceptance’s eye-patch-adorned reflections held up a message of their own.

  Acceptance read the message: Konig’s reflections plot against you.

  “This is still hard to read,” muttered Acceptance, stalling to gather his thoughts.

  “I think I can read it,” announced Trepidation. “It says the assassins failed. The Schatten Mörder and Tiergeist are dead.” He turned to face Acceptance. “Asena is dead.”

  Acceptance ignored Trepidation and stared at Konig’s reflections. Do they tell the truth? Is Asena dead? What could they gain from lying? If he reported this to Konig, and it later turned out Asena was alive, Konig would think Acceptance had lied. He shuddered at the thought of suffering another beating.

  “Do we tell Konig?” asked Trepidation.

  Acceptance put away his hand mirror and walked to Konig’s heavy oak desk. He took hold of the chair and dragged it out into the center of the room, leaving lines in the rich carpeting. “I have another idea,” he said, and threw the chair into Konig’s massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. He had time to see the eyes of Konig’s reflections grow wide with terror as, with a deafening crash, the mirror shattered. Snatching up the chair, he wielded it like a war club, pounding first at the fragments clinging stubbornly to the mirror’s brass frame, and then systematically reducing the shards on the ground to glinting dust.

  Trepidation, eyes wide, watched in terrified silence.

  Finally, confident that nothing remained of the mirror or its reflections, Acceptance dropped the chair and stood wheezing. Never before had he exerted himself to such an extent. Is Konig this out of shape?

  “There,” he gasped as he righted the chair and examined it. Though somewhat chipped and scuffed, it seemed undamaged by its mistreatment. “Good chair,” he said, collapsing into it.

  “There?” Trepidation asked, keeping a safe distance.

  “Yes. It’s a good thing we destroyed the mirror,” he said, flashing Trepidation a broken smile. “The reflections tried to escape.”

  Trepidation frowned at the glinting dust on the floor. “I didn’t see—”

  “Or did you destroy the mirror for no reason?”

  “We were just in time,” agreed Trepidation. “I saw one reach out beyond the frame. It made a grab for you.”

  “Yes. They knew taking me would weaken Konig.” He watched Trepidation through his single narrow eye. “There was no message.”

  “Of course not. I do hope Asena and Anomie are well.”

  “Indeed.”

  The two remained silent for a moment, Acceptance watching as Trepidation looked at everything other than his fellow Doppel.

  “You realize what this means,” said Trepidation, gesturing at the shattered remains of the mirror. “Konig’s Mirrorist powers are growing. His reflections could see what was going on elsewhere.” He glanced at Acceptance. “Perhaps they could even see into the future.”

  “I think if they could, they’d have done something to protect themselves.”

  But what if they had?

  CHAPTER 34

  You can lead a horse to water, but drowning it is surprisingly difficult.

  —HOFFNUNGSLOS

  Huddled under her blankets, waiting for the dismal dregs of stained sunlight to slump beneath the horizon, Gehirn smelled Neidrig long before it came into sight. What she first took to be outlying slums turned out simply to be the city. Even Gottlos—which by Selbsthass standards was the kind of place you hurried through in order to get somewhere interesting—seemed like a glistening jewel in comparison. With some longing, the Hassebrand thought back to the time when she crossed the Flussrand River into Gottlos, driven by the knowledge that she served her Theocrat. How long ago had that been? A week? It seemed like forever.

  Surrounded by the twenty-some-odd townspeople who had survived both the journey and the Slaver’s voracious appetite, Erbrechen’s litter moved deeper into Neidrig. As they passed decaying hovels, crumbling shanties, collapsing shacks—and the many inhabitants apparently not lucky enough to possess even that much—Erbrechen called out his invitation. The fat Slaver’s retinue grew quickly as curiosity brought even more of the city’s destitute and downtrodden within range of his voice and influence.

  Within the hour more than a thousand people were following Erbrechen’s litter, drawn by vague promises and ensnared by his desperate need for worship. The more people who believed in him, the stronger he became and the farther his influence reached. No doubt some fled the city, those few deranged enough to to think they saw the future or smart enough to understand the danger, but the vast majority remained.

  Erbrechen’s friends set up camp in the center of the city. Gehirn, standing beside the litter, examined the view. This was clearly the most prosperous part of town; most of the buildings retained their roofs and some even had a second floor.

  Fearing any building he might enter would collapse under his weight, Erbrechen commanded a score of men and women to construct a large tent—made mostly of stained sheets hastily stitched together a
nd tied to poles, buildings, or anything else handy. One corner was held up by a man Erbrechen told not to move. Though his arms quivered with the strain, he stayed loyally at his post, apparently thankful for the opportunity to serve.

