"You said a lot of things," Salim said. "But for all your talk of choice, I know devils. And they like to win at any cost. You may have switched teams, Arathuziel, but that doesn't change who you are."
"Salim—" Roshad began.
Salim cut him off with a chopping motion, then stepped in front of the two men, positioning himself between them and the angel.
On the other side of the tiled depression, Arathuziel stood, unfolding himself slowly and deliberately, wings stretching out above his head. Anger massed like storm clouds on his face, white skin deepening to grayish red and on into livid purple-black.
"You're wrong." The angel's words rang from every point of the dome. "You know nothing of what I've suffered."
Below, in the angel's long shadow, Salim drew his sword, letting it hang loosely at his side.
"So what are you going to do about it?"
Black eyes as flat as glass glared down at him. There was a burst of light, and suddenly Arathuziel's clenched fist held a blazing sword as long as Salim was tall, the wind off its flickering flames slamming against Salim in a wave of heat.
"There it is, then," Salim said. "Once a devil, always a devil." He raised his sword into the guard position, ready to dodge, to open himself to the goddess's black flow.
Arathuziel was an image out of a crusader's fantasy. He towered over the humans, corded muscles tense and quivering, sword ablaze and face a mask of death. A divine executioner.
The flaming blade vanished.
"No," Arathuziel said. Folding his wings, the angel took a step back. "Not anymore."
There were soft sounds from behind Salim as Bors and Roshad relaxed, but Salim couldn't do the same. Not yet. "Do you admit your guilt, then?"
The angel shook his head. Though his eyes were still hard, he was calm again, hands folded. "I respect Heaven's authority. Take me to Commander Faralan. We'll see what he says."
Almost there.
"I'm sorry," Salim said, "but Faralan invested me with the authority to pass judgment." He raised his sword higher. "The penalty for soul theft is the same in Heaven as on Pharasma's Spire."
"Salim!" Roshad and Bors made as if to grab his arm, but Salim's glare froze them in place. The two men looked on, faces dark with disapproval.
Arathuziel looked stricken. "But...I'm innocent!"
"By the laws of Heaven, which you claim to obey, I am the rightful arbiter of this matter. And I've made my decision." Salim pointed at the ground in front of the angel.
Arathuziel stared. Fear and anger flickered across that porcelain face, but greater than both of them was a deep, abiding sadness. Slowly, the angel knelt, his huge knees damming the babbling creek and sending it rushing off in new directions. Hands clasped to his chest as if in prayer, he bent at the waist, bowing his head until it touched the tiles, neck outstretched. He closed his eyes.
"I submit to Heaven's will," he whispered.
There was a moment of silence, then the slide of steel on leather as Salim sheathed his sword. He touched the top of the angel's head, feeling the thick, silken strands of his hair.
"Rise, Arathuziel."
For a moment, the angel didn't move. Then he stood, awkward and bewildered.
"I'm sorry for that," Salim said. "Truly sorry. But I had to know that you were honest in your dedication."
Confusion solidified into anger. "You were testing me?"
"I had no other choice," Salim said. "Your reasoning made perfect sense, but in my line of work it pays to be certain. If you could be goaded into starting a fight with a representative of Heaven, even in self-defense, then I would have to accept the possibility that you were lying as well." He stepped forward and proffered his hand. "As your gods' priests are so fond of saying—forgive me?"
The angel stared down at the hand for a moment. Then he threw back his head and gave a roar of laughter.
"You're a bastard, Salim." The angel took his hand. "A self-righteous prick with no concern for the feelings of others. You'd fit in well here."
Salim smiled back, trying not to show the tide of relief flooding through him.
"Out of curiosity," Arathuziel said, "what would you have done if I'd given in and decided to fight you?"
"Died, probably." Perhaps the goddess's magic could have protected him, but in such close quarters, on his opponent's home turf, Salim wouldn't want to bet on his chances against a ten-foot-tall angel with a burning sword.
"Then it was as much a test for you as for me," Arathuziel said.
