Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine

by James L. Sutter

  "It was not a rescue mission—that's not Heaven's way. Every mortal soul on that battlefield was there by Pharasma's judgment, and it's not in an angel's nature to question such authority. Souls fell as easily as devils beneath the onslaught, and no tears were shed for them that hadn't already been shed for their falls from grace. No, this was solely a battle of aggression, the making of a point: a reminder that we were an abomination, and that Heaven and the other celestial planes would never rest so long as Hell's gates remained open.

  "It was also a suicide mission. You could see that in their eyes, and in the way the portal sealed behind them. Every angel in that flight knew what the eventual outcome must be—but of course, for an angel, dying on a devil's spear is simply another act of devotion. They sang as they died, prayers through bloody lips.

  "I was content to watch. As I've said, I was high among the devils, and though I could have done much, simple combat always seemed a waste of my abilities. That's what we have servants for. Yet one of the angels saw me watching from my ledge overlooking the battleground, and came for me.

  "She was beautiful, all dark skin and shadowed wings, her burning sword leaving a comet's tail behind her. She came, her squad close behind, and my retainers rushed to meet them. Blood and chitin flew as the two sides lit into each other. Yet though her greatsword swept left and right, her eyes never left mine.

  "At last she reached me, as I think we both knew she would. I whispered the poison for which I was known, yet her faith was so strong that the words were nothing to her. Her sword came down, and I caught it in my claws, sparks flying from their meeting. And then there was no time to speak.

  "The end was predetermined. I was the stronger, and we both knew it—knew it before she ever took flight toward my ledge. But she fought on anyway, bolstered by something I couldn't understand. And still her eyes refused to leave mine.

  "Finally, I ripped the sword from her hands, casting it down among the twitching corpses of our fallen retinues. Though weaponless, she still showed no hint of fear—not even when my claws lanced through her neck, lifting her from the ground like meat on a skewer. Instead, she smiled. And as the bubbling froth of her lifeblood poured from her ruined throat, she spoke.

  "And she forgave me."

  Arathuziel took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out. He opened his eyes again, looking to each member of his audience.

  "That was the beginning. Though I left her there on that ledge, smile frozen in the mask of death, her words followed me. Leaving my surviving minions to feast upon the raiders' bodies, I made my way back to my tower within the iron city of Dis, and there I brooded. Alone.

  "You need to understand: All my existence, I had been driven by the need to tear down the faith of others. That loss of direction, that questioning, that fear—those were who I was. And yet I had seen something in her that I had never seen in the faces of religious zealots. She was a Sarenite, it's true—yet that confidence came from more than just love of the sun goddess. It was the knowledge that she was dying for something even greater.

  "All creatures in Hell serve Asmodeus, for that is how he created it, in the time before time. Even my cultivation of apostasy and atheism, the rejection of gods by mortals, plays into his plan, as he would happily lose worshipers of his own in order to cost other gods theirs, and those who fall from grace often drift into his grasp anyway.

  "As a devil, I cherished that law, that order—a perfect system, with everything in its place. The austere beauty of it is something you cannot comprehend. Even the stately motion of the stars in your night sky is anarchy compared to the Archfiend's crystalline vision.

  "Yet for all that beauty, I now saw that the order of Hell was pointless. It was elegant, and smooth—but what purpose did it serve? Asmodeus's whims. All laws sprang from him, and he ruled absolutely, yet what laws bound him in turn? None. Despite his vision, he was ultimately as petulant as any of the gods I despised, ruled by emotion and his own bitterness toward a multiverse that refused to acknowledge his supremacy.

  "The angels, though...they, too, sought order. Heaven's drive toward law and structure was as strong as my own. Yet their goal was something greater: not a single entity, but a system of ideals. Love. Justice. Redemption. A perfect order that did not serve their deities, but rather bound them as tightly as the weakest angel. Their power was not an end, but a tool—a means toward something greater.