  Erbrechen wrinkled his nose and smacked pink lips at Gehirn. “They certainly are a ripe bunch.”

  “A little fire would cleanse the lot,” muttered Gehirn.

  “Don’t you dare!” Erbrechen commanded with mock outrage.

  The Hassebrand scowled and turned to hide the small pouch of seeds and nuts she drew from within her robe. Even with the pompous Mayor dead, someone still sought to poison her. She picked at the seeds, nibbling like a starved bird. Who could it be? Did Konig have agents in Erbrechen’s camp?

  Erbrechen watched the tall Hassebrand with concern. The woman was growing ever more unstable. Not that she had ever been particularly sane, he thought with a small giggle.

  The dilemma vexed him greatly. The Hassebrand was frighteningly powerful and thus as useful as she was dangerous. Erbrechen considered sending Gehirn away on some make-work task. Preferably one ending in her death.

  And yet he hesitated.

  Once away from me, she’ll be susceptible to the influences of others.

  But that wasn’t it; he couldn’t bring himself to let go of her.

  He examined the Hassebrand’s hunched shoulders, the glistening dome of her bald skull. Why did it matter so much that she love him?

  Everyone loves me!

  They had to.

  But she wants to!

  And didn’t.

  With a grumbled sigh Erbrechen folded chubby hands across his gelatinous belly and cast his gaze about for the remaining blond sister. Where is the damned girl? She couldn’t have gone far without his permission.

  “Did we eat the girl in last night’s stew?” he called to Gehirn’s back, hoping his joke would break her foul mood.

  The Hassebrand shrugged without turning. That stung. Why is she ignoring me? He gave her a place at the center of his grand design, saved her from burning herself alive, and she repaid him with rudeness. And lies, he reminded himself.

  But I am resilient. Truly kindhearted and forgiving. Already the pain of her betrayal fades.

  Why wouldn’t she turn and look at him? Was she angry? What could she possibly be angry about?

  Allowing himself to feel something for the woman had been a mistake.

  She’s lucky she’s useful, he told himself, or I’d send her away.

  He giggled and then stopped, annoyed. Where was the damned girl? He needed attention.

  “How do we keep losing them?” Erbrechen aimed his question to the gods above. Though there was no answer, he knew someday, someday soon, there would be.

  A few hours later, once it became obvious Morgen was not numbered among those who had fallen under Erbrechen’s influence, the Slaver sent teams to scour the countryside. Instructed to bring back, unharmed, any young boy they found, these desperate men and women devastated the towns and farming communities surrounding Neidrig. They murdered families in their sleep, stealing young boys and girls away to be dragged back to Erbrechen’s tent. Though a few of the groups didn’t return, perhaps a result of regaining some sanity once they were free from Erbrechen’s direct influence, most did.

  In a few hours Erbrechen’s army of children outnumbered the adults. He was more than comfortable with this. The young were so malleable, so easy to teach and twist. And those few finding their way into the evening stew were tender and tasty.

  EARLY THE NEXT morning word arrived that two men and a woman had fled west with a young boy rumored to have brought a cat and a Swordsman back from the dead. Erbrechen, sure this must be his prey, ordered the the thronging thousands surrounding his makeshift tent to break camp.

  As his new friends packed up the few belongings they’d be bringing—mostly food and blankets—others worked to hastily improve his litter. Both Erbrechen and Gehirn rode within its canopied interior as scores of men struggled to manipulate it down the narrow and winding streets of the soon-to-be-abandoned city.

  WHEN THE SUN once again fell, Erbrechen’s retinue had barely traveled beyond Neidrig’s outer slums. After they knocked down a few homes for firewood, the orgy lasted late into the night.

  The Hassebrand sat in glum silence at Erbrechen’s side, uncommunicative and no fun at all. Perhaps I should let her roast a few of my more annoying friends. Fire always seemed to lift her mood. Yes, perfect idea! Perhaps then she’d see how giving he was.

  Erbrechen leaned toward Gehirn and suddenly became aware of the heat emanating from the woman. He’d thought this a lovely warm evening, but when he noticed how his followers huddled around their campfires, he realized Gehirn kept him warm.

  Better not play with fire, Erbrechen decided. The Hassebrand was too unstable.

  He heard the piteous yowling of a cat. Moments later the answering yowls of a crowd of voices echoed through the vacant streets.

  “What in the hells is that?” Erbrechen asked of one of his nearby friends.

