Beyond Redemption (20 page)

“This doesn't feel right,” she whispered close enough to his tattered ear that she could taste the drying blood.

“Try it after being stabbed a few dozen times,” hissed Bedeckt through clenched teeth. “I guarantee it'll feel worse.”

She ignored him. “I know what stealing feels like. I know how
it smells. I know how it sounds. I know what it tastes like. This isn't right. A path has been cleared for us.”

“Good.”

The idiot doesn't understand.

Every nerve screamed
danger
and yet she saw nothing amiss. Someone was clearing the way for their escape, but she saw no reason to believe this mysterious person was on their side. Selfishness drove all action. A lifetime of backstabbing distrust had taught Stehlen one thing: if someone helped you, it was because doing so helped themselves. The moment mutually shared interest died, the truth shone clear and you'd feel their knife in your back.

Stehlen pushed the pace to catch Wichtig and the boy, and Bedeckt—much to her surprise—managed to match her.

She peered sideways into his face and saw shattered teeth gritted in a determined growl. “Still a bit of life in you,” she said.

“No, just a lot more death.” He peered at her through his single open eye and she caught a glint of dark humor. “Can't let Wichtig have my share.”

“Greed is the ultimate motivator. Anyway, if you die I'm going to kill the arsehole and take it all.” Of course, she had no idea how to go about collecting the god-boy's ransom. If the old man died she'd kill Wichtig and the boy and wash her hands of this gods-awful mess. Any plan involving more than go in, get the goods, and get out was doomed to failure.

W
hat have I done?

Aufschlag watched Morgen and the three false priests. They'd never know, but it was his doing—sending priests and guards on make-work errands—that had cleared the path for them. And why he had done so . . . he still wasn't sure. He had done many horrible things as Konig's Chief Scientist, and though he'd often contemplated defying the Theocrat, not once had he dared to act. Not really.

No, that's not true. I saved Wegwerfen
. That had to be worth something. But even that, sending her fleeing to Gottlos, had been an act of cowardly disobedience. And every day he still thought about sending someone to kill her, terrified Konig might discover what he'd done.

This was different. This was not some insignificant deception. He wasn't simply ignoring an unnecessary order or sharing a book with Morgen that Konig wouldn't approve of. This was it, the real thing.

Go ahead. Say it. Admit to yourself what you're doing. Be honest.

“Betrayal.”

What an awful word.

Aufschlag remembered a drunken and emotional conversation he and Konig had shared all those years ago, about how important it was to him that he not let down his friends. He remembered Konig's eyes and the look on his face and how he'd thought it was understanding. Gods, Konig had used that every day since.

Betrayal. Here, beyond the influence of Konig's power, Aufschlag was on the verge of doing just that.

He checked the hall floor, counting tiles between where he hid and the kidnappers to gauge the distance.

Only a scientist would have thought to study and quantify the reality-defining effects of insanity, and Aufschlag was a scientist through and through. His entire life, every moment of his existence, had been dedicated to understanding the metrics defining Geisteskranken. Everyone knew that the effects of insanity dwindled with range and were damped by proximity to sane minds, but no one else thought to measure this. Aufschlag knew that even as powerful as Konig was, his Gefahrgeist delusions only affected him, Aufschlag, when close by. Here in the hallway, watching Morgen's kidnapping, he had the freedom to contemplate something other than mindless loyalty.

Such as saving Morgen's life . . . and perhaps his own soul. He glanced at his hands, blunt-fingered, skin wrinkled like a lizard left to dry in the sun. They were clean now, but they'd been bloodstained many, many times.
The things I have done
. Sure, he told himself, it had all been at Konig's request and for the greater good of both the Geborene and even mankind, but that was a lie. Some of his experiments had been unsettling to the extreme—and Aufschlag performed them willingly. Delving into the deeper truths, scratching at the underpinnings of reality, understanding the laws and limits of a reality defined by delusion, these were goals worthy of a great mind.
And if I have one delusion
—he laughed mockingly at himself—
it's that I am a great mind
.

It was
his
discovery that it was possible to turn ordinary, sane people into Geisteskranken. The correct mixture of physical and psychological torture could achieve incredible results. Forcing a mother to witness the torture and brutal murder of her children was enough to turn some into dangerous Geisteskranken. Aufschlag had even learned—at great personal risk—that the more heinous and drawn out the torture, the more powerful the Geisteskranken became. He once lost dozens of staff during an experiment when, after witnessing her husband and children tortured for several months, one woman shattered her shackles, tore scientists limb from limb, and burned down a sizable section of the Science Wing.

