Beyond Redemption

Getting rid of a truth makes us wiser than getting hold of a delusion.

—NICHT LUDWIG BORNE

Aufschlag arrived at the private chambers of Schwacher Sucher nervous and sweating heavily. He pressed flat the oily fringe of hair surrounding his bald dome and struggled to find composure. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, and the knife, tucked into the tightly cinched belt that kept him from looking any more like a tent than he already did, pressed into his back. Should he loosen the belt a notch? What if the knife fell out? A few calming breaths did nothing for his pounding heart. Could he go through with his plan? Even more important, would he?

"Yes," he whispered.

A thought stayed Aufschlag's hand partway into reaching up to knock on the oak door. What if the Geborene Mirrorist foresaw this? Konig often complained of the young Mirrorist's limitations, but Konig complained about everyone's faults. Nothing was ever good enough for the Geborene High Priest. Though the many corpses of Viele Sindein, Morgen's Mehrere bodyguard, had yet to be discovered, it was entirely possible Schwacher knew everything.

What if Konig waits within, already aware of my betrayal?

No. If Konig had advance knowledge of Aufschlag's plans, he would never have allowed Morgen to be stolen.

Aufschlag knocked gently and heard the immediate answer.

"Enter."

Once inside, he stood facing Schwacher, who, in turn, stood staring at him. The Mirrorist, who looked to be still in his teens, displayed none of the self-mutilation common to the breed. After much research Aufschlag had postulated that the more grotesque the mutilation, the greater the Mirrorist's power.

Theory, Aufschlag suddenly thought, is all fine and good until it's faced with real life. His gaze darted about the room, seeking the mirrors he knew must be present. He saw none. The room was spare, undecorated, and showing nothing of the young Mirrorist's personality. The small fireplace looked scrubbed and clean, with no hint it had ever been used. Aufschlag stared at the fireplace. Did the Mirrorist freeze in the winter, or was this the sign of some obsessive disorder? For some reason the cleanliness of the fireplace reminded him of Morgen.

"Yes?" asked the Mirrorist expectantly.

"Your mirrors . . ."

"I keep them elsewhere," said Schwacher, his face boyish and innocent. "It's the only way to get a moment's peace."

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Aufschlag nodded understanding to cover his surprise. Why must I always appear knowledgeable, even to people who will soon be dead? "I need you to show me something. Some people. I need to see where they are going."


Schwacher cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Who are we spying on?"

Aufschlag explained the when, where, and who, and the young Mirrorist led him into another room, where a single massive mirror hung in an ornate gilt frame. Together they watched the three brutal thieves kill Viele Sindein over and over. They watched the smallest thief, dressed unconvincingly as a Geborene Bishop, dart through the crowd of Vieles and kill the original. They saw the kidnappers take Morgen and flee the church, witnessed their flight west toward Neidrig.

"We have to—" began Schwacher.

"Wait."

Schwacher frowned in confusion as the scene in the mirror wavered and changed to show Aufschlag, standing in the shadows, staring after the retreating kidnappers.

"You watched them leave," he said, confused. "They took Morgen and—"

"Kill Schwacher," Aufschlag's reflection whispered clearly. "Distract Konig long enough to give the boy's kidnappers a head start. Mislead him as to where they are going." The reflection stared sadly down at his hands.

Aufschlag looked down at his hands and the sharp knife now clutched there. Movement in the mirror caught his eye and he watched the reflection of the Mirrorist back away, eyes wide with fear as Aufschlag's reflection advanced with the knife.

"I'm sorry," Aufschlag's reflection said.

Schwacher's eyes widened with understanding and he backed away.

Aufschlag followed. "I'm sorry," he said.

AFTER, WHEN SCHWACHER lay bleeding out the last of his life, Aufschlag turned his attention to the mirror. There, at the very end, the Mirrorist glimpsed briefly into the near future. Yet his vision changed nothing and the two men reenacted the scene shown there step-by-step like marionettes in a well-rehearsed play.

Though Schwacher lay dead at Aufschlag's feet, the Mirrorist's reflection still stood within the mirror, watching the Chief Scientist as if waiting.

"Why?" Aufschlag asked. "Why do you look at me like that? Will you fade and die now that Schwacher is dead?" His scientific curiosity piqued, he examined the mirror and reflection. Why does it remain? "You aren't going to fade away, are you?" Aufschlag scratched at his greasy fringe of hair. "You aren't going to fade, and you'll still be here when the body is discovered." The reflection watched him. "You'll still be here and you might be able to tell them who did this. Can you speak?"

Schwacher's reflection stared mutely, waiting.

"You might identify me as Schwacher's"—he paused to swallow—"murderer," he finished.

The reflection didn't move or blink.

Aufschlag saw it. "Ah. You've seen the future and you know what will happen. You wait for me to figure it out."

The reflection watched Aufschlag search the room until he found a heavy fire poker in the stand near the fireplace. He returned to the mirror and its waiting reflection; Aufschlag was nowhere to be seen within.

"Is this what I do, what I have to do, or something I might do?" Aufschlag asked the mirror.

Expressionless, Schwacher's reflection watched the Chief Scientist.

No surprise it doesn't answer, Aufschlag thought. I am no Mirrorist.

"I could walk away," he told the mirror.

Schwacher's reflection tilted its head to the left and continued watching him. No matter how much Aufschlag told himself he had a choice, it seemed like no choice at all. If he chose not to break the mirror—simply to prove it was an option—the reflection might tell someone of his actions. I can't chance it.

Aufschlag felt the solid weight of the iron poker hanging in his hand. This is not murder. This is a lingering delusion, nothing more.

Aufschlag smashed the mirror and fled the room. The crunch of broken glass under his shoes felt like an accusation. Several yards down the hall he slowed to a more respectable walk. It wouldn't do to look suspicious here. A thought stopped him and he stood with a perplexed frown.

"Is breaking a mirror really bad luck?" he asked aloud of the empty hall. "Everyone believes it is." No. That didn't sound quite right. "Everyone believes it is." He leaned against the cool stone wall. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner? "Damn it!" What did bad luck really mean? Would he stub his toe or fall to his death?