Salim looked out at the fields of innocents, the clusters of martyrs and heroes, and tried to imagine the missing murderers among them. Caramine claimed that her machine cleansed the soul even as it took a victim's life, but did absolution in such a situation mean anything? Just because you leashed a dog didn't mean it wasn't vicious. Or, perhaps more appropriately, was a brigand who took a blow to the head and forgot his crimes still responsible for them? Or was he as guiltless as a newborn, a truly different person who just happened to inhabit the body of a criminal? Was it right to punish someone for choices he or she didn't remember? And was Pharasma's judgment even about reward and punishment, or simply about sending souls to those afterlives that best matched their characters?
Salim frowned. None of this should matter to him. These sorts of moral quandaries were the domain of psychopomps like Ceyanan and Maedora, creatures created to pass judgment on others. Salim was just a tool, carrying out his orders. The subservience rankled, but at least these chains were of his own making. If he started thinking like them, started taking their tasks to heart, then he was giving them more than he'd promised.
Being a tool kept him free. And if taking pride in his slavery was the only shred of defiance left to him, he'd keep it.
The path curved over a rise set with twin lines of gray stone obelisks, and suddenly the group was looking out over a valley. Flowing between two arms of the mountain like glistening surf, stone towers and columned forums rose up the basin's sides and cascaded over long, terraced plazas, their steep steps winding past fountains and monuments.
"Heaven's Shore," Nemeniah proclaimed, smiling at the way Bors and Roshad stared at the glimmering apparition.
Roshad turned to Salim. "I thought you called it—"
"There's its polite name," Salim said, "and then there's its real name. Come on."
The party started down the tiered slope toward the city, the angels content to let Salim lead the way now that they were safely contained. Salim had only been to Heathen Shore a handful of times, but it wasn't a sight one forgot easily. At each landing of the stone steps, perfectly manicured parks stretched out to either side, their sculpted hedges and flower gardens alive with the cheerful drone of insects. Fountains in the shape of armored angels redeeming troubled souls or pouring liquid fury onto the faces of dying demons were countered by tile mosaics of ordinary men and women tending the sick or feeding the hungry. At one particular switchback, a shrine no more than two feet tall displayed a simple unpainted statue of a woman rocking a child to sleep, and Salim found himself hurrying past, an unexpected lump in his throat.
Halfway down, the steps passed through a tall pergola, its golden wood shining out from between the broad leaves of climbing vines. Though the arbor itself looked delicate, with no walls to either side, there was no question in Salim's mind that this was as much a gate as the golden doors of Heaven itself—perhaps because of its guardian.
Nine feet tall, the green-skinned angel didn't bother with armor, only a tremendous two-handed sword that it held upright before it. Four lavender wings sprang up behind its back, spreading out and blocking passage through the garden gate. Both its face and its body were genderless, its head as smoothly bald as a river-washed stone, and a halo of golden runes floated like a coronet of light just above it.
The party stopped before the angel, Nemeniah nodding respectfully. Blank white eyes stared back, unblinking. Then it stepped aside.
Despite the knowledge that an angel would never strike another creature without cause, Salim's skin still crawled as he passed through the shadow of its massive wings. Ahead of him, Bors and Roshad clearly also struggled to maintain their casual pace, holding each other's hands tightly. When the creature moved back into place behind them, it was with the finality of a cell door closing.
Here, however, they at last began to encounter the residents of the Shore. On the terraced parks and plazas below them, a strange menagerie of figures walked the paths or lounged in lily-spotted pools. Many spoke with angels resembling Nemeniah and Malchion, yet others talked among themselves or simply took in the sights. Salim spotted a group of axiomites, their elven features dissipating into clouds of glowing symbols and equations as they gestured, only to immediately reform again. Near one of the pools, a termite-like humanoid whose black shell was embossed with glowing sigils sat in silent communion with three of the floating lanterns. At one point, Salim and the others were forced to stop as a ten-foot-tall blue-skinned man with a vertical column of extra eyes crossed their path, appraising them briefly before moving on, his silk-draped body guarded by no fewer than four cloaked figures bearing black swords.
