"You know him?" Salim asked.
"Arathuziel the Chained." Nemeniah spoke from behind Salim, tone apologetic. "I thought of him as soon as you mentioned the chains, but of course it would be wrong to accuse him simply because he's one of the Redeemed. Still..."
"The description matches," Faralan said, looking up. His voice was firm again. "In more ways than just physical, I'm afraid. Arathuziel's heart is in the right place, but his methods can be...unconventional. I had hoped he would have learned our ways by now, but the plan you describe has the ring of something he might propose. After all, he was an evil soul himself, once." He sighed. "I fear that perhaps your investigation isn't as warrantless as I'd originally hoped."
"Can you take us to him?" Salim asked.
"Certainly," the archon said. "Malchion and Nemeniah know the way."
"It's not far," Nemeniah said. "Arathuziel lives close to Heaven's Shore."
"In that case," Salim said, "we'll go at once."
"Good," Faralan said. "I wish you the best of luck in your investigation. I have high hopes for Arathuziel, but heresy of the sort you describe cannot be tolerated. If he turns out to be responsible, I ask only that you carry out the sentence swiftly and without rancor."
"Of course," Salim said.
"You're going to let the human pass judgment, Commander?" Nemeniah sounded shocked. "You don't want us to bring him in?"
Faralan shook his head. "No, child—in this case the Lady's grievance is greater than our own, and thus takes precedence. Your witness will be enough." A pause, and his lip curled up slightly. "And in my experience, the Lady's operatives aren't much for proper channels anyway."
Salim smiled back. "I see you really have dealt with us before."
"Go, then," Faralan said with a wave. "Grant mercy if you can, but solve the problem. The gods are kind, but some sickness can't be healed, only cut away."
Salim and the angles turned to leave, but Roshad and Bors didn't move.
"Why don't the gods do something about it?" the sorcerer asked.
Faralan looked at him. "What?"
"The gods." Roshad pointed at the ceiling with his unchained hand. "This is their home, right? Some of them, anyway. They're all-powerful and all-seeing. So if some of their servants are corrupted, why are they letting that go on right under their noses?"
Faralan's smiled again, broader this time. He looked at Salim. "I always forget how many questions you people have." Then he turned back to Roshad. "How many missing souls are we talking about here? Fifty? A hundred?"
Roshad shrugged.
The archon chuckled. "It could be ten thousand, and that would still be nothing compared to the waves of souls washing up at Heaven's gates every day. The Lady of Graves," he nodded at Salim, "may be something of an accountant, and I suspect that Abadar the Banker-God is just as particular. But the rest are more concerned with the big picture. They've got people to deal with these matters." He hooked a thumb at his own chest. "People like us, or your friend Salim. Just because someone's omniscient doesn't mean they need to handle every little detail themselves."
Salim frowned. "Stealing souls is a little detail? From what I understand, Hell is fuming. There could be war."
Faralan spread his hands. "There have been wars before, and there will be wars again. It's all a matter of perspective."
Roshad nodded slowly. "I hope I never have that level of perspective."
"You and me both, son," the archon agreed.
Behind them, the twin angels shifted awkwardly. Judging by their expressions, even talking about such sins made Malchion angry and Nemeniah queasy.
"Thank you for your help," Salim said.
"You're welcome," Faralan said, "and all of Heaven's blessings upon you and your mission." He turned back to his charts. "Now get out of my office before I have you all mucking out the celestial kennels, and the Lady of Graves be damned."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Sixteen
House of the Redeemed
Nemeniah and Malchion led the group up a different flight of stairs than the one they'd used to enter. Behind them, Heaven's Shore began to twinkle with lanterns both living and mundane as twilight stole over the district—and only the district. Up where the traveler's stood, it was still as bright as noonday, the sky its same radiant silver.
Bors and Roshad stopped on one of the path's many landings, staring down at the long shadows spilling like ink through the district's streets.
