"That's easy." Salim pointed toward one of the shafts slanting down out of the canopy, then resumed walking in the direction it came from. "Just go toward the light."
∗ ∗ ∗
The forest ended abruptly an indeterminable time later. One moment the three men were kicking their way through the mists, Roshad grumbling his distrust of any fog that made shapes, and the next they were out of the trees, standing in a waist-high field of perfect golden grass.
Before them rose a mountain. Stretching from horizon to horizon beneath a sunless silver sky, the overall shape was that of a flat-topped volcanic cone, yet banded with lines of cloud and subtle changes in color that suggested seven horizontal layers, like a tiered cake. Even as Salim looked, however, his eyes seemed to zoom in, picking out forests and cities and great cliffs whose shapes should have broken up the mountain's smooth lines, yet were somehow still contained within the monumental edifice of the mountain itself. A familiar wave of vertigo washed over him, and he looked away.
"It's so beautiful," Roshad whispered, his normally brash tones softened by awe. "Why is it so hard for me to look at it?"
"Because your eyes aren't actually seeing it," Salim said.
Roshad frowned. "What?"
"It's a plane," Salim explained. "Each of the Outer Planes—what some folks think of as the realms of the afterlife—is infinite. Yet they also all have their own shapes, shared borders with other planes, and so on. If you imagine the multiverse as a fruit, then the Inner Sphere—that's the Material Plane where we come from, plus things like the Elemental Planes—is the pit at the center. The Outer Sphere is like the skin, except all the various planes that make it up are on the inside of that skin, facing in at us. Well, and the Ethereal Plane is probably more like the fruit and juice that holds everything together, but that's not really..."
He saw the sorcerer's eyes begin to glaze over.
"Anyway, ignore that part. The point is, humans can't really visualize infinity—your brain would pop like a squeezed grape under its weight. So instead the plane projects an image you're able to comprehend. The Mountain of Heaven is limitless, yet it's also a mountain, so wherever you stand within its borders, you'll see it as a mountain. You could go halfway up it, perch on a tower in Andoletta's realm, and the mountain would still look just as big. It's a concept as much as a place."
Roshad shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "If I wanted to spend my time wrapping my head around paradoxes, I would have been a priest."
Bors spoke up. "So it's a metaphysical construct, but we're physical beings, so it's manifesting physically for our sake. It changes based on the observer."
Salim looked at him in surprise.
"What?" the warrior rumbled. "Big guys can't read?" He pointed off to the side. "What's that?"
To their right, a thin line of figures snaked from the forest's edge toward a long, shimmering wall that skirted the mountain's foot. In the distance, dozens more such lines radiated out from the mountain's base like spokes on a wheel.
"Petitioners," Salim said. "And they're close. Perfect. Let's go."
Distance was strangely distorted on the breeze-rippled plain, and in no time at all the three men were only a hundred apparent feet from the twisting line of figures. Standing quietly, single-file, the people were mostly humanoid, yet not entirely. Mixed in among the obvious humans and elves, dwarves and halflings were stranger creatures: Lizardfolk, dressed in their swamp-tribal finery. An eagle-winged lion with the face of a sagacious king. A brilliantly colored serpent with a woman's head and tiny spectacles resting on her nose. Up ahead, a huge mass of golden scales shifted and rose into the form of a majestic dragon, which took one earth-gouging step forward as the line slowly shuffled, then lowered itself back down once more. Regardless of shape and size, all the creatures seemed wispy and ephemeral, their faintly transparent bodies glowing with a lesser version of the sky's own radiance.
"Who are they?" Roshad's voice was soft, almost reverent.
"Petitioners," Salim said again. "Dead souls waiting to get into Heaven."
"All of them?" Roshad looked incredulously at the mass of people, and Salim understood his confusion. Some of those waiting in line looked exactly like you'd expect—straight-backed paladins in their shining armor, priests in flowing robes, hardworking field hands and pious merchants. Yet there were others mixed in with them: Dirty, hardscrabble mercenaries. Several obvious prostitutes. A shifty-looking woman with a long sword and a tattoo of a blazing comet trailing down her arm, who turned and spat contemplatively into the grass, her spectral spittle disappearing before it hit the ground.
