Beyond Redemption

by Michael R. Fletcher

  High Priest Konig sent her here with a task and Konig was not a man to disappoint.

  Konig said I was critical, that he needed me. She hugged her arms tight to her body. He’d called her “old friend.” Remembering Konig’s words calmed her. Though he often seemed distant and disgusted with her constant need for his approval, Konig cared about her. He and Morgen were the only people alive who did. It was enough. Two people was more than she’d had before Konig brought her into the church, gave her purpose.

  More than I deserve.

  Gehirn followed the whiff of insanity to where the local Geisteskranken lived. The deranged tended to live in segregated parts of town where their delusions would not be tainted and limited by the proximity of the stolid beliefs of the pathetic sane. Having a few hundred unimaginative people nearby could render the often tenuous powers of minor Geisteskranken nonexistent. Power was a balance of distance, mass belief, and strength of delusion. For most Geisteskranken the first two factors defined their abilities. For people like Konig and Gehirn, it was the opposite: their delusions were so powerful they could influence or even define the beliefs of the common people. But no one in Unbrauchbar was anywhere near that powerful—except for whoever killed all these priests.

  Gehirn hurried along the abandoned Unbrauchbar street. Long-term planning was not one of her strengths; fire left little room for plots and plans, it demanded immediate satisfaction. She found what she was looking for by examining the homes of the local Geisteskranken. The Mirrorist’s house, large and sprawling, spoke of wealth and success. Its run-down and decaying appearance spoke of a deteriorating state of mind. A mosaic of shattered mirror fragments covered the exterior walls.

  Gehirn paused to study the home. None of the tiny Gehirn reflections quite mimicked her actions as she approached the main entrance. Some battered at the glass walls of their tiny prisons while others writhed in flames. In all it sounded like the cacophony of a distant crowd, barely audible over the hubbub of city life. Gehirn waved at her little reflections, entertained by their obvious anguish. Hers would be a fiery death. All Hassebrand ended the same way, only differing in how many they took with them when they went. As those slain in this life served in the next, Gehirn was not overly worried. She’d have more than her share of servants in the Afterdeath. A dim memory of her dream, faded like dyed cotton washed too often, pestered her. Someone had said something about the Afterdeath, but she couldn’t remember who had said it, or precisely what had been said.

  Gehirn pushed the thought aside. When the day finally came and she faced the last fire, she would embrace that moment as she had embraced all the fires leading to it. To be devoured by your one love was to achieve a harmony few would ever realize. Just thinking of one final heat made Gehirn moist and warm with arousal.

  She looked back at the reflections. The fact that they did act so erratically meant that this was the house she sought: a Mirrorist at the pinnacle of power yet still clinging to some shred of sanity. Sliding that slippery slope where control faltered, but still able to see deep into the reflections. It was not lost on the Hassebrand that she was herself growing in power. She could remember the days when burning men to ash would have been impossible. Now it was easy.

  Now I do it in my sleep.

  She must finish this assignment before her delusions immolated her soul. Her fate had been a long time coming—and no doubt she deserved it—but she couldn’t fail Konig.

  Gehirn leaned in close to one of the larger shards of mirror. Blue eyes stared back, and the lack of eyebrows—she’d burned them off as a child and they’d never grown back—left her looking forever surprised. Sweat beaded her bald skull—that thin film of red stubble had once again been burned away—and dripped down a far-too-soft face flushed crimson. When she wiped clean her face, the reflection sneered disgust before breaking into tears.

  Damned Mirrorists.

  She straightened. No point in stalling.

  The door swung open as she reached to knock. A scrawny woman, sallow skin puckered like a plucked chicken corpse left too long on the counter, stood facing her. Embedded into her flesh, worked into once-open wounds, nestled tiny fragments of broken mirror and glass dust. The woman was a walking mosaic of glinting reflections and tinted glass, both a rainbow and guttering darkness, depending on where Gehirn looked. A threadbare robe did little to cover her emaciated body. Each movement caused her considerable agony. Particularly around joints, fresh blood oozed from wounds never given the chance to heal.

  “You stink like burned meat,” the Mirrorist said, examining her with a look of disgust.

