"This way." Nemeniah gestured to a row of gondolas tied up along the dock's edge. The boats were long and narrow, with curved prows at the bow and stern for hanging lanterns. One had its lanterns already lit.
"They look like they belong on the River Styx," Salim noted.
Nemeniah's brow furrowed. "Evil forever mocks the form of righteousness."
And vice versa, Salim thought. He followed her onto the boat, its narrow hull rocking alarmingly.
"First wings, now boats," Roshad groused. He placed one foot tentatively over the gunwale, only to have Bors pick him up and carry him the rest of the way, earning a squawk of reproach.
When everyone was aboard—the mortals seated, Malchion standing at the bow and Nemeniah at the stern—the boat began to move away from the dock, cutting smoothly across the rippled surface.
Roshad leaned over the side, his initial hesitation forgotten as he peered backward at the wake left by their silent passage. "Everything here is enchanted."
"Angels aren't above creature comforts," Salim said. "Deprivation is reserved for those who haven't proved themselves yet—isn't that right, Nemeniah?"
The angel flashed a radiant but not altogether pleasant smile. "Breathe deep."
"What—" Roshad began.
Water crashed over the bow, rushing backward in a wall as the gondola tipped up at the stern and thrust its nose down into the pool's surface. Salim reflexively tried to leap sideways out of the sinking vessel, but found himself unable to rise from the gondola's bench, pinned there by some unknown force. There was only the briefest moment to remember Nemeniah's warning and suck in as much air as he could. Then the water was over him, surrounding him, flooding his nostrils and stinging his eyes.
The boat dove. Above, the surface glimmered with refracted light, a ceiling of sapphires. Still glued to the bench, Salim thrashed, feeling the breath already clawing at his throat. Behind him, Bors and Roshad displayed the same wide-eyed panic, cheeks bulging. Desperate to escape, Roshad pointed at the deck between him and Salim and shouted something, expending his precious air. A blast of flame leapt from his fingertips and crashed against the wood—and just as swiftly was extinguished, swallowed up in a blinding cloud of bubbles and a wave of heated water. When the bubbles cleared, Salim saw Bors with Roshad's face in his hands, the veil torn aside. Ignoring the smaller man's flailing blows, Bors pressed their lips together, breathing out, forcing Roshad to accept the bubbling gift of the warrior's last breath.
Over the top of this scene, Salim caught sight of Nemeniah's face. Unconcerned with their submersion, the angel watched this final, selfless display of love with a little half-smile.
Of course. Angels didn't need to breathe—they were creatures of pure spirit. Yet they had to know that the mortals would die without air. Had this all been some elaborate setup? But if the angels had wanted to kill them, they could have done so at any point. Why lead them down into the depths of the Great Library just to...
Oh.
Faith.
Closing his eyes, Salim breathed out.
Water surged in to replace the lost air, snaking down his throat like a spear of ice, settling in his lungs. His body gave a single convulsive cough as his lungs accepted the weight of their new occupant—and then it was as if things had never been any other way. His chest moved in and out as easily as before, only now there were no bubbles.
He opened his eyes. Both Bors and Roshad were making gasping motions, every reflex screaming that they needed to replace that water with air immediately. Yet both were still alive.
"It's okay." Salim's words were muted, the sound strangely rounded by the water. "It's more magic."
"You bastards!" Roshad stood and spun to face Nemeniah, the magic of the boat now allowing him to rise from his seat, but still keeping him from floating free. "You think this is funny?"
"Not at all," Nemeniah said. "I think it's beautiful. A baptism is an important occasion, and you acquitted yourselves well."
"Baptism?" The sorcerer's eyes bulged. He realized that his veil was hanging askew and yanked it back into place. "We didn't ask to join your godsdamned religion."
Nemeniah smiled. "I assure you, our faith is anything but. But that's not what this was about. No one gets into the Vault of Correction without passing through the Font."
"So this is some sort of security measure," Salim said.