"Not everyone wears their true nature on their sleeve," Salim said. "And as much as priests may try to convince you otherwise, faith is not a requirement to get into Heaven. Souls are judged based on what's in their hearts, not just which god they pay lip service to. Whatever they may look like to us, these are all virtuous souls."
Roshad harrumphed thoughtfully, watching several soldiers troop past as the line shifted again.
"Why are they all waiting in line?" Bors asked. "Is Heaven that small?"
Salim smirked. "Not quite, though I imagine it's smaller than some. These aren't just good souls, though. They're also lawful—that's what Heaven's all about. Standing in line to get in is just one more way they show it."
Roshad and Bors looked at him blankly. Once again, Salim was struck by the disconcerting similarity there, as if the same expression were stretched over two very different faces.
Salim leaned over and picked two of the long grain stalks from the ground at his feet, their stems breaking with a sound like tiny chimes. He held them up in a cross pattern, one vertical, one horizontal.
"The multiverse is arranged along two axes. One is good and evil—most people get that. But there's another axis as well, and that's law versus chaos. Order versus entropy. Make sense?"
Both men nodded.
"Most folks don't worry about the precise divisions unless they're particularly devout. To them, if you're good, you go to Heaven. If you're bad, you go to Hell. But things are actually more complicated than that, due to the pulls of law and chaos. Take devils and demons, for instance. Both are evil, but devils also represent law. That's why people can make contracts with them, why a nation like Cheliax can ally with them—they follow systems and obey authority. Demons, on the other hand, are evil and chaotic—everything's a free-for-all for them, and contracts only last as long as you've got the power to enforce them. They exist to overrun and destroy. It's organization versus anarchy."
"So the same's true with Heaven," Bors said, catching on.
"Right. Heaven represents not just goodness, but organized goodness. People who obey laws, who respect authority, who believe in systems and governments and following rules. There are other types of good souls, though. If you're someone who bucks the system, who doesn't worry overmuch about breaking laws or reneging on promises, but you're still basically a good person, you'll likely end up in Elysium, with all the other anarchists and rebels and artists. And if you're somewhere in the middle, trying to balance law and chaos, you might end up in Nirvana with the enlightened mystics."
"So what you're saying," Roshad said slowly, "is that these people are standing in line because it's in their nature to stand in line."
"Right," Salim said. "As long as someone with moral authority tells them they should."
Roshad pondered that. Bors looked back toward where the line disappeared into the forest. "Do we have to stand in line as well?" he asked.
"That depends. How much do you value authority?"
The men paused. Then Bors broke out into a wide grin. Though he couldn't see it, Salim could only presume that, underneath his veil, Roshad matched it.
"In that case," Salim said. "Let's go cut in line."
∗ ∗ ∗
The three men got some strange looks as they trekked along parallel to the line, but no one bothered to stop them. Most were too enraptured by the
ir surroundings, or focused on the mountain itself.
As they walked, Salim peered past their line of petitioners at some of the other lines stretching out from Heaven's walls, distant enough to be just barely visible. To the right, the line seemed to be made up primarily of quadrupeds many times larger than elephants, with writhing tentacles that sprang from their backs and reached far up into the sky. To the left, many of those waiting in line appeared to be actively on fire, or perhaps made out of it.
That was one of the strangest things about the Outer Planes, and their roles as mortals' homes after death. Heaven and the other realms didn't cater just to Golarion and its various races, but to every mortal being on every planet of the Material Plane. How they could accommodate so many different races without being totally incomprehensible to any given one was just another aspect of the planes' bizarre malleability, their ability to change to reflect the creatures that came to them. Not for the first time, Salim wondered whether the reason he always appeared near the line of petitioners from his own world was part of the magic of the amulet, or the plane itself sensing his nature and rearranging things accordingly. The latter was distinctly discomfiting.