"It's a courtesy," Nemeniah explained. "Not every race that visits Heaven is comfortable in the light. Of course, for those who make the mountain their home, there are other places—cavern systems, cities suspended beneath overhangs or deep within the freezing tarns. But for the visitors, it's convenient to maintain the illusion of night and day."
"Whereas out here there's no decent way to tell time at all." Salim gestured to the blank sky. "Time is a construct the gods employ or ignore at will. Speaking of which..." He turned to Nemeniah, who was proving the more talkative of the angelic pair. "You say we're close to this Arathuziel's residence?"
Nemeniah nodded, silver hair catching the sky's light in a perfect reflection. "Extremely. We'll be there in a few minutes, even without the mountain's help."
"Help?" Roshad asked.
"The mountain moves with us." Unlike Nemeniah, Malchion spoke in a crisp and businesslike fashion, with no air of affectionate indulgence. "It can stretch or shorten distances, as it sees fit. Otherwise travel would take forever."
"Literally," Salim added, then refused to be sidetracked. "This Arathuziel—you recognized him as soon as I described him."
"Oh yes," Nemeniah said, waving them forward as they began to climb the massive staircase once more. "I imagine many angels stationed near the Shore would. He's quite outspoken."
"Outspoken about what?"
Nemeniah didn't respond immediately, and Salim saw in her posture that she was afraid she'd said too much.
Fortunately, Malchion had no such compunctions. "He doesn't like following orders. He resents the fact that Redeemed are restricted, and challenges the authority of his superiors—the Triad of Choirs, even the Empyreal Lords themselves."
"Restricted how?" Salim asked.
"In where they can go," Nemeniah said. "Who they can talk to. For instance, they're not allowed to leave Heaven without permission."
"And of course they aren't allowed to converse with the recent arrivals," Malchion added. "It wouldn't be prudent."
"Why?" That was Roshad. Both angels turned to look at him. Above his veil, blue eyes blazed a challenge. "They're angels now, right? Why restrict them at all?"
Nemeniah put a hand on the man's shoulder. "To show that they're different."
But Roshad had a good point. "So they're on parole," Salim said. "They're prisoners allowed to work in exchange for good behavior."
"Of course not!" Nemeniah looked aghast. "They're angels!"
"Then why set them apart?" Salim pressed.
"Because they were devils," Malchion snapped, anger clouding his perfect features. "They've been redeemed, by Heaven's grace, but that doesn't make them the same as those who were created pure. They need to be marked so that other angels can keep an eye on them. It's for everyone's good, including theirs."
"Virtue must be recognized," Nemeniah said, in a more conciliatory tone. "But that doesn't mean Heaven can afford close-eyed optimism. The Redeemed were devils once. If they can change once, it's possible they could change again. Heaven's integrity must be protected at all costs. The Redeemed know this as well as we do, and agree. Or at least, most do."
"Of course," Salim said. "They're perfect, but not as perfect. No wonder you wouldn't want them interacting with your flock. Why, that might be as bad as letting souls talk to mortals like us."
"Yes," Malchion agreed.
"Salim." Bors had his hand on his partner's shoulder, and Salim could hear the warning in the big m
an's voice.
He was right, of course. Salim doubted they could make the angels angry enough to place him and his friends in any real danger, but that didn't mean it was wise to antagonize them further. In truth, they weren't even doing anything wrong—as far as they were concerned, protecting Heaven and its souls was more important than existence itself. Obedience and service were everything to an angel. Likely either of these would fall on their swords—or in this case, their enormous warhammers—in a heartbeat if their commanders told them to. To them, simple restrictions such as who one could talk to were nothing.
Salim was no stranger to caste systems. He'd lived in numerous nations with striated societies. So why did his blood boil now, hearing the angels speak the same sentiments? Maybe it was because he'd naively hoped for better from creatures supposed to be physical manifestations of order and goodness—however one chose to define those. Or maybe it was simply that he identified with anyone held down by a god. Even an angel.