"Who are they all?" Roshad asked.
Salim shrugged. "People. The residents of other planes. Mostly traders, I suspect—Heaven may not be willing to sully its holiest places with the presence of outsiders, but even the Empyreal Lords know that there are things other creatures and planes are more adept at, and the coffers of the faithful rarely run dry. People also come here to request aid, sometimes, or to try and cut deals for salvation."
Roshad raised an eyebrow. "You can do that?"
"Not really. But that doesn't stop folks from trying."
They reached the bottom of the steps, the stone path they'd been following widening into a semicircular courtyard that spawned half a dozen streets, all spaced equidistantly like the rays of the sun. Nemeniah led them across the shining stones and onto one of the avenues.
Here the smattering of residents became a true city. Creatures like mechanical, winged centaurs clopped along the stones, while a blazing avian apparition perched phoenix-like on a roof's edge, glaring down at passersby. Three giant nephilim, the misbegotten children of demigods and mortals, lounged in a doorway, each trying to convince an amused djinni that he was most worthy of her attention.
"There are no beggars," Roshad said in wonder. In front of him, Nemeniah laughed, a warm and indulgent sound.
They emerged into another broad square, this one studded with massive oaks that grew straight out of the pavement itself, their roots blending with the stone. Across the plaza, a cupolaed building with the air of a government seat stretched long arms halfway around the square, gathering it in.
"The Hall of Others," Nemeniah proclaimed. "Home of the Council of Oversight, the administrators of Heaven's Shore. They're best suited to assist you in the Lady's work."
"Thank you," Salim said. Nemeniah led them beneath the sprawling trees and up the broad steps to the building's columned central arcade. They crossed the shaded porch full of angels and passed between thick golden doors, into a grand chamber.
Beneath the domed ceiling, the austere room was four stories high and blindingly white. Long balconies ran the perimeter at each level, reached by means of delicate, sweeping marble staircases that swirled up from the floor's center like the stamens a flower, sometimes curling back on themselves before arching over to their balconies. At every story, the walls were devoted to row upon row of identical wooden doors, all closed. The only color in the room came from its lights, dozens of the dancing globes they'd seen earlier, all clustered together near the dome's apex.
As Salim and the others entered, one of the lanterns dropped from the ceiling, coming to rest at eye level in front of him.
"Welcome," the light said, in an airy female voice that echoed off the stone walls. "How may I guide you on a righteous path?"
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Fifteen
Heaven's Hound
Roshad and Bors blinked, taken aback.
The glowing ball pulsed, and there was a chime of laughter. "What, did you think we were just decoration?"
"Loriavus is an archon," Nemeniah explained. "An accomplished warrior in the armies of the exalted."
"Not everyone remains attached to their mortal form after transitioning," the archon said primly.
"Our apologies," Bors said, and both men bowed.
"Ac
cepted." Loriavus flashed a burst of golden approval. "Now, why are you here?"
Salim took control. "We've come on business from Pharasma's Court, tracking several missing souls. I was told at the gate that someone named Faralan could help me."
"Of course," Loriavus said. "Please follow me."
The archon floated across the open floor and up one of the great staircases. Salim followed, then the others, with Nemeniah and Malchion last. At the third balcony, the archon moved five doors down and then hung in the air in front of the sixth.
"Commander Faralan's office."
Above his veil, Roshad arched an eyebrow. "That was easy."
Ripples of brilliant green pulsed across Loriavus's globe. "The Council of Oversight is too busy to waste time with long hallways," it said. The door swung open. "Please, enter."
Inside, the office was every bit as spare as the main hall, its white walls blank save for another door to the left. The only furniture was an enormous desk of dark, polished wood, its surface strewn with papers and maps. An equally massive two-handed sword hung point-down on the wall behind it.