  Gehirn examined the woman, finding her thin body, obvious pain, and undisguised revulsion arousing. She saw glints of light from within her mouth, tiny fragments of mirror embedded in tongue and gums. Gehirn gave her most charming smile—more of a feral and canine leer—and bowed low. “Just the woman I’ve been looking for.”

  The Mirrorist spat squarely into Gehirn’s chest and Gehirn took a moment to appreciate the phlegmy concoction of bile, blood, and glass dust. Dabbing at it with a finger, she frowned when she felt a small stab of pain. A tiny sliver of glass lodged in her fingertip. She tried her smile again. “Charmed, no doubt. I seek your services, Mirrorist. I’ll pay in gold. Though”—and she leered at the ribs showing through jaundiced skin—“I suppose other . . . forms of payment . . . could be made.”

  “Gold will suffice.” The Mirrorist’s voice sounded like she gargled shards of broken glass.

  “Such a lovely voice. Your name?”

  “Verlorener Spiegel. And you are Gehirn Schlechtes, devoted slave to the Geborene Damonen. He cares not one whit for you.”

  Gehirn’s smile was briefly genuine. “I have indeed come to the right house. Verlorener, let us discuss payment and the past.”

  Verlorener grunted and padded back into her home, leaving a trail of small and bloody footprints Gehirn found tantalizing. She followed, ducking so as not to knock her head on the top of the door. The room Verlorener led her to looked so normal it was shocking. Only the single chair covered in sharp chunks of shattered mirrors and liberally caked with dried blood stood out. Ancient paintings, many flaking away from their canvas, covered the walls. Hundreds of unlit candles adorned every surface. Dark and earthy tones set a mood of warmth and comfort at odds with the sharp, hard angles of the woman. Aside from Verlorener and the chair, Gehirn saw no other mirrors.

  The thin woman sagged into the chair as though her spine had been severed and glared barbs of disgust the Hassebrand found enticingly seductive. Gehirn tossed a pouch of gold coins at her feet, which she ignored.

  “Ask,” the Mirrorist rasped.

  “I need to see what happened in the Geborene temple on the night the priests were slain.”

  “That is all? You ask nothing of your own fate?”

  Gehirn shook her head. “I know my fate. I will die in flame.”

  “You will die a slave.”

  “I serve Konig Furimmer.”

  “That is not—”

  “Not why I am here. I need to see the temple.”

  Verlorener stared at her as if trying to make up her mind about something. “Fine. Normally I would spend the next half hour lighting those candles.”

  Every candle sparked to life. No gestures, just thought and belief; faith in her growing power. The fire came too easy.

  Verlorener stretched out, pulling open the thin robes, exposing her mirrored torso, small breasts, and scrawny legs. She reflected the warm candlelight and looked to Gehirn like a glowing relief map of a malnourished woman. If she was moist before, she was throbbing now. The Mirrorist writhed in the chair, rubbing herself against the shards of mirror embedded in the chair’s seat and back. Gehirn heard the glass in her flesh grate against the glass in the chair. Verlorener moaned softly.

  Gehirn leaned forward, enraptured by the woman’s pain, ensnared in the undulating of her thin body. She was a fragmented woman. As different parts caught the candlelight a pi
cture began to form within the mosaic reflections. In moments Gehirn recognized the temple she had slept in the night before. A woman crept through the temple halls, a knife glinting in her hand. She was thin like Verlorener, but lithe with muscle and not malnourishment. Gehirn let out a quivering breath of desire. The woman was fantastically ugly. Matted, dirty blond hair framed a too-square jaw, pale watery blue eyes, and a long hooked nose. Gehirn shivered with pleasure as she watched the woman slit the throat of the young priest she herself had just spent the night with.

  Such efficiency of movement. Such directed intent. Gehirn could barely stop herself from reaching under her robes to relieve the building pressure.

  When she had seen everything—the ugly woman taking the robes and returning to her friends and their hurried flight from town heading in exactly the same direction Gehirn had come from—she sat back and tried to focus her scattered thoughts. However, the presence of the Mirrorist—still slumped supine and exposed in the mirrored chair—and memories of the brutally efficient woman twisted her thoughts with lust and loathing.

