Redemption and Guilt in The Devils: A Bleak Account of Atonement
The Thematic Claim
In The Devils, Joe Abercrombie tears down the comforting notion that sincere repentance can wash away past sins. Redemption, as the novel presents it, is not a graceful reward for good intentions but a cruel illusion—a promise dangled before characters who are bound by guilt they can never outrun. The Church itself corrupts the very idea of absolution, and even the most earnest attempts to “do good” are swallowed by hypocrisy, failure, or the sheer weight of what has been done. Guilt becomes an inescapable condition, a stain that no ritual, oath, or act of heroism can erase.
A Parable of Failed Atonement
Where other stories might reward a character’s change of heart, The Devils consistently punishes it. The three characters who most explicitly seek redemption—Brother Eduardo Diaz, Jakob of Thorn, and Vigga Ullasdóttir—each find only deeper despair. Even Balthazar Sham Ivam Draxi, who undergoes a forced conversion of sorts, is told that for his crimes “there can be no atonement aside from your death.” The novel suggests that guilt is not a problem to be solved but a permanent condition to be endured.
1. Brother Diaz: The Monk Who Was Never a Monk
From the opening chapter, Diaz is established as a hypocrite: a monk late for an audience with the Pope, more concerned with ambition than piety, bribing a driver and praying only when his life is threatened. His faith, he later admits, was never heartfelt—“my heart had never really been in it” (chapter 9). When he takes the post of vicar of the Chapel of the Holy Expediency, he promises to “do good,” but his vows crumble almost immediately. In chapter 47, he is found naked on the floor of a chapel after sleeping with Vigga, unable to offer any plausible excuse. Alex asks, “Don’t you have vows?” and Diaz can only confess, “I absolutely cannot” explain.
His attempt at redemption—serving the Church in a morally dubious role, trying to protect Alex—never undoes his fundamental hypocrisy. In the final chapters, he admits that theology was never his strength and shrugs that perhaps devils were tools chosen by Saint Beatrix (chapter 71). This is not redemption; it is a surrender to ambiguity. Diaz ends the story still a pretence of a monk, his guilt unresolved.
(Internal link: Brother Eduardo Diaz)
2. Jakob of Thorn: The Cursed Idealist
Jakob carries perhaps the heaviest guilt in the novel. A flashback in chapter 25 reveals his past as a Templar who impaled enemies—including men of his own order—in the name of rooting out “filth.” He is cursed by a witch who was also his lover, leaving him unable to die. Now he seeks redemption by clinging to the Twelve Virtues and to his oath to serve the Pope. Yet Cardinal Zizka repeatedly mocks this as “romanticism.” In chapter 71, she tells him: “you remain an incurable romantic,” and accuses him of destroying years of careful planning because idealism has blinded him.
Jakob’s redemption is impossible because he cannot undo his past: the impaled bodies, the blood-soaked white cloak, the curse that makes him endure indefinitely. He fights on, but his only reward is more pain and the cynicism of his superiors. He is a “twisted tree” (his own self-description) who can never grow straight. The symbol of his guilt might be the papal binding red line on his wrist, though for Jakob the binding is metaphysical—an unbreakable oath that chains him to a flawed institution.
(Internal link: Jakob of Thorn)
3. Vigga: The Beast Who Cannot Escape
Vigga’s guilt is the most visceral. After killing Baptiste—a friend who trusted her—Vigga retreats into animal degradation. In chapter 71, she crawls into her cage, “more rat than wolf,” and lies in her own filth. She thinks: “Baptiste had been her friend and the wolf had killed her … Vigga’s mouth that still tasted of her meat.” She cannot escape her nature as a werewolf; the homicidal instinct is built into her. When she mutters “I should be caged,” she accepts that her guilt makes her unfit for human society.
Unlike Diaz, who rationalises, or Jakob, who fights, Vigga does not even pretend to seek redemption. She knows she cannot be forgiven, and she does not ask to be. Her character embodies the theme that some sins are so fundamental to who a person is that no amount of good behaviour can undo them. The wolf is always there.
(Internal link: Vigga Wolf)
4. Balthazar: The Necromancer’s Desperate Faith
Balthazar’s arc is almost comic in its futility. He is bound by Pope Benedicta’s magical contract (the papal binding), and he spends the novel trying to break it. In chapter 43, he summons the demon Shaxep, a Duke of Hell, begging to be freed. Even the demon cannot break the binding. Balthazar later professes belief that the Pope is the Second Coming—a sudden “epiphany”—but Cardinal Zizka dismisses his conversion as mere pragmatism. In chapter 71, Zizka sentences him: “For the crimes you have committed—crimes against God himself—there can be no atonement aside from your death and righteous commitment to hell.”
Balthazar’s guilt is intellectual and contractual: he made a deal, broke it, and now faces eternal consequences. His attempts to bargain, to find a loophole, to transfer his debt to another power, all fail. The binding on his wrist is a literal mark of guilty obligation that cannot be removed. Even in the dark hold, he still vows to find a way—“I will break the binding”—but the reader knows it is hopeless. Redemption is denied not because he is unwilling, but because the system he operates in allows no exit.