At last they reached the head of the line. To either side, the great crystalline walls known as the Prime Vallation rose up in a bulwark of diamond and mother-of-pearl, their shimmering tops seemingly thirty feet high, though Salim suspected that anyone attempting to scale or fly over them would find them much higher. Straight ahead, two golden gates hung open, their huge bars connected by filigree so delicate that the metal strands seemed to flutter in the breeze, forming winged shapes that flitted across their surfaces.
An angel guarded the gates. Though no taller than Salim, her presence seemed to fill the portal entirely. Both skin and close-cropped hair were as white as the snowy wings that rose up behind her shoulders, and even her eyes were blank white, without pupil or iris. She stood with a long golden trumpet in one hand and a five-foot-long greatsword in the other, watching over the line of souls with a maternal smile as a dozen orbs of radiant light danced a welcome around them. As Salim and his two comrades approached, however, her smile vanished.
"You do not belong here."
The words were quiet, spoken without rancor, yet Salim felt the force of them like a giant fist squeezing his lungs. Instinct screamed at him to turn and run, to stand aside, to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness from such a perfect being. As she spoke, the globes of light flew back to array themselves in a halo around her head, their colors shifting to menacing reds and oranges.
Yet it was not the first time Salim had been in the presence of one of Heaven's archons, and he managed to keep his feet, swallowing hard. When he spoke, his voice was steady.
"We come as envoys of the Boneyard, on the business of the Lady of Graves herself. You cannot deny us aid."
The angel raised one pale, almost invisible eyebrow. "I see. And what do you seek?"
Salim hadn't really thought this far ahead—if it weren't for Maedora and his sense of dramatic timing, he probably would have waited until he'd come up with a concrete plan. But improvisation had always been one of his strong points. "We seek an angel—a specific one. But we don't know his name, only a description."
The angel's flat expression soured further. "We find little amusement in riddles. But you've already held up the line long enough." She clapped her hands, and the little floating lanterns returned to their bobbing and weaving among the new arrivals. Then she turned her head and, in a voice too loud for her apparent size, boomed, "Attend me."
Two more winged forms emerged from behind the gates. Both were taller than the archon—close to eight feet—with the same sweeping wings. Both wore white linen wrappings around their chests and waists, and enormous glowing warhammers hung from baldrics over their shoulders. They knelt before the archon, each with one hand and one knee on the mist-shrouded ground, bowing their heads.
"Take these visitors to the Shore," the gatekeeper said. "Faralan will help them."
"Yes, Commander." The two angels spoke in such perfect unison that it was difficult to tell their voices apart. Salim heard Roshad grunt in approval. The gatekeeper waved Salim and his friends forward, then turned back to the line of entrants.
The angels assigned to them appeared to be twins, if such a thing existed in a celestial race like angels. Though their slim bodies and stark, perfect features were androgynous by human standards, the wrappings of the one on the left hid small curves suggesting breasts and hips. Their hair was long and silver-white, with the female's pulled back in a tight braid, and their bronze skin seemed to glow from inside—not the metaphorical glow poets ascribe to beautiful people, but an actual faint emission of light.
Other than how they wore their hair, the biggest difference between the two was in their eyes. While the male's were as stern as the gatekeeper's, the female's seemed soft and sad, as if on the edge of tears. A strange expression to see on someone whose glowing weapon was as tall as Salim himself.
Salim introduced himself and his companions, bowing slightly.
"I am Nemeniah," the female angel said. "And this is Malchion. We will escort you. Please, follow us."
"Our thanks," Salim said, but Nemeniah had already turned and begun walking. Salim and the others followed, while Malchion hung back to bring up the rear.
That was unsurprising. Salim hadn't spent much time in Heaven, but while they might call the angels escorts or guides, he knew a guard detail when he saw one. Ambassadors or not, the angels were none too keen on having a bunch of impure mortals walking around their perfect realm. Salim suspected that if they knew who he was, they'd be even less pleased.