On the heels of those thoughts came the realization that such a reaction was no doubt perfectly in tune with the beliefs of Kaer Maga's Freemen. If you were an angel chafing under Heaven's yoke, what better group of mortals to approach?
Pondering such things kept him busy for the rest of the walk, only barely noticing the heart-burstingly gorgeous hills and glens, their short green grass begging him to lie down and fall asleep. In the distance, a herd of centaurs thundered across a vale and through a series of waterfalls descending from a cliff high above, hooves spraying water out behind them in crystalline clouds.
At last they crested a final rise and found themselves confronting a glass dome the size of a large manor house. A twelve-foot-tall wall of unblemished silver formed the dome's base, and from this ring sprouted four identical spurs that rose into obelisks as tall as the dome itself. A stream laughed and burbled its way under one side of the dome, only to emerge again on the other.
Roshad whistled. "This is what angels live in?"
Nemeniah frowned. "Arathuziel is a bit...eccentric. Even for one of the Redeemed."
Salim studied the structure. The path led up to the dome's foot, yet there was no sign of a door, and the metallic foundation prevented him from seeing inside. The glass above showed only empty space within.
"Do you think he's home?" Roshad asked.
Salim stepped forward. "Only one way to find out."
The group moved down the final leg of the walkway, Nemeniah and Malchion overtaking Salim to walk slightly ahead of him on either side. At the edge of the dome, Salim raised his hand to knock, but Nemeniah stopped him with a gesture.
"Arathuziel," Malchion called, his voice the blast of a hunting horn, "stand forth!"
For several moments, nothing happened. The pastoral field rang with the echo of Malchion's words, then fell quiet. The creek continued to gurgle, and a faint breeze swept over the grass, rippling it like a sea.
A dot of light appeared on the metal wall in front of them, a single thumb-sized hole at Salim's eye level. It irised larger, the silver folding back on itself like dough rolled by an invisible hand. The opening stretched, becoming a squared doorway almost as tall as the metal wall itself, wide enough for either of their angelic escorts to walk through with arms outstretched.
In the opening stood an angel, but one unlike any Salim had ever seen. Though still androgynous by human standards, he was undeniably male. He stood even taller than Nemeniah and Malchion, a full ten feet, with a lean but muscular build hidden only by loose wrappings around his waist. He was as pale as the other two, with long white-gold hair.
There, however, any resemblance stopped. The dove-white wings which rose from behind his shoulders were a mass of thick black chains set with crude padlocks, wrapping and crisscrossing the bright feathers in a net of iron, their weight palpable just by looking at them. More, they pierced the wings, running through them or stretching the skin around their heavy links, the wounds healed over like a hole for an earring. The eyes in his chiseled face had no pupils, only a single shining field of black in each socket, from which thick trails of vermilion blood ran down white cheeks.
Yet the real difference between this angel and the group's escorts was in the way he stood. Nemeniah and Malchion were powerful, impressive—yet there was something deferential in them as well, as if they were constantly waiting to take orders from a higher authority. This angel projected no such humility. He was strong, unbowed by the chains, as unyielding as a stone on a cliff—and, Salim suspected, as uncaring toward any who got in his way. That presence radiated out from him like heat.
"Yes?" the angel asked, his smooth baritone surprisingly normal.
"Arathuziel the Chained," Malchion said formally. Though Salim could see that they didn't like it, both Malchion and Nemeniah bowed their heads to the Redeemed. "These are Salim, Bors, and Roshad—mortals come on business from Pharasma's Court. Commander Faralan orders you to speak with them."
Eyes like cut obsidian gazed down at Salim, then at Bors and Roshad.
"Very well," Arathuziel said. "I will speak with them inside."
The two guides straightened and moved to enter, but Arathuziel's raised hand blocked them. "Alone."
Anger flashed across Malchion's face. "But Commander Faralan—"
"—has no power over my home," Arathuziel said firmly. "I can guard three mortals as well as you can, especially within the dome of my own house. When we're finished, I will return them to you." He looked toward Salim. "Follow." Then he turned and entered the shining doorway.