Still you seek to justify your actions, as if doing so somehow distances you from the pain you inflicted. Calling it science doesn't change what you are.

Konig, caring only for results, asked no questions. Aufschlag, however, had nothing but questions. And not once had he asked whether or not he
should
be doing these experiments in the first place. No, at the time he had wondered only why it took her so long to snap. Why was she so powerful when she finally snapped? Why did some people retreat into gibbering uselessness at similar stimuli while others found the ability to shapeshift or create armies of albtraum at will? And, of course, there were the most interesting questions:

What were the limits?

How powerful could a Geisteskranken become?

He'd done it for Konig. He'd done it for the Geborene, for humanity.

Right.

How many have you tortured to scratch the itch of your own dark curiosity?

The Theocrat—the shallow and shortsighted fool—thought Aufschlag's research was meant to further Konig's own goals.
And while, when he was in the High Priest's overpowering presence, this often became the truth, Aufschlag had plans of his own.

Belief defined reality and insanity—which Aufschlag defined as any unnaturally strong belief—manifested as power. But this, Aufschlag understood, was not the only form of power. Knowledge too was power. Though Aufschlag could not alter reality with the strength of his beliefs, he
could
manipulate it through his understanding of its underpinnings. Such as watching Morgen being escorted from the keep. Aufschlag smiled bitterly, pleased the boy was escaping Konig's grasp, terrified what the Theocrat would do if he discovered Aufschlag's role in the escape.

Not that the Theocrat's grasp was quite as firm as the Geborene leader thought it was—and Aufschlag's betrayal was only a small part of it. Konig sought to use Morgen for his own self-centered purposes—this was the way of all Gefahrgeist. The fool clung to the belief Morgen could save him from his delusions, staving off the horrific end all Geisteskranken faced. But for all his belief, Konig never thought to ask
how
this would happen. And after seeing Morgen's display of power, Aufschlag had begun to doubt the Theocrat's ability to control the boy once he Ascended. But doubt wasn't enough; Aufschlag needed to be sure. If Morgen Ascended under the influence of a deteriorating Gefahrgeist, there was no telling what would become of him. If, however, Morgen Ascended beyond Konig's manipulative grasp, he would become the god the Geborene and the people of Selbsthass deserved. A good and fair god. A god who protected his people instead of manipulating them like toys.

A god Aufschlag desperately needed.

Many nights Aufschlag lay sweating and shivering at the memories of what he had done in the name of science. No man should witness the horrendous acts he had seen. No man should
commit
the horrendous acts he had. But there was no changing
the past: he had perpetrated those evils, staining his soul such that it would haunt him in the Afterdeath. But the Afterdeath was also redemption, a chance for the future to maybe not be as grim as it was shaping up to be. And maybe one truly selfless act could wipe clean a besmirched slate. Aufschlag prayed this was true. In the past he prayed to vague gods, but now he prayed to Morgen. If one pure result came out of all the suffering and misery he had caused, perhaps redemption could be his.

Morgen will bring a new purity to a foul and terrible world.

“Konig is not the Geborene Damonen,” Aufschlag whispered.
He only thinks he is
. “I must do what is right.”

The Chief Scientist might not have the strength of will to defy Konig while in his presence, but once far enough removed, Aufschlag could again think clearly. And now he was thinking of a time when the Geborene had a god to worship, and not a man ravaged by his own insanity.

“Take care of the boy,” he whispered to the backs of the false priests, watching them move stealthily through the emptied church. Anywhere had to be better than here.

As the thieves stole away with what they surely thought was their great prize, he saw his path to redemption. His plan coalesced, as simple as it was dangerous.

Shortly he would make his way to the private chambers of Schwacher Sucher, the only Geborene Mirrorist currently residing in Selbsthass City, and murder the young priest. Yes, it was going to be murder—he wouldn't cloak his actions in misleading labels. Honesty mattered if he was to ever have a chance at redemption. It was a dark deed, but with Schwacher dead, it would be far more difficult for Konig to trace Morgen and his kidnappers. Hopefully this would buy Aufschlag time to find the thieves and either purchase or take the child—and keep Morgen out of Konig's own murderous hands.