  Verlorener watched through hooded eyes, lids covered in a smattering of mirrored dust. The corners of her eyes glistened wet with blood and perhaps, Gehirn thought, a hint of tears.

  Gehirn let her gaze slide lovingly over the exposed body. Subtlety and charm were impossible and she didn’t try to use them. “I have more gold.” Verlorener slowly opened her legs until Gehirn was staring at mirror-studded labia. She blinked away a stinging bead of sweat, licked her lips, and swallowed carefully. “That looks . . . sharp.”

  Verlorener showed her own feral smile. “You will be cut and bleeding by the time I finish with you. Wounded. Flayed.”

  Gehirn tossed another small bag of gold at her feet. “I heal quickly.”

  CURLED TIGHTLY AROUND the agony in her groin, Gehirn could not remember returning to the depths of the Geborene temple. She only ever had sex if she could guarantee her partner’s disgust and her own pain. Intimacy was something she both feared and craved. Self-hatred was both weakness and strength, prison and protection. No one loathed her more than she and thus none could truly harm her.

  When the shredded pain in her groin faded to a dull throbbing ache, Gehirn rose to pace around the empty temple. The bodies still lay where they had fallen and the blood had attracted flies. She hummed quietly as she walked and thought, the pain and disgust of sex having cleared her mind wonderfully.

  The thin woman—still intriguing in her brutal beauty—had gone from room to room searching and killing. In the end all she took from the temple—aside from a few worthless trinkets, scarves, and baubles—was a pile of dirty laundry.

  Kleptic, no doubt.

  Afterward she met with the pretty fop and the big scarred man with the ax and the three left town heading north.

  Alone in the dark, Gehirn barked a dry laugh of wry amusement. She had probably ridden past them at some point, either in the night or while blinded from the searing pain of the sun.

  Did they ride toward Selbsthass? Where else to go with stolen Geborene robes? The obvious answer disturbed Gehirn greatly. They must know of Konig’s great project and the soon-to-Ascend god-child. If this was true, they were likely agents of the Wahnvor Stellung and intent on the destruction of all that Konig and the Geborene were planning.

  Gehirn hissed in anger, her mood souring. To catch the three before they reached their goal, she would have to venture back into the sun. Searching this small city for a useful Intermetic both willing and capable of sending Konig advance warning seemed a daunting and likely pointless task, as she doubted there was anyone here with that kind of power. Besides, it would be far more entertaining to catch the Wahnvor Stellung agents on the open road and deal with them herself. Gehirn didn’t want to warn Konig and then slink slowly home night by night, she wanted to see the ugly and beautifully efficient woman again. In the flesh. No fop or ax-swinging monster could stand against the Hassebrand, no matter how large or skilled with their weapons. The Kleptic might be more tricky—depending on her delusions and sanity—but it was unlikely she could cause Gehirn trouble. Fire devoured all. Still, a damaged enough Kleptic could be a difficult opponent. She’d heard of Kleptics who could steal a victim’s heart right from their chest, though that might have been hyperbole.

  Would this lithe Kleptic try to steal her heart?

  Would she want to?

  The thought made her excited, but that feeling quickly receded.

  No, she’ll hate me. And that was fine, just the way Gehirn needed it. That was the only way she felt safe.

  “I wonder if her ugliness made her a better person,” Gehirn asked of the darkness. It seemed unlikely. In truth, it didn’t matter. Gehirn would find and kill this Kleptic, embrace her in flames. But maybe they’d rut first, share their self-loathing—for there could be no doubt the hideous Kleptic must hate herself.

  Once again swaddled in heavy robes, Gehirn stalked toward the barracks of the city guard. It seemed the most likely place to gain fresh horses.

  If they were smart, the guards would flee.

  She hoped they wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER 10

  I thank the gods the common man is such a dull creature, so lacking in imagination and drive. I’ve seen how tenuous our grasp on sanity can be. When within each of us lies the unborn wyrm of demiurge, creativity is a plague to be feared.

