Death's Heretic

by James L. Sutter

  And then a scream.

  Shit. Salim raced around the rock after her, drawing his sword—

  —and found her on hands and knees, a little puddle of bile on the ground before her. Beyond that, the focus of her panicked stare, was—nothing.

  A whole lot of nothing. Just a few feet past her unladylike expulsion, the stone and dirt of the plain fell away as sharply as if it had been sliced by a giant knife, giving way to the open sky which stretched featureless out of range of Salim’s vision. Lowering himself prudently to his belly, Salim crept slowly out to the edge and looked down.

  The drop was impossible, in the most literal sense. Looking down the edge of the cliff, its twisting stone face marred only by dark arches and winding, broken stairs, Salim was immediately aware that the distance between them and the ground was beyond what he should have reasonably been able to see. Intellectually, he knew that the expanse of molded rock below him was infinite, yet he found that somehow he could still see the ground and the shining city that stretched out like a golden wheel at the pillar’s foot. He looked back over his shoulder at Neila.

  “Come see this,” he said.

  The girl was now crouched crablike, back pressed up against the standing stone. She shook her head, a small movement which nevertheless sent tremors through her body.

  “Come on,” he pressed. “You’re going to face worse than a fear of heights if you insist on coming with me. Besides, you won’t fall off—Pharasma’s Spire doesn’t let anyone go that easily. Now get over here.”

  Eyes still wide, Neila did so, dropping to her stomach and slithering forward until she lay next to him, face peeking over the edge.

  “This is the edge of the Spire,” Salim said, and thrust an arm over the cliff, gesturing at the golden filigree below them. “And that’s Axis, the Eternal City. Home of absolute logic and the folks who worship it.”

  They stared down at it together for a moment, then Salim stood and looked back the way they had come. Again, his eyes failed to find anything but a blank, featureless plain. The Boneyard itself was nowhere in sight. He swore quietly.

  “What are those?” Neila asked, somewhat recovered and now pointing down at the strange carved shapes and pathways which wound up the cliff face.

  “Who knows?” Salim answered. He moved over and hunkered down beside her, precariously close to the edge.

  “Pharasma’s Spire is one of the Outer Planes, but it’s shaped like a lump of clay that’s been rolled out into a long, thin snake.” He mimed stretching a chunk of clay between two closed fists. “It’s infinitely tall, and very thin, yet even though the little plateau at the top is much smaller than its length, that plateau is also infinitely wide—a percentage of infinity is still infinity. Make sense?”

  Her eyes said it didn’t, but she nodded anyway.

  “When most people think of the Spire,” he continued, “they think of Pharasma’s Boneyard, the place of judgment where all souls eventually come to be parceled out and meet their postmortem rewards. That mostly happens at the center, at Pharasma’s court, which is obviously the most significant part to mortals. Yet the Spire as a place is much older than the progression of souls—maybe even older than Pharasma herself.” He nodded toward the distant carvings. “I doubt if even the gods remember what those are for, or who carved them. The planes of existence aren’t as simple as most priests would have you believe.”

  He stood again, and Neila followed, albeit crawling backward a prudent distance from the edge first.

  “So we’re in the afterlife?” she asked.

  “In a manner of speaking.” He grasped the stone around his neck. “In a more practical sense, however, we’re nowhere—out at the edge of the Spire, beyond Pharasma’s court or interest.” He sighed. “The amulet never fails to get you to the correct plane, but where on that plane is questionable. Sometimes it’s right where you want to be. Other times it’s smack in the middle of a boiling lake. All things considered, I’d say we broke even. But now we have to roll the dice again.” He held out his hand, and Neila eyed it warily.

  “Do we have to?”

  Salim laughed. “When I said infinite, Madam Adventurer, I meant infinite. The Outer Planes have landmarks, but they’re also vast in a way that our minds can’t truly understand. You could walk away from the cliff edge for a thousand years and still be no closer to the center than when you started, unless someone like the Dark Lady took an interest in you and decided to hurry your journey along.” He waved the hand again, impatiently.