A man sat at the desk. Wingless, he wore a military uniform of pure white, contrasting with the rich black of his skin. Golden buttons climbed in a line to the jacket's stiff, high collar, and golden epaulets in the shape of feathers adorned his shoulders.
He also had a dog's head. Bent over the stacks of papers, the face above that elegant collar was that of a short-haired attack hound, sleek and regal. Dangerous.
The archon looked up. Old instincts made Salim stiffen, his body wanting nothing more than to snap to attention. Hound-headed or not, the authority in those glowing yellow eyes was something any soldier would recognize. From behind him, Salim heard shuffling as the others gave in to their own unconscious responses.
Commander Faralan studied them for a moment, then spoke, his voice a quiet rumble. "Yes?"
"An embassy from the Boneyard, Commander." Malchion spoke without stepping forward.
"Oh?" One bushy canine eyebrow rose as his attention came to rest on Salim.
Salim bowed slightly. "I am Salim Ghadafar, an agent of Pharasma. These are my companions, Bors and Roshad. I'm here because a number of souls have gone missing, and I've been sent to track them down."
"Runaways, eh?" The archon chuckled. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time a soul's tried to seek asylum in Heaven after what it felt was an unfair judgment. It's not an easy journey, given the sorts of places they're usually escaping from, but a few make it. You can rest assured, however, that they'll find no shelter here. Even the stiffest necks in Heaven bow to the Lady's wisdom, and no one crosses our borders without us knowing."
Salim was mildly taken aback by the archon's informality. His directness was a comfortingly familiar reflection of some of the better military officers he'd known.
"I'm afraid the matter's a bit more complicated," he said. "The souls in question never made it to the Boneyard for judgment in the first place."
Faralan's expression darkened. "The soul trade, is it? Stealing from the River of Souls goes against every law in the multiverse. I would have thought your people would have that handled, but if you require the swords of Heaven, you'll have them. Who is it you believe responsible? Daemons? Hags? Those gods-damned protean worms?"
"Actually, sir, the evidence points to angels."
Silence settled over the room. When the commander spoke again, his voice was low and flat. "That's a serious accusation, son."
"I know," Salim said. "Which is why I've come to you. We've already found those responsible for collecting the souls—a group of mortals who claim to have been set on their path by an angel. Whether or not the instigator is actually an angel, or merely another creature in disguise, has yet to be determined." He paused, then added, "They're good men and women, Commander. They believe they're doing Heaven's work."
The commander shook his long muzzle, sighing. "Don't they always? The things that get done in our name...But if the only lead you have is a supposed angel, then I understand your desire to follow it. You're welcome to conduct your investigation in the Shore. Even if your thief is taking the form of an angel, I can't imagine it would be stupid enough to try to sell its bottled souls right underneath Heaven's nose, but stranger things have happened. And there are enough questionable folk in the Shore that it might be able to find a buyer or make a rendezvous." Faralan's attention began to drift back to his papers.
"Commander, if what the mortals have been told is accurate, then the souls aren't being sold at all."
"Oh?" The archon picked up a pen and a fresh sheet of paper.
"The mortals claim to be using magic to redeem evil souls against their will, sending them straight to Heaven's armies without passing through the Boneyard."
"What?" The archon's head snapped back up, eyes burning ochre as he stared at Salim.
"Just as I've said. They claim a victory for Heaven."
"Heresy!" Faralan's lips pulled back in a canine snarl. He stood, neck muscles bunching beneath the uniform's collar. "As if the armies of Heaven would stoop to such methods! The mortals are mistaken. Redemption is Heaven's right, but it is always a choice—without repentance, there can be no salvation. Heaven's host is no mortal army, conscripting soldiers or commuting prison sentences in exchange for service."
Salim said nothing. After a moment, the archon shook his head and continued in a calmer voice, one that brooked no argument. "We're always happy to help the Lady, but I'm afraid you've been lied to. Heaven doesn't make mistakes."
And there it was: The root of Salim's problem with Heaven—or with any church, really. That blinding confidence. The trust in authority, and inability to admit fault. It grated like a knife scraping down Salim's spine.
