21 Chapter 19 (1/2)

The power of faith is the fear of the unknown.

The power of love is the fear of dying alone.

—EXCERPT FROM ”THE POWER OF FEAR” BY HALBER TOD

Gehirn 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 ant.i.thesis. 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 friends.h.i.+p.

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 Selbstha.s.s. 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 Ha.s.sebrand s.h.i.+ed 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 embarra.s.sed 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 Ha.s.sebrand?”

”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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d—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 p.u.b.erty 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 segreen 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 pet.i.te 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 wh.o.r.es, 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?

G.o.ds, 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 p.i.s.s.” 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 ma.s.ses, 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?