(Internal link: Balthazar)
5. Alex and the Question of Grace
Alexia Pyrogennetos, the thief turned empress, is not a sinner seeking redemption in the same way, but she carries the guilt of her past life. In chapter 71, she visits Father Diaz in the chapel and asks bluntly whether saints or devils saved her. Diaz suggests that the devils might have been tools of Saint Beatrix, but Alex is unconvinced. She has seen the werewolf, the necromancer, the cursed knight—all “enemies of God”—risk everything for her.
Sunny offers the clearest statement of a different possibility: “It’s not what you’ve done that makes you good or bad. It’s what you do next.” This line suggests that redemption might be an ongoing choice rather than a final verdict. Yet the novel undercuts even this hopeful note: Alex is left isolated, fearful that her identity will be discovered. She must save herself. The grace of others has limits.
(Internal link: Alexia Pyrogennetos)
Symbolic Threads
Several recurring symbols reinforce the theme:
- The Papal Binding (red line on the wrist): This mark of magical contract represents guilt as an indelible stain. Balthazar burns it off in chapter 25 only to have it replaced; his wrist is “singed to a charred blister.” The binding cannot be removed, only changed in form.
- The Split Coin Pendant: Unlike a holy medal, the split coin suggests division—between who a character is and who they pretend to be, between the promise of redemption and its reality.
- Saint Natalia’s Flame: A flickering light in the Holy City, visible from the ship in chapter 71. It offers a dim hope of faith, but it is distant and small, like the promise of absolution.
- The Pillar of Troy: A fallen monument to a fallen empire, symbolising that even great structures of power and righteousness can collapse under the weight of guilt.
(Internal link: Papal Binding)
Complexity and Contradiction
Not every character is damned. Sunny, the elf, seems to achieve a kind of peace: she can smile in the end, and she offers Alex genuine wisdom. But Sunny is an outsider—neither human nor bound by the Church’s moral code. Her “goodness” may be a privilege unavailable to those steeped in guilt.
Diaz’s small act of acceptance—letting go of the saint’s blood, shrugging that “theology was never my strongest suit”—could be read as a form of grace through honesty. But it is a very modest redemption, more resignation than salvation.
The novel’s greatest contradiction lies in Zizka’s character. She is unyielding toward Balthazar, yet she herself serves a corrupt institution. If redemption is possible for anyone in this world, the text does not show it. The closest we get is Alex’s uncertain future as empress, a role she did not choose, carrying a guilt she did not earn.
Study Questions and Answers
1. How does Brother Diaz’s character challenge the idea that sincere repentance leads to redemption?
Diaz repeatedly acknowledges his failures—he admits he was never a real monk, that his prayers were hollow, that he broke his vows. Yet each confession does not free him; it only deepens his hypocrisy. By the end, he remains in the Church’s service, still pretending. The novel suggests that even sincere guilt does not guarantee a clean slate; institutional and personal weaknesses prevent genuine atonement.
2. Why does Vigga believe she “should be caged”? What does her fate say about the possibility of redemption for characters driven by nature?
Vigga’s lycanthropy is a metaphor for an unchangeable, violent nature. She cannot control the wolf that killed Baptiste, and she feels that her guilt is ontological—part of her being. Her self-caging is an admission that some sins cannot be redeemed because they arise from a core identity that cannot be reformed. The novel implies that for creatures of instinct, redemption may be structurally impossible.
3. In what ways does the papal binding serve as a symbol of guilt, and why is Balthazar unable to break it even with demonic help?
The binding is a literal mark of contractual guilt, an obligation Balthazar undertook voluntarily. It cannot be broken because the authority behind it (Pope Benedicta, possibly the Saviour) is absolute within the story’s cosmology. Even Shaxep, a Duke of Hell, admits there are limits to her power. The binding symbolises that certain debts—especially moral ones—cannot be cancelled, only transferred or endured.
4. Jakob of Thorn is described as an “incurable romantic.” How does this label relate to his quest for redemption?
Jakob’s romantic idealism makes him believe that by following the Twelve Virtues and serving the Pope he can redeem his bloody past. Zizka argues that idealism ignores the ugly compromises required in real politics. Jakob’s inability to accept this contradiction ensures that his quest never succeeds; he remains trapped between guilt and duty, unable to atone because he cannot see his own hypocrisy.
5. Alex tells Diaz, “What’s my forgiveness worth?” in response to his confession. What does this question reveal about the novel’s view of absolution?
Alex, a thief and former swindler, recognises that her forgiveness has no authority: it cannot undo Diaz’s sin or clear his conscience. The question points to the novel’s broader scepticism: forgiveness, like redemption, is meaningless unless it carries real transformative power. In The Devils, no character possesses that power—not the Pope, not the saints, not even the Saviour, who might “rejoice at the redemption of a wrongdoer” but is never shown dispensing it. The only absolution that exists is the kind characters give themselves, and that proves insufficient.