"I'm afraid the Lady will have to be the judge of that," Salim said, showing his own teeth. "And I'm sure that, given your complete confidence in Heaven's innocence, you'll have no problem assisting my investigation in whatever ways I require."
Faralan growled softly. The rest of the group watched as the two divine representatives stared across the room at each other.
The hound broke first, taking a deep breath and seating himself once more. "You're wasting your time. If someone's stealing souls, then they're doing it for some other reason—probably selling them on the black market. But yes, of course we'll help."
Inwardly, Salim smiled—and then immediately felt ashamed. Did he really have to stare down everyone in the Great Beyond? Baiting Heaven's faithful was pointless, and Faralan wasn't actually a bad sort. The angels were self-righteous, but at least they stood for something. Unlike Salim himself, they kept their word.
"Do you have a name for this supposed traitor?" Faralan asked.
Salim shook his head. "Only a description. He appears somewhat like a common angel," he gestured back at Nemeniah and Malchion, "yet his wings are bound in chains." He stopped short, noticing the sudden perking up of Faralan's pointed ears. "You recognize him."
The commander shook his head. "Not specifically, but...you know about fallen angels? Hell's Whore Queens? Ardad Lili?"
Salim felt a rush of excitement. Despite going through the motions, he hadn't really expected Heaven to be of much help. "I'm familiar. You think the humans were working for one of the Fallen?"
"Possibly," Faralan said. "Hell's leaders are endlessly cunning. But that's not what I'm referring to."
Malchion spoke up. "The Redeemed?"
Faralan nodded. "If you know about the Fallen," he said to Salim, "then you should know that it can work the other way as well. It's not common, but occasionally a devil sees the error of its ways and truly repents, seeking forgiveness in Heaven's ranks. They become angels in their own right, yet they still bear the mark of penance. For some, that's chains on their wings."
While Salim was well acquainted with stories of fallen angels, it had never occurred to him that things might work in reverse. "So these redeemed devils are kept in chains?"
Farala
n shook his head. "Not in the way you mean. They aren't prisoners—they're angels, serving the will of Heaven. The chains are a manifestation, no different from my hound's head, there to mark them. Over time, they fall away."
"And do you have a registry of these Redeemed?"
"Of course we do," Faralan said. "In the Great Library. But Heaven is as vast as all time and creation. Even given how rare they are, and their restrictions, you'd still be several lifetimes tracking them all down."
Salim had feared as much, but it was a place to start. He glanced back toward Nemeniah and Malchion. "I presume we'll need an escort to visit the library?"
Faralan frowned. "It's better if outsiders don't leave the Shore. I could put in a request to have those lists copied and brought to you here—"
"Commander—" Salim objected.
"—but of course you won't allow that," the archon finished, nodding. He eyed Salim knowingly. "You're not the first representative of the Gray Lady I've met, boy. As always, the only rules that matter to you are your own. Honestly, you're as bad as the anarchist azatas."
Was that a glimmer of amusement in the archon's eye? Salim inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"Still," Faralan continued, "your duty is just, and necessary." He looked to Nemeniah and Malchion. "Are you two familiar with the Great Library?"
"Yes, Commander," Nemeniah said.
"Then these two will continue to act as your guides," Faralan said to Salim. "They'll take you to the archivists and see that you have Heaven's full support in this matter." Salim didn't need to read the archon's tone to know that "guides" still meant "chaperons."
He also knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Thank you," he said. He turned toward the door—then stopped, remembering a detail he'd forgotten.
"What about bleeding eyes?" he asked, turning back. "The mortals involved reported the angel having that as well—‘tears of blood for the sins of mortals.' Is that part of being one of the Redeemed?"
Faralan froze in the act of picking up one of the pages on his desk. Slowly, he set it back down, then closed his eyes and used two fingers to massage the top of his lowered muzzle, where the bridge of his nose would be if he were human. "Oh, Arathuziel..."
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 18