  Gritting her teeth, Neila stepped forward and took it.

  This time the transition seemed mercifully short. There was a brief flash of bitter cold and glimpse of a snow-covered mountaintop, and then they were back beneath the silver pseudo-sky. But now the landscape was different.

  They were in a graveyard, but a graveyard like none on their world. In three directions, the endless plain of graves stretched away out of view, unbroken by any structure larger than a mausoleum. Headstones and markers of every size and shape made a thick stone carpet around their feet, many of them toppled or half-shattered by unknown forces. From out in the forest of monuments came faint whisperings which might have been the sighs of the wind playing through the stonework, save that neither of the travelers’ cloaks twitched in any breeze.

  Salim paid no attention to the noises, instead fixing his eyes on the fourth horizon. There the line of graves also stretched out until the markers were little more than a low gray haze, yet this time larger structures sprang up beyond them, dominated by a collection of pale, thin towers that loomed over the lesser buildings like men over ants. Above them all hung a dead gray moon, closer than any real moon should be, its face a grinning skull. Salim grunted his approval.

  “Better,” he said, and turned to Neila. “This way.” He began walking, and without protest Neila stepped quickly to join him, staying close to his side as they picked their way carefully among the graves.

  “What is this place?” she asked. She reached out with one hand and let her fingers play lightly over the top of a stone as they passed. She started to do the same for the next one, but Salim caught her hand and shook his head without bothering to face her.

  “The Graveyard of Souls,” he said. “The last resting place of atheists.”

  “Atheists!” Neila twisted her head to look around, and Salim knew that she was now seeing what her subconscious had no doubt recognized before. Unlike a normal graveyard, the stones in this endless field were marked only with names and epitaphs, none of the normal religious iconography found in such places. No keys for Abadar’s followers. No Iomedaean sword-cross. Even Pharasma’s spiral was missing.

  “But how?” she asked after a moment. “I understand that those without a patron god are judged by Pharasma and sent onward according to their natures, but if atheists don’t believe in gods and the afterlife—”

  “Only a fool refuses to acknowledge the gods’ existence,” Salim spat. “Though there are many such here.”

  “Then how—”

  “Belief is different than worship.” Salim stopped and turned, and his voice calmed a little, though it still held an aggressive undertone.

  “The gods are real, as are the planes, and anyone with enough gold or magical ability can prove it empirically.” He cupped the amulet and held it out to illustrate his point. “Yet acknowledging the gods’ existence and worshiping them are two different things. Most gods—and churches—rule their people through fear. Fear of mortality. Fear of outside enemies. Fear of the wrath of the capricious gods themselves. The faithful know that by worshiping a more powerful being, they can gain its protection.”

  He let the amulet drop.

  “Yet think of this: There are many mortals who are more powerful than either of us. People who could shelter us from our enemies, or kill us at a whim if they took it in mind to do so. So I ask you: Is power alone—the power of a warlord, or a petulant king—enough to justify giving over your self-determination? Do
es it deserve your unqualified allegiance? Your worship?”

  Salim stopped himself, with effort, and Neila looked at him with new consideration.

  “You sound like a Rahadoumi.”

  Salim gave a hard chuckle.

  “You are most perceptive, Lady.” Then he turned and began walking again.

  They traveled in silence for a time, listening to the wind that could now be made out as the susurrus of a thousand barely audible whispers.

  “Is this where all Rahadoumi go where they die?” she asked at last, softly.

  Salim nodded. “Most of them. Many noble men and women lie here, waiting for the day when creation ceases and their souls disperse.”

  “But it’s so sad!” Her words slipped out in a rush. “It seems so—lonely.” Neila shivered and seemed surprised at her own observation, though Salim knew that she’d only put a name to the feeling that assailed them from all sides.

  “Is it?” Salim asked. “Is it so sad to hold onto your pride? To remain in control of your own fate, rather than auctioning it off to the highest bidder? There are fools in these fields, yes—those who think the gods just myths, or themselves the center of the universe. But there are also those who would rather face eternity with their heads held high than bow and serve.”