Aufschlag cleared his troubled mind and focused his thoughts.
He must keep a clear vision of his plans or any interaction with Konig might sway him.

“Kill Schwacher,” he whispered. Again he looked down at his clean hands, spidering veins showing through the thin and wrinkled skin. Though he had caused much pain and suffering in his research, he had never personally killed another human.
Will murder change me?
How could it not?

Aufschlag watched the three thieves approach the gate—he hadn't been able to think of a way to remove the guards that wouldn't have immediately aroused suspicion—with Morgen sheltered under the arm of a man dressed as an acolyte.

Aufschlag prayed Morgen would be safe.

He watched with sadness as the smallest false priest, dressed as a Bishop, killed the acolytes standing watch at the main gate. That had been unnecessary. But it was done and the boy was beyond Konig's reach. At least for now.

The power of faith is the fear of the unknown.

The power of love is the fear of dying alone.

—E
XCERPT FROM
“T
HE
P
OWER OF
F
EAR
”
BY
H
ALBER
T
OD

G
ehirn Schlechtes stared into the empty bowl. Erbrechen's organ stew, supposedly a source of sanity, was doing little for the hunger gnawing her innards.
Something is wrong
. She felt frail, paper-thin and dry like tinder. She needed to burn. Could this stew of souls really stave off the insanity and inevitable collapse caused by embracing one's delusions? Gehirn's doubt grew like worms, and she wondered if that doubt was a result of these gruesome meals. If belief was power, then surely doubt was its antithesis. What was doubt but a countering belief?

WHEN SHE STOOD
in close proximity to Erbrechen, she thought of the man as beautiful, her friend and lover—even if he never touched her—and the center of everything important. When she strayed to the edges of the camp, however, words like “Slaver”
crept into her mind. Standing there, watching Erbrechen from afar, she saw the man as a foul slug. A leech. And yet she could not leave. Always she returned to Erbrechen's side and basked happily in the man's attention and friendship.

You are wretched and weak,
she told herself over and over.
Worthless
. Still, she could not walk away.
If I lose Erbrechen I shall truly have nothing, truly
be
nothing.
Was this love?

ERBRECHEN'S BAND MOVED
ever closer to Selbsthass. The caravan traveled at a snail's pace, Erbrechen refusing to suffer discomfort. At each farming community and town they stopped to gather supplies and new followers. Most towns fell without Gehirn's help.

Day by day the distant storm clouds crept closer as Regen's sanity frayed under the relentless strain. The scrawny shaman staggered as he walked, white with blood loss, his skin an anemic parchment stretched over gnarled bones and twitching sinew. Gehirn watched the man's psyche decay with both detached interest and gnawing terror.

In the last day it had become necessary to shout to be heard over the ceaseless roar of thunder. The sky, lit bright with searing flashes of lightning, left Gehirn smelling of burned flesh. When Regen's mind finally failed, the sun would return.

Why does Erbrechen not share the soul stew with the shaman?

Regen's death would leave Gehirn vulnerable. Did Erbrechen not care? Was there some darker purpose? Gehirn considered sharing her own portion with the shaman, but doubt stopped her. What if she fed the stew to Regen and the shaman didn't get better? What if the souls and organs of the sane
didn't
offer succor to the ravaged sanity of those who embraced instability? Where would that leave Gehirn? More important, what would that mean to Erbrechen's plans? The Hassebrand shied away from such thoughts and buried deep her doubts. She'd rather
continue to believe the stew worked rather than see proof of its failure.

Today she rode the litter alongside her love and told herself, over and over,
Erbrechen would never betray me
. Unlike Konig, Erbrechen was a true friend. She watched Regen's shambling shuffle. The shaman was a tool Erbrechen used to protect her.

“He doesn't use me,” Gehirn whispered to herself. “He . . . likes me.” She wanted to utter the word “loves,” but her lips rebelled.

“Hmm?” asked Erbrechen. “I didn't hear that.”

“Nothing.” He stared, green eyes deceptively sleepy, almost closed, until she added, “I was just talking to myself.”

Erbrechen looked away, gaze roving across his band of followers. “I do it all the time. There are so few people worth talking to.” He glanced at her. “Not like you.”