Nemeniah inclined her head. "More of a test of character. The enchantments on the gondola which allow you to breathe wouldn't function for someone with evil in their heart, and the water itself has been blessed—a fundamentally evil being like a demon or devil would be instantly consumed, as would anything undead."
Salim had seen what a single flask of holy water could do to a ghoul or demon, burning it like acid. A whole lake of it... "That's quite a moat."
"You ask to see things kept locked away from even most angels," Nemeniah said. "This is a mere formality compared to the Vault's more powerful guardians."
Roshad was still standing, fists balled at his side. "And if your boat had judged us unworthy," he said slowly, "you would have stood there and watched us drown."
"Of course not." Nemeniah touched the shining warhammer strapped across her back. "If the gondola had found you evil, I would have slain you myself. And then I would have reported myself and Malchion to Commander Faralan for failing to identify the threat sooner."
Roshad raised a fist, one finger extended, but Salim stopped him with a touch. "They're only doing their job, Roshad."
For a second, Roshad didn't move. Then, with deliberate care, he turned his back on the angel and sat once more, taking Bors's hand.
The boat continued downward at a steep angle, the water coursing past them. Now that he wasn't distracted by drowning, Salim was surprised to discover that the library stacks continued beneath the surface as well. The shelves here weren't made of wood or stone, but rather grown from great pieces of coral, or the shells of unlikely mollusks. They floated with neutral buoyancy in the water, lit by schools of tiny fish that darted around them in flickering dances. Larger creatures moved among them as well—enormous fish and eels, one of whom seemed to have a pair of spectacles perched on its nose. Humanoid figures kicked and dove in the aquamarine stretches between the shelves, and something with tentacles retreated behind a shelf as their gondola cruised past.
"Doesn't the water ruin the books?" Salim asked.
"Only books crafted on land," Nemeniah replied. "There are as many aquatic cultures as terrestrial ones, and we store their knowledge as well, be it on whaleskin scrolls or in shells that whisper their secrets."
Salim hadn't really considered that angle, and now felt foolish for not having done so sooner. He was promptly distracted, however, by a huge shape that slid out from between two shelves, directly into the gondola's path.
The woman seemed drawn in black and white, the pigmentation swirling across her body in liquid shapes, leaving most of her front white and her back black. Even her flowing hair was two-tone, yet this was the least of her distinguishing characteristics, for from the waist down she elongated and stretched into a flat, whalelike tail. She kicked once, and the powerful flukes sent her corkscrewing up and around the boat, giving her a look at the newcomers from all sides. As she swept past, her eyes met Salim's, and he was struck by the incredible weight and wisdom there, a sense of presence that dwarfed even her massive body. Then she kicked once more and was gone.
"Fire and dust," Roshad swore. "What was that?"
"A cetaceal agathion," Nemeniah said mildly. "One of the guardians of the celestial seas."
"That's an angel?" Roshad shook himself. "When she looked at me, I felt like she could have read my mind and snapped it with a thought."
"As well she could have," Malchion said sternly. "As Nemeniah said, you have yet to see the least of Heaven's defenses."
"He makes a good point, though," Salim noted. "Agathions aren't angels, or even native to Heaven—they're the guardians of Nirvana
and the philosopher spirits. So what's one doing here?"
Malchion turned an irritated look on Salim. "The power of knowledge is universal. The agathions may not recognize Heaven's dominion, but their hearts are still pure, and they have much to offer as scholars. Despite what you may think about us, we're not above sharing and working together." His frown deepened. "With those worthy of it."
"How positively heartwarming," Salim said.
Roshad's finger shot out, pointing past the bow of the boat. "What's that?"
Ahead, an upright ring of gray stone hung perfectly still in the water. Inside it, the calm water disappeared, replaced by an ominous red glow that roiled in a vertical sheet. A swarm of tiny jellyfish, their translucent bodies catching the light and turning blood red against the prevailing turquoise of their surroundings, pulsed away from it as the boat approached.