  When she spoke again, her voice was almost a whisper.

  “And you?”

  Again, the hard laugh came unbidden.

  “Look not for my grave here, Lady,” he said, and his voice was bitter. “I sold my honor long ago. If I’m allowed to join my fathers here, it’ll be because it amuses Pharasma to do so. Nothing more.” Then he shook his head and moved to circumvent a white stone sarcophagus twice the size of a man. “Step lively. We’ve a long way yet to go.”

  Without sun or stars, time was an abstract concept in the vast potter’s field of the atheist graveyard, and only when the muscles burned in Salim’s legs and Neila began to lag behind him did the black-robed man call for a stop. Looking up, he could see that the towering structure on the horizon was much closer now, perhaps less than half again the distance they’d come. Though they were still too far to see the movements of individual creatures, the palace itself was clearly visible now, a narrow tumult of gothic spires and stone arches that stretched far into the blank silver sky. The pure white of its walls gleamed, contrasting sharply with the bleak surroundings and the dour aesthetic of the Lady of Graves’ mortal worshipers.

  “The Inner Court,” Salim said. “And Pharasma’s palace.”

  Neila began to seat herself on one of the headstones, thought twice about it, then finally sat down on it anyway, face set as if daring the whispering voices to object. She dropped her pack, then stretched out her legs, shapely in the traveling leathers that were just slightly too fitted to be practical. She winced.

  “Will we be going there?” she asked. Her voice didn’t falter, but Salim could hear the tension in it. He shook his head, and she relaxed slightly.

  “The Lady of Graves has little enough interest in the affairs of individual mortals. She concerns herself with weaving the tapestry of all life—to her, we’d be less than the fibers in a single thread. It’s possible we might find an audience with one of her lesser servants, but I think we’re better off avoiding it altogether.” He thought of Ceyanan’s constant, infuriating smile. No, he wasn’t eager to come crawling back to the angel this early in the game.

  Neila had no argument there. Instead she pointed past him, toward the palace. “What’s that?” she asked. “That line in the sky.”

  Salim followed her finger to the thin, glowing line that cut through the silver sky like a twisted wire, finally mingling with the horizon and disappearing as it approached the palace.

  “The River of Souls,” he answered.

  She made an incredulous noise, and Salim looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “I just always thought that was a metaphor,” she said, and blushed slightly.

  This time Salim’s smile held actual humor. “I think you’ll find, Lady, that there’s more truth to most of the children’s stories than you’d expect.”

  “Where do they—” she began, but she never got to complete her sentence.

  From out of the almost nonexistent shadow of an ivory-walled crypt came a hurtling shape. With one long arm, it swept Neila from the headstone and carried her along in its rush, coming up short alongside a half-fallen statue of a weeping woman.

  “Cold!” it screamed. “So cold!”

  The thing was taller than an elf, and had the same pointed ears and thin frame. The gangly arms that pinioned Neila and covered her mouth were spider-thin, and when straightened would have stretched almost to its knees, the skin around them so thin and taut as to be almost transparent.

  No, Salim correct himself—it wasn’t almost transparent. It was transparent. Now that he looked closer, he realized that he could see through the thing’s body to the headstones beyond, as if it were a window covered in a thin membrane of oilskin.

  Its face, however, was the worst part. Not in the alienness of its emaciated, skull-like mask, but rather the familiarity there. Behind an expression of twisted, wracking despair, the features were mundane rather than monstrous. The face of a village fruit seller or scribe.

  From behind the skeletal hand that blocked her mouth, Neila made muffled cries, hands scrabbling for her sword but held firm by the creature.

  “Cold!” the creature cried again.

  Salim drew his sword and moved forward slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves that might startle the creature.

  “Drop her,” he said. “She’s not for you.”

  The muscles of the creature’s long legs bunched, and it leaned backward as if prepared to spring away. Neila’s struggles redoubled.

  “Cold,” the creature whined, and over the gritted teeth Salim saw a single tear well up and flow down a hollow cheek. “Dark and cold. Cold and dark.”