Still, as long as they were acting like guides..."Perhaps you can help me," he said. "I'm looking for a specific angel. One whose wings are chained. Does that sound like anyone you recognize?"
If Salim hadn't been watching, he might have missed the slight hitch in the lead angel's gait.
"Faralan will undoubtedly be able to help you find the one you seek," Malchion said from the back.
That wasn't a denial. Interesting—perhaps there was more to Caramine's story than Salim had assumed. He filed the information away and let the subject drop.
Beneath them, the mists and grain gave way to innumerable meandering walkways as they reached the mountain proper, the fitted stones winding through pastoral greenery. All around their little party, souls like the ones they'd seen at the gates sang in choirs, or swam in fountains, or sat chatting beneath vine-draped trellises. Many of those who looked more suited to a rough-and-tumble life practiced swordplay beneath the approving eyes of the angels, or hammered at steel in picturesque forges where every blow sounded like a church bell.
Nemeniah's path led the group directly beneath a twisted apple tree in which a wispy elf sat reading a picture book to transparent children of a dozen different races, while more of the floating light-globes bobbed around them. Salim looked back and found both Bors and Roshad staring up at the scene.
"They're so happy," Roshad murmured. "All of them."
"Of course they are," Malchion said, tone indulgent. "This is Heaven."
The sorcerer barely seemed to hear him. "I just want to run out and join them."
Salim laughed. "Ask Malchion here what he'd do if you tried."
The angels stiffened. Roshad looked questioningly at Malchion, who sounded vaguely apologetic. "Outsiders must not be allowed to interact with the Pure."
"That's why we're being escorted to the Shore," Salim said.
"The Shore?" Bors asked.
"Heathen Shore," Salim explained. "Heaven's international district. Most of Heaven is off-limits except to those who've been judged and found worthy, but even the angels occasionally find use for the rest of us. The Shore is where those with weaker moral fiber can trade, petition for aid, and otherwise cut deals favorable to the Heavenly host."
"Ah," Roshad said. "Quarantined at the docks, eh?"
"It's not meant as
discouragement," Nemeniah said, looking back over her shoulder. "You should welcome the gift of inspiration. It's never too late to cleanse yourselves and join the ranks of the righteous. You may yet be judged favorably."
"Lucky us," Roshad said.
They walked on in silence, their path cutting through sylvan groves and across delicate stone bridges over creeks that cascaded with the sound of distant laughter. Though their path split several times, sending off branches that climbed toward the golden towers and cities visible higher on the mountain's slopes, each time the angels guided them along the lower fork, keeping to the mountain's base. Above, flights of armored angels wheeled and dove in complex formations, their burning weapons trailing fire.
Salim had never had much to do with Heaven's angels. They were too straight-laced, too self-righteous in their causes, embodying all of the paternalistic and authoritarian elements he hated about religion. Yet that didn't mean they were wrong—quite the contrary. Looking up at those burning legions taking wing away from the mountain, knowing that they were bound for battle against tides of demons, the iron-shod armies of Hell, or the chaos of the Maelstrom, it was hard not to be inspired. Heaven's chosen weren't the only heroes—there were other realms, and other ways of living. But they were heroes nonetheless. Pharasma didn't make mistakes, and no one came to rest on Heaven's mount without earning it.
Which was why Caramine had to be wrong. Salim had suspected before, but just being here made it blindingly obvious. Righteousness was a way of life in Heaven—the only way. The thought of any angels opening their doors to the worst criminals in Kaer Maga just to put a thumb in Asmodeus's eye was absurd. It wasn't enough for Heaven to simply win a conflict—it had to win while retaining the moral high ground. That was what Heaven was, figuratively and literally. Perfect law and perfect morality.
Still, wasn't that sort of black-and-white thinking what he'd just taunted Maedora about? If Pharasma's own servants were capable of schisms in their doctrine, such as Ceyanan and Maedora's obvious disagreement over the use of Salim himself, then perhaps the angels were as well.
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 17