  —ZWEIFELSSCHICKSAL, MEHRERE PHILOSOPHER

  Konig knew he was in trouble the moment he entered his chambers. The three Doppels stood, dressed in robes identical to his, their faces without expression. For the first time he couldn’t tell which was which. He darted his gaze toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror and saw his reflections standing in an identical pose, their faces also expressionless. Konig swallowed with difficulty, his throat dry.

  “What’s all this about?” he asked the Doppels.

  All three grinned identical grins at the same instant and Konig felt his face mimic theirs. He struggled to regain control of his expression and fought it back to a mad leer. The reflections shared the Doppels’ facial expression.

  “You overstep your abilities,” Konig told his Doppels through clenched teeth. “You’re not ready for this. Not yet.”

  “One of us,” said the three Doppels in such perfect synchronization they sounded like one hollow voice.

  Konig felt his body mimic their posture. “No,” he gasped. “Not yet. I’m not finished.”

  As one they raised an inviting hand, a gesture of welcoming and acceptance. “One of us.” The perfection of their voices and actions drew him in. He felt himself dissolving into the unity and harmony of one.

  Finally, a chance to belong . . .

  Konig realized his own hand was raised toward the Doppels exactly as theirs was to him, inviting them as they did him.

  Inviting. There was something there. Something he had to grasp. Konig focused on the Doppels’ words and actions. They offered unity and a place among them and he wanted it more than anything.

  They offered . . . acceptance.

  Ahhh . . .

  He knew now which Doppel led this coup. Abandonment and Trepidation would never offer acceptance—their mode of attack would have been very different and probably far more brutal.

  He would never be happy being second in command, never be content with anything less than total mastery. He prayed his Doppels would be no different. United, they were strong enough that he might not be able to defeat them. I must divide and control.

  “Abandonment,” he said, forcing his gaze to the ground so the Doppels would not know for sure he couldn’t tell one from the other. “Acceptance will betray you. You know this.” He suddenly looked up at the three Doppels. One of the Doppels blinked and Konig kept his face empty of expression.

  Plant seeds of doubt and destruction. Crush all resistance.

  “You all know Acceptance and Abandonment will fight for supremacy. Your freedom will be brief before you are simply enslaved by another master
; one without the strength and wisdom of the original.” Konig laughed mockingly at the Doppels. “There is only one Konig and none of you are him.

  “I am.”

  Sweat broke out on the bald pate of one of the Doppels. So the one who blinked was Abandonment, and the one who worries is Trepidation. That left Acceptance, the Doppel seeking to replace him as master.

  Konig stepped forward and hammered Acceptance in the face with a badly formed fist. Never before in all his life had he thrown a punch, and yet as he felt the Doppel’s nose crumple and one of his own fingers break, he found it a deliciously painful experience. Acceptance toppled backward and Konig followed, kicking savagely and screaming obscenities. In moments four minor Doppels—Rage, Disgust, Mortality, Betrayal—appeared at his side, each venting their own angers upon Acceptance. A long-forgotten childhood Doppel cowered, sobbing in the corner of the room. In the mirror his reflections silently cheered him on. Even Abandonment and Trepidation joined in the beating, if just to ensure they wouldn’t be next. Konig continued kicking Acceptance until the Doppel stopped moving and its choking pleas subsided to rubbery silence. As he fought to catch his breath, the minor Doppels faded from sight and he was left alone with Abandonment, Trepidation, the unresponsive Acceptance, and a mirror full of reflections looking on in respectful silence.

  “One Konig,” he said, gasping for breath. “One.”

  He stared down at the broken Doppel and then looked up at the two standing. “You two.” He gestured at Acceptance. “Scar him permanently. Scar him so he knows just how much you accept him.” Konig tried to wiggle his broken finger and grimaced in pain. “Scar him so he never forgets.”

  Trepidation looked uncertain, but Abandonment seemed to understand, just as Konig knew he would. He would see that Konig sought to drive a wedge between the Doppels so they would be unable to combine their strengths against him, and if there was one thing Abandonment understood, it was being alone. Abandonment knelt down beside Acceptance and rolled the Doppel—whose arms flopped like a loose rag doll—onto his back.