  He was close enough. Darting forward, Salim grasped the neckline of Neila’s shirt with one hand, digging his fingers deep into fabric and the soft flesh beneath. With his other, he brought the sword around in a wide, stabbing arc, careful to stay clear of the girl.

  The creature was faster, however, and let Neila drop in order to fling itself backward, landing crouched atop a headstone. It gave one last cry, equal parts frustration and longing, and then bounded off into the forest of graves with a speed neither of the humans could hope to match, quickly disappearing from view.

  Back on her feet and flushed with rage, Neila drew her own sword. Salim prudently let go of her bodice and moved back a step. He needn’t have worried—the girl’s eyes were focused firmly on the retreating shape.

  For an instant, Salim worried that she might chase after it, futile as it would obviously be, but then she shook herself lightly and turned back to him with a face that struggled for composure.

  “And what,” she asked, “was that?”

  Salim spread his hands.

  “A soul, I’d guess. One of the fools we spoke of, who can’t accept the truth of the grave.”

  “You mean a ghost?”

  “Perhaps. Such distinctions are murky here.” He looked pointedly at her sword, then sheathed his own. After a moment, she did the same.

  “It seems my sympathy was a bit premature,” she said lightly, but her eyes still looked a little wild. She stared down at her sword hilt for a second, then back up at him.

  “I don’t suppose this would have had any effect on him, then. Would yours?”

  Salim shrugged again.

  “It depends. Steel means little to ghosts, or to a soul in the Boneyard. But there are those whose minds never grasp the transition between flesh and the Great Beyond. If he still thought it could hurt him ...”

  Neila nodded. For one more long moment, she looked back in the direction the lost soul had disappeared, then strode forward and scooped up the strap of her pack, slinging it over her shoulder.

  “Given the hospitality
of the locals,” she said, “I think we’ve had quite enough of a rest for now. Don’t you?”

  Letting her lead the way, Salim fell in behind, and together the two continued onward toward the palace.

  ∗∗∗

  When the field of graves ended, it did so sharply, without any gradual reduction. One moment they were picking their way carefully through the monuments, and the next they were on flat, open ground. Though not quite as barren as the stone at the edge of the Spirelands, where they’d initially arrived, the terrain here was still little more than cracked brown earth, with small tufts of dark grass that somehow found nourishment in a world without rain or sun.

  Above them, the sky raged.

  During their walk toward the castle, they’d borne steadily to the right, toward the flickering thread that Salim had named the River of Souls. Now that river broke into a delta that filled the air fifty feet over their heads.

  It was, Salim remarked, precisely what its name implied. Held to its course by forces beyond his ken—maybe beyond anyone’s—the river drew souls from the bodies of the dying all across the myriad worlds of the Material Plane, sucking them through the reeling gray expanse of the Astral Plane and finally delivering them here, to Pharasma’s Spire. They raced and rippled, a faintly luminous tide of energy that upon close inspection resolved itself into shapes and forms.

  Not all of those forms were human. Far from it—everything that lived on the Material Plane eventually died, and those who bore consciousness passed into the river on their way to the next phase of existence. In that unyielding torrent were dwarves and elves, lizardfolk and the hyena-headed brutes that plagued the deserts of Katapesh. And more—uncountable creatures, both from Salim and Neila’s homeworld of Golarion and from those distant realms hinted at by scholars, which people standing on Golarion’s surface saw only as bright stars in the night sky. From a thousand times a thousand worlds, the dead flowed together, speeding along en masse in their race to kneel before the Lady and be judged.

  And here they were splitting apart again. As the two tiny humans watched, perched a safe distance below and to the side, the river split into eight massive arms, as well as a number of smaller currents. The former spiraled out and around to either side, sometimes snaking close to the ground as they made an invisible circle with the steeples of Pharasma’s palace at its center. The remaining streams kept their course, flowing straight in toward the gleaming castle and the small city of gray buildings that surrounded it. These lesser structures, which had become more visible as they approached, were no doubt still fabulously grand up close, yet continued to be overwhelmed by the majesty of the palace proper.