  "In spite of everything I had been taught about the strength of cruelty, the necessity of evil in maintaining order, I had seen love. And it had proven stronger.

  "And so, in one of the greatest ironies the multiverse has ever seen, I lost my own faith.

  "The change was slow at first. I locked myself in my tower, brooding on the meaning of what I'd witnessed, of the uncomfortable new ideas swirling inside me. I don't know how long I'd been there, walking the barren stone halls of my keep, when I looked down and saw that the blades had fallen from my hands. In their place were only stubs—weak, fleshy tentacles.

  "Fingers.

  "I raced to the mirror and watched in horrified awe as my black armor cracked and sloughed away, revealing the wet flesh underneath. Skin flowed back and down from behind my mask, forming a head and neck where one had never been needed before. It was only when the great wings tore free from my back and spread their dripping pinions that I understood. The angel's sacrifice hadn't just changed me inside—it was changing me outside as well. In my admiration, I was taking on a form like her own.

  "That was when I knew. I had seen the weakness of Hell, the inherent pettiness of its cruelties. It was time for me to go.

  "My first flight was awkward, painful. I threw myself from the tower's edge, barely keeping myself from being impaled on the spikes below, choosing a direction at random, knowing only that I needed to get away from the city.

  "I flew for longer than you can imagine. Epochs passed as I fled across Hell's barren landscapes, slaying those that sought to halt my progress, but never losing sight of my true goal. You have heard that the Outer Planes are infinite, and that is true, in a sense—yet they still have borders. In time, I reached the edges of Hell, and passed beyond. And at last, after time beyond mortal understanding, I came to the gates of Heaven. There, fully transformed into the form you see now, I knelt in the shifting mists and pledged myself—not to a god or master, but to Heaven itself. To its perfect law, and the love that guides it."

  There was a long silence. Salim realized he was breathing shallowly, not daring anything that might disrupt the story. When at last it became clear that no more was forthcoming, he spoke. "And Heaven accepted you."

  The angel gave a wry smile. "More or less."

  "More or less?" Roshad asked.

  In response, Arathuziel raised his wings, spreading them wide to better display the web of chains piercing his flesh. As he did, Salim noticed something he'd missed before: each of the giant padlocks holding the chains shut was a solid mass of black iron, without any apparent keyhole.

  "How can they do that to you?" Salim asked, feeling a sudden surge of anger.

  "For the same reasons they restrict who I can talk to," Arathuziel replied evenly. "The same reasons they keep me mostly on the mountain, rather than letting me travel to the Material Plane, or fight alongside the others in the wars against evil and chaos. They don't trust me yet."

  "How long have you been here?" Roshad asked.

  Arathuziel smiled. "Time is different in Heaven. Any answer I could give would be meaningless to you. But it's not the angels that bind me like this—it's Heaven itself. The angels make the rules and restrictions, but my chains are a part of me, until such time as I've proven myself in Heaven's eyes." He looked to Bors and Roshad's chain and raised an eyebrow. "And yours?"

  "Our bonds are a reminder," Bors said, taking Roshad's chained wrist and holding it up. "A tool to teach us."

  "I'm sure Heaven would say the same about mine," the angel replied.

  "You speak o
f Heaven like it's a conscious entity," Salim said. "Like it's watching you."

  "That's because it is—at least in a sense." Arathuziel made shapes with his hands, trying to elaborate. "Every angel is at some level a manifestation of the plane, and thus our forms are its prerogative. When I first arrived, I had more chains than you see now. But as I prove myself, the locks open, and chains drop away."

  "How do you prove yourself?" Roshad asked.

  Arathuziel laughed. "If I knew that, I would have shed them long ago. Heaven's tests are never the same twice, and sometimes totally inscrutable. Yet they seem to be tied to displays of virtue, and of dedication." He laughed again, this time with a harder edge. "Fortunately, the tests appear to be personal. Heaven doesn't seem to care how well I get along with the other angels."

  Salim nodded. "You resent them."