Salim and his companions did as instructed. As soon as they were inside, the portal behind them flowed shut, the metal sealing without a visible seam. Salim's last sight of their angelic guards was Malchion staring at him, face flushed with anger and embarrassment, while Nemeniah touched his shoulder and whispered into his ear.
Inside, the dome was a single vast room, completely devoid of furniture. Above, the glass of the dome was so perfect as to be almost invisible, making a roof of the sky. Looking up at its endless expanse made Salim feel at once inspired and inexplicably lonely, as if he were standing alone in an open field.
The floor of the space was white tile, large squares that fit together without mortar. In the middle of the room it dropped away into a winding and asymmetric canyon several feet deep. Through this flowed the stream they'd seen outside, taking what must have been its natural course before the dome was built. It cascaded down into the channel at one side of the room, ran between low shores accessible by recessed steps, then flowed back up and out on the other. Roshad and Bors stared wide-eyed at its gravity-defying waterfall.
Salim, however, was distracted by the pictures. While from the outside the foot of the dome had been blank silver, inside the metallic ring was intricately muraled, leaving only the area that had been their door unpainted. The murals were incredibly detailed, the work of a master, and squeezed tight to get the most out of every square inch. A few were clearly in the process of being painted over, obscured by patches of gesso and the sketches of new scenes.
The paintings were of Hell. The landscapes alone made that clear—the volcanic badlands of Avernus, the ice floes of Cocytus, the smoking forests of Malebolge, all cut through by the winding snake of the River Styx. Yet the vistas were far from empty. In the river, souls wept for lives they could no longer remember, or were fished out of the current by devils with long hooks. In the forges of Phlegethon, souls were torn apart and melted down, recast into the shapes of the very devils that tormented them. Everywhere, forms both human and otherwise hung impaled on spikes, wallowed in viscera, or were subject to degradations beyond describing. And every lash, every wound, was rendered in exacting detail.
"They're mine."
Salim looked up and saw Arathuziel watching him, expressionless.
"The paintings," the angel clarified. "They're mine. I make them."
Salim took a step away from the wall. "Why?"
"To remember," Arathuziel said, and turned. "Come."
The angel led the three visitors to the center of the room, where the cleft for the stream was widest. In addition to the rivulet, the recessed portion of the floor contained a small tiled beach, with built-in benches. Several sets of steps led down to the area, and the angel gestured for the men to sit. The angel himself sat on the lip of the depression, his feet still almost touching the floor five feet below. His chains clanked against the tile.
There was a long moment as angel and humans regarded each other. Then Arathuziel spoke.
"Well?" he asked. "Do we have business, or are you here for the story?"
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Seventeen
Arathuziel the Chained
Story?" Salim asked.
The angel gave a little half-smile. "The story of my redemption. The only reason anyone in this place ever talks to me, at least willingly."
It seemed as good a place to start as any. "Please," Salim said. "If you don't mind."
"Not anymore." Arathuziel leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes. It was strange to see those blank black pools disappear beneath normal eyelids, their power occluded by a thin layer of pale skin.
"I was a deimavigga, if you know what that is. An apostate devil, created to challenge the faith of mortals and make them abandon religion, in hopes that renouncing divine morality would send them sliding into Hell's hands. My body was a monument to that severing: black armor that writhed, blades fanning from my fingers, my face a floating mask. And I was powerful, so powerful. Within the walls of Dis, and even on the other layers of Hell, I was known and feared for my work. My greatest achievements were always in the mortal world, but other devils still followed my every command, drawn to my service like flies to a corpse.
"I was on Avernus, the first layer of Hell, when it happened. I and my retinue were observing the lines of new souls queued for processing, their cries echoing harshly in that volcanic wasteland, when suddenly there was a glowing split in the sky and a flight of angels came soaring through. They tore into the souls' minders, singing their hosannas and elegies as flaming weapons returned devil after devil to the dust of the plain.
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 19