Salim opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a quiet snick, followed by a shivering rattle as one of the chains on Arathuziel's right wing came loose, dropping to coil in snarled loops on the tile.
Arathuziel grunted. "Apparently you're not the only one who thought your test was worthwhile." He reached down and fished among the links, then came up with the blank-faced lock, its shackle now hanging open. He handed it to Salim. "Here. Take this."
Salim accepted it. The lock was as big as his palm, and exactly as heavy as it looked. He turned it over in his hands. What use was a lock with no keyhole? Still... "Thank you."
Arathuziel smiled. "It's not a gift, Salim. Or at least, not a gift to you." He picked up the chain off the floor, running it through his hands. "These were a part of my body for longer than your world's nations have had names. In a way, they're still a part of me. Even though they've come free, I can still feel them, if they're close enough. Sense them."
Salim stopped fondling the lock. "I don't understand."
Arathuziel reached out and wrapped Salim's fingers around the metal. "Keep it with you. When you find the person responsible for the heresy—the one who's been framing me—hold it in your hand and call to me." Black glass eyes flashed cold again. "I want to be there."
"Sounds fair." Salim pulled his coin pouch from beneath his robe, dropped in the lock, then tucked it back out of sight, feeling the unfamiliar weight pressed against his side.
"So what now?" Roshad asked. Both the little man and his partner—his szerik, Salim reminded himself—had their arms crossed, though they no longer looked angry. "If the description you've got is deliberately misleading, then you're right back where you started."
They were right. Salim mulled the problem over. Even supposing Arathuziel was correct and the culprit was another angel, that still left a roughly infinite number of suspects. Presumably only a tiny subset would be willing to risk heresy, and an even smaller one would be familiar enough with Arathuziel to frame him. Clearly whoever was impersonating the angel wanted to point blame toward the Redeemed, so that made it unlikely that another Redeemed was responsible. He could ask around about other angels who'd been outspoken in their criticism of Heaven's methods, but whoever was responsible seemed too smart for that. He needed a different angle.
"The machine," Salim said. "The thing Caramine calls the Redemption Engine. Without it, there's no way they could do what they're doing."
Bors frowned. "Can't lots of things steal souls? I've read about swords that drink souls, or the guillotines in Galt that trap the souls of the condemned. And some assassins have ways of destroying souls, to make sure they never come back."
Roshad squeezed the big man's forearm. "You and your books."
Bors shrugged. "Not everyone can sleep till noon every day."
Salim shook his head. "This isn't just theft. Ordinary magic can bottle up souls or destroy them—but the moment a bottled soul is released, it rejoins the River of Souls, flowing to Pharasma's Boneyard for judgment. The souls we're looking for are supposedly bypassing that altogether, becoming new angels immediately. That shouldn't be possible."
"If they're becoming angels," Roshad asked, "can't we just gather up the newest arrivals and question them?"
"Infinite plane," Bors reminded him gently. "Think about how many people die every minute. You'd be looking for individual drops in a waterfall."
"The machine has to be the key." Salim turned to Arathuziel. "Any idea where an
angel could get the design for a machine that sucks out souls?"
Arathuziel answered without hesitation. "The Great Library."
Salim was momentarily taken aback. "The Great Library of Harmonious Scripture? They would have something like that?"
Arathuziel chuckled darkly. "There's more in Heaven's vaults than you might realize. If anyone here has the information you seek, it'll be the librarians."
"The library it is, then." Salim bowed to Arathuziel, lower than he had to anyone in a long time. "Thank you for your help."
"My pleasure," Arathuziel said, returning the bow. Then he put a hand on Salim's shoulder. "I think perhaps we're similar, you and I. Rebellious servants, both."
"Perhaps." Salim said. Then, unable to help himself: "Except that you serve by choice. You can walk away any time you like."
Arathuziel shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, Salim. Choice binds us tighter than any chain."
Salim frowned. "Believe me, I know that better than anyone."
"Do you?" The angel moved over to a small ledge in the wall and picked up a paintbrush.
Salim smothered a spark of anger at the angel's tone. "I made a deal. A promise to serve."