  Arathuziel grimaced. "It's not their fault. Not really. Trueborn angels have loyalty in their nature—it's part of who they are. As such, it's hard for them to accept a traitor, even one that's defected to their side. Every time they look at me, they have to decide whether morality trumps loyalty." He gave Salim a pointed look. "But I suspect you know all about such things. You have the skin and speech of a Rahadoumi, yet you serve the Lady of Graves."

  Salim's surprise must have showed in his face, because Arathuziel laughed again, this time with genuine amusement. "Consider my origins, Salim. Spreading atheism was part of my portfolio. Did you really think I wouldn't recognize one of the Godless?" He smiled. "Clearly you know something about prejudice—and maybe betrayal as well. Did you grow up hiding your faith from the priest-hunters? Or did you convert later in life?"

  Salim gritted his teeth. "I didn't come to the Lady by choice. What I did, I did to save someone else. Someone important."

  The angel's smile faded, and he nodded. "That's what the other angels can never understand—the concept of change. Of transformation. They're already pure, so for them, any change seems like a defilement."

  In my case, it was, Salim thought. Yet he was surprised at how closely the angel's words mirrored his own condemnation of Maedora.

  "Mortals are creatures of turmoil," Arathuziel continued. "They're constantly in motion, both inside and out. At any moment, they can make choices that define or redefine their nature, whereas creatures like angels—and devils, for that matter—make choices in accordance with their nature. Our free will is constrained.

  "That constantly shifting sense of self makes mortals vulnerable, but also powerful. As a devil, I guided them down dark paths, but I knew that at any moment they could change their minds and slip from my grasp. That was the challenge.

  "The other angels—the trueborn ones, the spirits of pure and unbridled virtue—they don't understand the power of choice. They praise the mortals who choose righteousness and walk the narrow path, but they fail to see that the choice is more important than the results. They hold up those who have never strayed, never fallen or doubted, and say ‘be as this one, clean and unsullied.'" He turned to Bors and leaned forward, hands on knees. "If I show you a man who's perfect in every way, how do you feel?"

  The big man thought for a moment. "Awed."

  "And then?"

  Bors frowned, thick brows bending down over his dark eyes. "Inferior."

  "Precisely." The angel straightened, crossing his arms. "Born-again sinners are always more persuasive than saints, because you can relate to them. They've been in your shoes. They've coveted and lusted and lied and killed and found salvation anyway. Perfection intimidates, inspires fear and jealousy. If you want to convert the heathens, send a converted heathen."

  "Like you," Salim said.

  Arathuziel spread his arms. "Why not? No mortal ever born is as stained and sullied as I was, and yet here I am. Purified. Rags to riches. If I can change, then they can, too.

  "That's what the other angels don't understand. They look at my origin and it scares them. They don't realize it makes me the best evangelist they've got."

  "Isn't that a little arrogant?" Salim asked.

  Arathuziel smiled. "Fortunately, arrogance is one sin that Heaven has no problem with. Or hadn't you noticed?"

  Salim smiled back. "Perhaps."

  Arathuziel raised his hands toward the ceiling. "Praise the gods—a visitor who understands!" He lowered them again, folding them in his lap. "But as much as I appreciate having an audience for my rants, that's not why you're here." He fixed Salim with a suddenly businesslike gaze. "So why are you?"

  Salim felt the weight of those eyes as he spoke. "It's about some souls—souls bound for Hell and the other evil planes. They've gone missing."

  Salim watched Arathuziel carefully for any twitch, as well as any practiced lack of a twitch. An attempt to hide a reaction would be itself revealing. Yet the angel gave him nothing.

  "So?" Arathuziel asked. "Hell's problems ceased to be mine a long time ago."

  "That's the thing," Salim said. "The mortals harvesting these souls claim that they're converting them at the moment of death, magically absolving the victims of their sins even as they're slain. A free pass to join Heaven's ranks, without standing for the Lady's judgment—whether the victims want it or not."