It was such an obvious ploy and yet her doubts suddenly seemed foolish. “I like talking to you too.”

Erbrechen offered an embarrassed smile at this. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Some people are born broken—delusional from their very first day—whereas for others it requires some kind of trigger or emotional trauma.” He licked his lips, a slow sensual swirl of bright pink tongue. “I've also heard that sometimes people can become delusional after suffering a blow to the head.”

She knew where this would lead, saw the vicarious hunger in Erbrechen's eyes. Her jaw tightened and her knuckles popped loudly as her hands clenched into fists. “I heard much the same from Aufschlag,” she said, doing her best to sound casual.
Please, no
.

Erbrechen nodded as if he knew exactly who Aufschlag was and asked, “Were you born a Hassebrand?”

“No.”
Please don't ask. Please, please don't ask
.

“Was it physical trauma?” he asked, leaning in close, as if trying to breathe in her despair.

He knows the answer and asks anyway
. Only a self-centered bastard—
Gefahrgeist. He's a Gefahrgeist,
she reminded herself.
He doesn't care how much this hurts me. He doesn't care
—

“I ask,” he added, “because I care.”

He loves me!
The memories bubbled up like rising bile. “Daddy . . . My father loved me very much. So much that my mother hated me. She was very jealous.”
Or disgusted.

She told him everything. She told him how her father used to touch her and then hold his hands over the fire to burn clean his sins, and how he later did the same to her own small hands. She remembered screaming until her throat tore. She told him how her mother grew distant, eventually refusing to acknowledge Gehirn even existed. She told him of the day she reached puberty and the first fire she lit with nothing but thought.

“You and your father?” Erbrechen's face puckered with disgust. “You knew what you did was wrong,” he said, and for an instant she wanted to incinerate the fat slug for giving voice to her self-loathing. One look from his sea-green eyes crushed the desire.

“From that day on,” she continued, “no matter how long Father held my hands in the fire, they would not blister or burn. I asked if this meant I was free of sin.” She laughed, a humorless grunt. “He shook his head and shoved my hands deeper into the coals.”

Then, as she blossomed into a young woman, her father turned his back on her, disgusted with who and what she had become.

“They threw me out when I was fourteen,” she finished. Tears streamed down her face, stinging her lips with their salt. “I returned a few years later and they asked why I'd left. They pretended nothing had ever happened. Then, when Mommy left the room, Daddy touched me.” She ground her teeth, her jaw aching, until the air around her rippled with heat. “I burned him.”

“You're lucky,” said Erbrechen. When she stared at him in mute shock, he added, “At least somebody loved you. Even if just for a while.” He shook his head, gnawing at his lower lip. “I was left in the gutter seconds after my birth.” He reached a fat hand toward her thigh but stopped short of touching her. “For years I thought the couple that found me were my family, even though I was never allowed to call them Mother or Father. They only kept me until I was worth selling.” Erbrechen's petite nose wrinkled, disappearing between round cheeks. “Foully betrayed twice before I was even four years old. But they underestimated me. No one understood just how smart I am. I learned. No one would ever betray me again.”

Erbrechen wove a tale of life on the streets, raised by a succession of pimps and whores, the daily struggle to survive and find food. He told her of the long years when he was sold and traded, little more than a commodity, soft flesh with value. Always watching, always listening. Always learning.

“We are driven by desire masquerading as need,” he said. “Understand a person's needs and you can bend them to anything.”

As he talked she found herself shaking with the force of her sobs. His was a life robbed of all hope before he even knew what hope was. Her own suffering paled in comparison. How could she have thought her petty wounds worth sharing?

Gods, he has suffered so much. How can he sit beside me, telling his story with such aplomb?

“And one day a client—a wealthy old man—told me he loved me. He said he'd do anything for me.” Erbrechen laughed, clapping happily. “The next day, at my request, he had my pimp drowned in a bucket of goat piss.” He sighed, smiling wistfully at the memory. The smile died. “But what he called love was just need. He didn't love me. No one
ever
loves me. They need and need and need, always demanding. Never love.” He glanced at her again as if checking that she still listened. “It wasn't long
before I realized that in small groups I could twist just about anyone's needs. But in the city, surrounded by the witless masses, my power was limited. The next time I left the city with my love and his retinue, I made sure we never returned. They were my first friends and followed me for years.” He shrugged one shoulder and his left breast jiggled. “Friends come and go. I wonder if any of them are still with me.” He gave a cursory glance to his followers, but he barely seemed to be looking.