The angel dipped the brush in a tiny pot of pigment. "And that's why you do what you do?"
"Of course."
"And if you stopped, you'd be killed?"
Salim laughed. "Hardly. That particular exit was denied to me a long time ago."
"Your loved ones, then. Or perhaps you'd be tortured?"
"No. That's not how Pharasma works."
"So what do you have to lose by refusing?"
Salim opened his mouth—and found that he had no response. A long moment passed, and then he said, "Honor. I gave my word. The goddess took everything else from me, but she can't take my honor."
The angel snorted. "She doesn't have to if you give it to her."
The rebel spark rekindled and shot into Salim's throat, burning like bile. "What—"
"Honor is an excuse, Salim. Every moment is a new choice. Gods can rage, worlds can break, but free will means your path is your own." He smiled, beatific as a plaster saint. "So walk it."
Then he turned his back on the mortals and began painting another memory of Hell.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Eighteen
The Path of Knowledge
You let him go?"
"He made some good points."
Reunited with Malchion and Nemeniah once more, Salim's expedition made its way up the mountain on another of the stone paths, this one running along the spine of a rocky outcropping. Behind them, Arathuziel's crystal dome grew small, a sparkling diamond stud on a cushion of green felt.
"But the description..." Malchion pressed.
"Could have come from anyone who'd even heard of him," Salim said firmly. "Which, from what I gather, is most everyone."
Malchion radiated disapproval. "He's still the most likely culprit. And now you've played your hand and given him time to ready his defenses. The next time your investigation leads you to him, I fear you'll find him better prepared."
"You seem awfully sure he's responsible."
The angel grimaced, and Nemeniah broke in.
"You're of course right to reserve judgment until you've finished collecting evidence," she said soothingly. "My brother simply fears that you'll face great difficulty in taking Arathuziel if he's forewarned. The Redeemed are powerful, and if he's indeed flouted Heaven's law..."
"He submitted this time," Salim reminded them. "Knelt on the stone and presented his neck for the blade. If he's willing to commit heresy, why would he hand himself over for execution?"
"Perhaps he believes that strongly in his cause," Malchion said. "If you'd killed him without further interrogation, any associates he might have would remain free to continue his work."
"Or it was simply a ruse," Nemeniah noted. "Your sword might never have completed its stroke."
"Perhaps," Salim acknowledged. But he didn't think so. He'd seen the angel's eyes as he'd knelt. They'd showed hurt, and betrayal, and a deep anger—yet also resignation. Arathuziel had believed himself about to die over a mistake—worse, over outright prejudice—and he'd gone to the gallows anyway, to prove a point. Anything else would have marked him as the traitor the others all thought him to be. He'd been willing to die rather than forsake his hard-won place in Heaven's celestial order.
Malchion and Nemeniah still looked displeased, yet they didn't press the point. They continued up, leading the group on toward the Great Library as Salim had instructed. Salim himself slowed until he was at the rear of their procession, and this time the siblings let him, trusting to the dramatic cliff face to his left and perilous drop-off to his right to keep him on the path.
Arathuziel hadn't been exaggerating the angels' prejudice—that was clear enough. Faralan had seemed more moderate, but if Nemeniah and Malchion were typical examples of the reception the Redeemed faced in Heaven, then it was small wonder the Chained chose to live near Heathen Shore. At least there, the second-class citizens could all be discriminated against together.
The worst part was the fact that, from a certain point of view, angels like Nemeniah and Malchion were absolutely correct. Constant vigilance was part of their mandate. Never mind that redemption was just as crucial to their faith—they couldn't afford to make mistakes that might endanger Heaven, and their focus on the greater good was all-consuming. From their perspective, Arathuziel should accept his lower status gladly, understanding that his personal frustration was necessary to protect the whole. Heaven was fundamentally collectivist like that. If a good soul valued freedom over order, it didn't go to Heaven, but rather to freewheeling Elysium, the plane of artists and rebels and other iconoclasts.