  Arathuziel's face hardened, mouth turning to a flat line. "I see. If it's true, then that's troubling indeed. Yet I'm still not clear on why Faralan sent you to me. As I explained, due to my restrictions, I can do little to help you with anything related to the mortal plane."

  The moment of truth. Salim took a breath. "The mortals claim they were set on their path by an angel. One with chained wings and tears of blood."

  For a second, the angel's face went slack, blank eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. Then the jaw shut once more, snapping closed with a bear-trap click, and the pale face colored, beautiful features twisting in anger.

  "Of course," Arathuziel growled, half to himself. "I shouldn't be surprised. After all, who better to pin it on? The more I argue with the commanders, the less angelic I seem, and the more angels recognize me."

  "So you claim to know nothing of the theft?"

  Arathuziel shot Salim an irritated look. "Were you even listening to my story? I'm the last person who'd do something like this. My entire crusade is about the value of choice, and struggle for virtue against one's nature—absolution without reformation would only cheapen that." He snapped his wings down against the floor, making their chains and locks ring loud against the stones. "Do you think I endure this indignity because I enjoy it? I was a lord in Hell, and I gave it up to follow Heaven's light, only to be looked down upon by untested whelps like your friends outside, who've never had to question their beliefs."

  He had a point. Even more important were the emotions streaming across his face—anger, betrayal, resentment. If they were false, then the angel was a fabulous actor. But then, he had been a devil...

  "So you think someone's framing you," Salim said.

  "Isn't it obvious?" Arathuziel almost shouted. With an effort, he breathed deep and collected himself. When he spoke again, it was still tense, but measured. "Between the enemies I left behind in Hell and the angels who resent a redeemed devil challenging convention, there are plenty who would like to drag me down. Though if the souls really are going to Heaven, I can't see a devil being responsible. They're spiteful, but I doubt they'd give up souls just to smear a traitor's reputation."

  "Another angel, then," Salim said.

  Arathuziel nodded. "It would make the most sense. Forcing a soul into redemption would be heresy—the spiritual equivalent of rape. It goes against every law in the multiverse, and my own philosophy in particular. But I can see how quietly draining Hell's coffers to feed Heaven's would appeal to some, if they could do it without being caught." He frowned. "And if they had someone to pin it on."

  "But you just said you're all about choice," Salim said. "Encouraging mortals to find Heaven for themselves. Why would someone try to pin this on you?"

  "Because it's only a contradiction if you list
en to me," Arathuziel spat. "I can preach all I want about the nature of morality, but how many angels do you see lined up outside my dome? There's a reason I live so close to Heathen Shore." He blinked rapidly, and the tears of blood, now spilling off the chiseled edges of his chin, rimmed his lashes in rings of bright crimson. "Pinning it on me makes perfect sense if you already distrust the Redeemed. Maybe a few know me well enough to listen to what I have to say—Faralan among them, possibly. But to the others...well, it just proves what they already suspect, doesn't it? Redeemed are too dangerous to be given a voice." He covered his face with his hands, red blood sliding between long white fingers.

  Salim wasn't given to responding to others' emotions—that innate human empathy had been buried long ago by the needs of his profession. The guilty cried just as easily as the innocent. Yet having seen the naked pain in the angel's face, he found himself believing it. Why would the angel risk everything he'd struggled for just to rob others of that same choice? It didn't add up.

  Which made what he had to do next even harder.

  "I think you're lying."

  The room froze. Next to him, Bors and Roshad stopped breathing, caught completely off guard.

  Slowly, Arathuziel raised his blood-smeared face from his hands.

  "What did you say?"

  Salim stood. His head was still well below that of the seated angel's, but he tried his best to look down at him anyway. "I said it's a nice story, but I'm not buying it. You were a devil, Arathuziel. A fugitive from Hell who found asylum in Heaven. Now other souls are making the same switch, whether they want to or not. Doesn't that strike you as a bit coincidental?"

  Beneath the blood, Arathuziel's cheeks darkened. "I told you—"