He sounds so sad, so alone
. Gehirn wanted to embrace Erbrechen—to offer some small comfort—but remembered his unwillingness to touch her.
He is afraid to love me,
she realized. Could he fear rejection?

Gehirn mopped tears with an already sodden sleeve. She understood rejection.
He's telling me this because he loves me. He bares everything and dares everything
. She could never be so brave.

How could I ever have doubted his love?
She hung her head, ashamed she could be so self-centered, ashamed at needing more from her love.

Hours later she remembered what she'd been thinking about before Erbrechen had interrupted her thoughts. Had it been an intentional distraction?

Doubt grew in dark and fertile soil.

ERBRECHEN, UNWILLING TO
let his friends, who now numbered in the thousands, stray from his influence, used no scouts. As such, when they arrived, en masse, at Verteidigung, they found the gates closed and the walls manned. The city and surrounding farmlands, having been pounded by Regen's storm long in advance of their arrival, looked to be in a state of advanced ruin. Much of the land had been burned, blasted by lightning, pelted by fist-sized hail, and then flooded. Gehirn noted a distinct lack of corpses. Odd. With this much destruction she expected at least some.

Erbrechen sent one of his new friends—a pompous woman who had not yet lost the fat of her previous life—forward to demand the surrender of Verteidigung. The soldiers on the wall pincushioned her with a dozen crossbow bolts and she toppled into the mud.

Erbrechen shook his head, tutted, and turned sad green eyes on Gehirn. “I don't know why they bother. They will have to apologize.”

Then, when the woman climbed awkwardly to her feet, turned, and walked back toward Erbrechen's litter, he offered a soft “Oh.” He frowned at the approaching woman. “She is dead, right?”

“Yes,” answered Gehirn, still sitting beside Erbrechen. “I suspect Verteidigung has a powerful Phobic with a deep fear of death and the dead.”

“You don't say. Burn her.”

Gehirn felt a feral grin stretch her face as she let loose some small shred of the doubt and depression that she held tight to her heart. The woman and a hundred paces of ground around her burst into flames. The damp earth quickly guttered, but the woman burned on, a pillar of fire shuffling ever closer. Even at this range she smelled delicious.

Erbrechen cleared his throat gently. “She's still coming,” he said with a slight tremor.

A sob was wrenched from Gehirn's soul as she relaxed her weakening grip on reality. Perhaps, in his fear, Erbrechen's control slipped for a moment, because in that instant, Gehirn understood she was naught but the Slaver's toy. At best a favored toy, but certainly nothing more. Erbrechen would use her and cast her aside. Her fate would be no different from Regen's. She was helpless.

He devours my need like he sucks back that stew. Just another soul sliding into a fat belly that will never fill.

But she still had her fire . . .

The flames enshrouding the woman flickered, brightened, and became a blinding white beacon. The skeletal image of the woman remained written on the stunned retinas of all witnesses for several seconds. She was dust and ash, a stain in the wind.

Gehirn screamed, clenched fists held tight against her chest like a child cowering before an enraged adult. Pressure built inside her skull, seeking escape.
My eyes,
she thought,
will boil
.

Sanity, the antithesis to power. To embrace one was to abandon the other. Betrayed and yet trapped and helpless, Gehirn cradled her hurts like a young girl holding a wounded bird. She knew Erbrechen used her but this knowledge did nothing to free her from the Slaver's clutches. She both loved and hated—loathed and worshiped—the obscene slug.

Knowledge didn't set her free; it more clearly displayed the true depth of her prison.

Gehirn screamed, throat raw and burning.

Stone walls glowed red and ran like mud. The city gates fell apart, little more than kindling now.

Within the city Gehirn saw the dead rise, climbing unsteadily to their feet and looking about in uncomprehending horror. The corpses, united in purpose, stalked the burning ruin, staggered through the open gates, and launched themselves at Erbrechen's mob. The dead burned, but kept coming.

Erbrechen wailed as his litter lurched chaotically. His power kept those close from fleeing but they couldn't move fast enough while bearing the weight of the litter, his corpulent body, and Gehirn.

Levering herself to her feet to better see, Gehirn watched the approaching dead.
They can have me
. Death had to be better than this.