Regardless, the angels' prejudice wasn't Salim's problem—just whoever was using it as a cover. Without a convenient description to go off of, all he could do was hope that the library had something on the machine, and that it led him somewhere useful.
Ahead, a flight of things that looked like winged helmets swooped low, dipping their wings as they passed in front of Nemeniah and Malchion. The twins saluted as the cascade of empty helms flapped and climbed for altitude once more.
Caught up in the sight, Roshad stumbled, one foot slipping off the edge of the path. Without looking, Bors put a hand out, grasping the smaller man's shoulder and setting him right. The two continued on as if nothing had happened, their footfalls synced so perfectly that they sounded like one man.
Salim felt an unexpected surge of loneliness. What was it the men had said about their philosophy? Shared mind and shared heart. Every move the two made was complementary. They spoke for each other, watched each other's backs, and loved each other with a fierceness that was unmistakable.
Even the angels had a lesser version of that. Nemeniah and Malchion moved with the unconscious precision of soldiers trained by the same commanders, unthinking in their support of each other. Even if they weren't brother and sister in a literal sense—a facet of angel physiology Salim still wasn't sure about—they had become such through service. Siblings bound by blood shed, if not blood shared.
How long since Salim had experienced either of those? The first woman he had loved had died generations ago—died twice, thanks to him. He'd betrayed his comrades, killing those he'd held closest. In the decades since, he'd learned better, keeping those that might have filled that space at arm's length. But sometimes...
The path widened, and Bors and Roshad interrupted his melancholia by dropping back to walk beside him, Roshad in the middle.
"We've been wondering," Roshad said. "Explain to us why this is so important."
"What?" Salim asked. "The soul-stealing?"
Bors nodded.
"Everyone here goes to great pains to explain how vast Heaven is," Roshad said. "So what do a couple of souls from Kaer Maga matter?"
"It's the principle," Salim sai
d, but Bors was already shaking his head.
"You're clearly burning diplomatic goodwill by being here," Roshad said. "Gods or otherwise, governments don't call in favors like that over principle."
Now it was Salim's turn to shake his head. "You don't understand. The Outer Planes are realms defined by principle. Heaven, Hell, Axis and the Maelstrom—all these places are the manifestation of ideas. Ideology made physical. Even a small upset can have huge ramifications. A few souls circumventing the system is nothing—but if it were allowed to continue, the idea could spread like cancer through Heaven's host, and maybe the fabric of the planes themselves. The whole house of cards could come crashing down."
The Iridian Fold men still looked unconvinced. "So?" Roshad asked. "We're not particularly religious men. We appreciate the idea of a pleasant afterlife waiting for us when we make our last ride, but the idea of dying on its behalf seems a bit counterproductive. If Heaven and the rest can't take care of themselves..."
"Oh, they can," Salim said grimly. "The question is: where are they going to do it?"
Roshad tugged at his veil. "I don't follow."
"Say you know you're going to get into a fight," Salim said. "A man challenges you to a duel, and you can't refuse him. Where do you fight him—out in the street, or in your living room?"
"I don't—" Roshad began, but Bors cut him off.
"Neutral ground," he said. "You don't want to risk your family or your possessions in the battle."
"Exactly," Salim said. "If the stalemate between Heaven and Hell heats up into a full-fledged war, do you think it's going to happen on those planes? Of course not—they're both too well defended. It'll start in the border regions, the areas that are already most contested.
Roshad's eyes widened in understanding. "The mortal world."
Salim touched his nose, then pointed at the sorcerer. "Exactly. Even if the angels and devils keep to the Outer Planes, fighting out in the chaos of the Maelstrom or making raids against each other's fortifications, do you think their mortal worshipers will stand by passively while their masters launch a crusade? Imagine what would happen if every devil-binder in Cheliax and every Sarenite dervish in Qadira got it into their heads to exterminate each other completely, rather than the little skirmishes they have now. Or worse—what if all the paladins guarding the Worldwound decided that keeping demons from overrunning the Inner Sea was less important than striking back at the devils of Hell, and abandoned their posts?"
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 21