  “Cult of the Dead Cat,” the woman answered, beaming with the opportunity to talk directly to him. “They crawl where the cats crawls, repeat everything it says.”

  “Are there a lot of them?”

  “Hundreds,” she answered.

  “Why aren’t they following me? I say things much more interesting than meow.”

  The woman, wearing nothing but a filthy yellow shirt, blinked up at him stupidly.

  With a grunt Erbrechen sat back. Why weren’t they following him? What did the cat have that he didn’t?

  Flickering orange shadows danced upon the remaining walls in sinuous mimicry of the rutting and writhing of those closest to the raging bonfire.

  “There’s some cult worshiping a dead cat,” Erbrechen told Gehirn, hoping to break her uncomfortable silence. “Imagine,” he mused, “if enough people follow it, it might Ascend.”

  “Am I in the Afterdeath already? Is this punishment?” Gehirn asked as if she hadn’t heard him.

  What the hells did that mean? What was going on in this woman’s deranged mind? “Is this so bad?” he asked. “Is being with me such a burden?”

  Teeth bared in a canine snarl, she spun to face him “Yes! I . . .” Her words trickled to silence as she looked into his eyes. “No. Of course not.” She swallowed, turning away. “I’m sorry.”

  How could she be unhappy, sitting here right next to me? It was impossible! “You do love me, right?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And you’re happy, right?”

  She nodded without speaking.

  “Say it aloud,” he commanded.

  “I’m happy.”

  She didn’t look happy.

  “You don’t look happy.”

  Gehirn smiled sweetly, her eyes full of love.

  “Better.”

  CHAPTER 35

  He said I would never know what tender emotions lurked hidden beneath his fragile sanity. So I peeled him like a grape. He was right. I still don’t know.

  —WAHNSINNIG GEMAHLIN, OTRAALMA

  Wichtig talked with Morgen as they rode west, maintaining a continual flow of inane chatter with consummate ease. Though he pretended to be relaxed and jovial, his eyes never stopped scanning the dark forest to the north of the road. The sky overhead was so thick with cloud he couldn’t guess the time.

  What the hells is this forest called? He had no clue, but disliked its look with the instinctive distrust of the city-born. Forests always hid things. Spill blood, and the ground soaked it up in seconds, forever hiding the violence. At least on a city street the blood stayed around for a few days, giving testament to the work done. And forests always seemed to bring out the darkest his soul had to offer. Bad things happened in forests at night. He shuddered as he remembered the night Bedeckt saved their lives when he should have fled.

  Of course the memory was somewhat tainted by the much newer memory of Bedeckt abandoning him in the s
treet.

  The sky darkened, the world’s colors fading to monochromatic. He darted a glance toward Bedeckt, who rode several yards in front, but said nothing. When the sky darkened further and he could barely make out Bedeckt ahead, he finally sighed with exasperation.

  “Bedeckt, this is stupid. It’ll be dark soon. We should make camp.”

  “A little further,” grunted Bedeckt.

  Wichtig didn’t want to say what really bothered him. Albtraum. If they waited too long, it would make starting a good fire more difficult. Damned if I’m skulking about in that damp forest looking for burnable wood in complete darkness.

  Any thought that Wichtig might still owe something to Bedeckt left him uncomfortable. So, a diversion. “The boy is tired,” he said, placing a comforting hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Hells, I’m tired too.”

  It didn’t work. If Bedeckt heard he showed no sign.

  Glancing at Stehlen, Wichtig gave her a worried look, which she returned. As much a product of the city as Wichtig, she understood immediately. She too had reason to fear the gloomy forest.

  The Kleptic cleared her throat and spat thickly at the legs of Wichtig’s horse, which flattened its ears and uttered a small complaining whinny. “I wouldn’t mind stopping either,” she said.

  “A little further,” repeated Bedeckt.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Stehlen snapped. “We almost died yesterday. One of us did die. This is no night to be without a good fire.” She flared nostrils at Bedeckt’s back. “What do you think seeing the Afterdeath has done for Wichtig’s sanity?”

  “Me?” Wichtig protested. “I’m fine! I was just thinking of the boy!”

  “We could do without visits tonight,” said Stehlen.

  Bedeckt’s shoulders hunched, but he said nothing.

  “My sanity is fine,” said Wichtig defensively, even though this was exactly what he worried about. “Stehlen is just looking for a little rematch of whatever happened the other—”

  “Fine,” interrupted Bedeckt. “We’ll stop here. You two make camp.” He gestured with his half hand. “Out of sight of the road. I’m going to find something to kill.” He rode into the forest without another word.