"The entrance to the Vault of Correction," Nemeniah said. "One of the secret hearts of the library."
"It looks more like a doorway to Hell," Roshad observed.
"A reminder that knowledge can corrupt as easily as it can elevate."
Salim turned to Malchion. "So this is where they keep the dangerous bits. The sort of information your superiors don't even trust most angels with." Before them, the ring began to expand outward, its ember-red maw reaching for the boat. "What does that lack of faith say about them?"
Malchion only smiled. "Perhaps someday you'll understand. Welcome to the Burn Room."
Then the light swept out and gathered them in.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Twenty
Cinders and Censors
Flames painted the cavern in flickering shades of red and gold. High above, the stalactites were carved in the forms of battle-ready archons, their trumpets raised to sound the charge. Beneath their stony gazes, the smooth floor was a maze of tall stone bookshelves, every inch crammed tight with tomes and scrolls and pamphlets, clay tablets and shimmering cubes embossed with glowing runes. The collection stretched off into the distance and through tall archways in the cavern walls.
Between the shelves and along the walls stood dozens of furnaces—huge, open-mouthed things, the heat of their flames radiating outward in a searing wave. Each kiln's stone mouth was as wide as a horse trough, its body a twenty-foot-tall potbellied thing that tapered toward the top, yet bore neither chimney nor—apparently—smoke. To either side of a stove's opening, the stone bulged outward into the figures of two massive angels, their arms outstretched toward each other, hands clasped as if begging for forgiveness. Tears of liquid fire ran from their eyes in rivulets, dripping into the conflagration within.
"The Heresy Ovens," Malchion intoned. "Where impure ideas are put to rest at last."
Salim stepped dripping from the boat, which now sat neatly arranged among others in dry trenches in the stone floor, with no sign of the underwater gate they'd passed through. The rest of the group followed, their clothes already steaming dry in the heat.
Salim found himself nodding. As a young man, he'd been trained at Shepherd's Rock, the mountain stronghold of Rahadoum's Pure Legion, charged with keeping the nation free of religion and its adherents. As part of his training as a priest-hunter, he'd been taken below the fortress to the secret vault where confiscated religious texts were carefully studied, the better to track down their adherents. This chamber had the same feeling.
There were creatures here as well: angels in black robes and mourning veils that made them seem like shadows in the firelight, their wings draped in long streamers of black fabric. They worked in silent pairs, arranging texts on shelves or positioning them in neat stacks in the cleared spaces around the furnaces. Many held books and pens, taking notes. As Salim watched, the angels at the nearest oven used a long golden paddle to slowly feed a book into the flames, their movements as solemn and reverent as if performing a king's cremation.
To the side and above them, a huge shape flashed into existence. Salim startled, hand going to his sword, but Nemeniah stopped him with a gesture.
It was an angel, but like none Salim had ever seen. Twenty feet tall, its skin a pure charcoal black, it wore a white toga that hung from one shoulder and spread out around it in a mountainous cone, its folds alive with runes of golden light. Behind it rose great wings of flickering flame. Yet the most unsettling thing was its face: beneath eyes that glowed pupilless red, there was only the suggestion of a nose, followed by a flat, unbroken expanse of dark flesh where the mouth should have been.
The huge celestial swept past them without looking, its brilliant robes swirling weightless as mist, curling to keep from touching the newcomers. It didn't seem to walk so much as glide across the floor, its feet lost beneath the cloth. At the closest oven, it stopped, and angels in dark robes scurried to meet it. Next to the giant, they looked like children vying for a parent's attention.
The newcomer made no move to acknowledge them. Instead, it held out a book, scaled for humans and looking like a toy in the giant's immense palm. It passed the tome down to the attendants, then straightened, wrapped its blazing pinions around itself like a bat, and vanished in another flash of light.
"Sarenrae's burning bush," Roshad breathed. "What was that?"
"An Exscinder." Nemeniah shot Roshad a disapproving glance. "One of the holiest callings. All celestials strive to foster right thinking, but the Cinders are truth's burning sword. They track down heretical texts and bring them back here to be purified or destroyed."
"Why don't they have any mouths?" Bors asked.
"I suspect so that they can't speak of what they've read or heard," Salim said. He remembered Xulaine the Sweettalker and her stitched lips.
Nemeniah dipped her head in acknowledgment. "The gods give us forms suited to our duties. The Cinders are free of the burden of speech."
"I'm sure they see it the same way," Salim said.
Lights flashed farther down the huge hall as more of the angelic hunters burst into existence. In each instance, they stayed only long enough to deposit whatever forsaken text they'd tracked down, then vanished once more. One of the nearer ones appeared slick and wet, its white robes stained dark with fresh blood, but was gone before Salim could study it further.
Three smaller angels in a spearhead formation moved toward the humans. The two on the flanks had their faces covered with dark veils, but the one in the lead wore none, his face gleaming green beneath the cowl of his robe. He was not smiling.
"Here comes the welcome wagon," Salim murmured to Roshad and Bors. "Say nothing."
"What is the meaning of this?"
The lead angel halted a few feet from Salim. Up close, he was larger than Salim had initially estimated, standing a head taller than either of his escorting angels and half again as tall as Salim himself. His skin was bright emerald, his eyes a flat, milky white. The face and scalp beneath the hood were completely hairless, and the shrouded wings that rose up behind him were not one set but two, arranged in an X like a dragonfly's. He ignored the humans, focusing his glower on Nemeniah and Malchion.
"Emissaries from Pharasma's Court," Nemeniah said smoothly. "The death goddess seeks your assistance, Head Censor."
"Oh?" The angel's frown didn't change. He turned to Salim, one hairless eyebrow raised.
"My name is Salim. I'm investigating the disappearance of a number of souls, and believe your office may be of help."
"I see." The Head Censor turned back to Nemeniah and Malchion. "And who authorized you to bring them to the Vault of Correction?"
"Commander Faralan, Your Grace."
"Faralan." The head angel snorted. "The hound places too much faith in steel, and not enough in letters. Otherwise he would understand how dangerous it is to allow mortals into the Vault. But..." He sighed and turned his attention to Salim, replacing the frown with a slightly more neutral expression—Salim presumed it was meant to be a smile. "Welcome to the Vault, Salim. My name is Garinas—I hold the honor of Head
Censor for the current shift. I will of course be happy to assist you as much as I'm able." He placed particular emphasis on the last clause. "The nature of our work here is extremely sensitive."
"Of course," Salim said. "Tell me, Garinas—where do the texts here come from?"
"Everywhere." The Head Censor spread his hands. "Anywhere creatures are intelligent enough to record their ideas, those ideas will bear shades of good or evil. Most are harmless enough, but those that represent serious threats are monitored. Some are brought in by the Exscinders," he waved toward one of the burning angels, "others by celestials of other orders, or occasionally by right-minded mortals who seek to cleanse their worlds of their own initiative."
"I see," Salim said. "And you destroy these items?"
"Sometimes. Some texts are too dangerous to exist. Those are burned in the Heresy Ovens, whose holy flames can destroy even the most sinister magic. Others contain only dangerous passages, or subversive hints that might steer the unwary toward evil. If a given tome might otherwise have merit, then the dangerous portions are carefully redacted, leaving no trace of their existence, and the purified texts then returned to their original societies."
"And who makes those decisions?"
The angel's eyes narrowed. "We do. The Censors are chosen from among Heaven's most accomplished angelic scholars, with a mandate to keep the power of the written word safe for mortal use." He smiled thinly. "You're welcome, by the way."
"So these texts you gather—they're too dangerous for mortals to read. Our puny minds would break under the weight of their heresy."
Garinas angled his cowled head, as if to say your words, not mine.
"And what about when reading all these heretical texts corrupts one of your Censors?"
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 23