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Before marrying Sarsour, Adila had been betrothed to a mage named Xorat, another professor at the university. When she caught him cheating on her with not one but several of his students-at the same time-she broke off their engagement. Xorat was a vain man, and angered by what he perceived as the damage to his reputation for Adila’s “jilting” him, he cast an infertility curse on her. Adila had attempted to remove the enchantment herself, but it was beyond her capabilities. She consulted other mages, but none could help her.
She and Sarsour had met not long after that, when the university invited him to give a lecture on developing counterspells-something of a subspecialty in his family as they often were forced to discover ways to remove mystical impediments to carrying out prisoners’ death sentences. To Sarsour’s great surprise and good fortune, Adila for some unaccountable reason had been attracted to him, and they eventually married. Ever since, Sarsour had been searching for a counterspell to remove Xorat’s curse, but so far he’d met with little success, and Adila and he had been unable to conceive the child that she so desperately wanted.
Adila looked up and he saw her eyes were brimming with tears. “But if you were able to devote all your time to your research…I know it would mean giving up your station, and we’d have to vacate the manor, but I don’t care about that.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “I love you, and I want to have your child.”
Sarsour leaned forward and kissed his wife. “I love you, too. But I have to do everything I can to fulfill the duties of my office. Both for my family’s honor and for mine. Please try to understand.”
Adila put on a brave smile, choked back tears, and nodded. “Of course. It was silly of me to suggest otherwise. I just want to be a mother so badly.”
Then the tears came, and Sarsour held his wife close and gently stroked her hair while she cried.
After speaking with his wife, Sarsour went to his study. Books, scrolls, and loose sheets of vellum were crammed into numerous bookcases that lined the room. Most of the texts had been written by one ancestor of Sarsour’s or another. Scattered about the study were other accouterments of the necromancer’s art-skeletons, skulls, finger bones, vials, and jars labeled Dead Man’s Breath, Essence of Putrefaction, and the like. Sarsour hardly ever had any use for these materials, but a certain amount of morbid atmosphere was expected of a necromancer’s lair, even more so when said necromancer also served as High Executioner. And so Sarour tolerated the bones and vials of bizarre substances, though privately he felt they were rather childish.
He sat cross-legged on the stone floor, half-closed his eyes, and began chanting the first of the Seven Exhortations to Summon the Dead. By the time Sarsour reached the Fourth Exhortation, a softly glowing mist began to coalesce in the air before him.
“That’s good enough.” The voice sounded like a cold autumn wind blowing dried leaves across cobblestones.
Sarsour stopped chanting and opened his eyes to behold the translucent form of a stout bearded old man. The apparition resembled Sarsour a great deal, though he was shorter and had a full white beard.
Sarsour smiled. “You never were one to stand on formalities, Father.”
The ghostly figure shrugged. “Such foolishness doesn’t seem all that important once one has crossed the Bridge of Unspoken Sorrows for the final time.”
Ferran Buhran had been High Executioner before Sarsour, and now that he was truly dead, he acted as if being deceased was far superior to being alive.
“Before we begin, give me some good news,” Ferran said. “Tell me I finally have a grandchild on the way.”
“I’m afraid not, Father. I’ve made no new progress on lifting the curse of infertility on Adila since last we spoke.”
Ferran sniffed. “And you call yourself a mage! If you do not produce an heir, how will our family continue to hold onto the position of High Executioner?”
Sarsour sighed. Ferran had nagged him about this often enough while alive, but he’d become absolutely insufferable about the matter since he’d joined the ranks of the dead.
“I don’t want to speak of such things now, Father. I’ve summoned you for a more important reason.”
“Well, of course you did. I didn’t think you’d brought me all the way from Gadaran just to chat. What do you want?”
Now that Ferran was here, Sarsour found himself reluctant to tell his father precisely why he needed his help. The mage didn’t want to give his father another reason to berate him. But if he were to have any hope of solving his current problem, it would be through Ferran. So Sarsour took a deep breath and told the shade of his father about Kardel.
When Sarsour finished, he expected Ferran to chastise him for being so thick-headed. Instead, the mage’s spirit looked thoughtful.
“So Kardel claims he ca
“My most powerful spells failed to slay him, as did the sharp edge of a steel blade. Did you ever encounter anything like this during your tenure as executioner?”
Ferran thought for several moments, his ethereal body blurring in and out of focus as he did. Finally he shook his head.
“I’ve never heard of anyone possessing the ability to so completely defy death. It’s almost as if…” He frowned as he trailed off.
“Almost as if what, Father?”
In response, a slow smile spread across the lower half of Ferran’s face, and his ghostly eyes gleamed with unearthly light.
“I think it’s time for you to pay me a visit, son.”
“You can’t be serious!” Adila sounded angry, but Sarsour knew that she was only attempting to conceal her worry.
They were in their bedchamber. Sarsour lay atop the silken sheets covering the large round mattress, hands clasped over his belly. Adila stood next to the bed, gazing down at her husband with concern.
“Father believes that this is the only way for me to discover Kardel’s secret,” Sarsour said. “And once I know how he’s made himself immune to death, I’ll be able to counter the enchantment and fulfill my duty.” And preserve the family honor, he added mentally. But he didn’t say so aloud. Adilia wasn’t much on honor; she was far too practical a woman. He reached up and took his wife’s hand. “Please try to understand, my love. This is something I must do.”
“Of course it is, and I do understand.” She squeezed his hand, and though her eyes glistened with tears, she did not cry. “Do what you have to do. I will remain by your side the entire time and make certain your body is safe until you return.”
Sarsour gave his wife a last smile and removed his hand from hers. “It will be fine, Adila. I promise.”
She nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. Sarsour closed his eyes.
He had traveled astrally before-no mage could attain master rank without gaining some facility at out-of-body movement. But though he’d trained in necromancy since childhood and had served as High Executioner since he was a young man, he’d never before attempted to travel to Gadaran. He knew the way, theoretically at least, but the journey held many risks.
But he couldn’t afford to dwell on such things now. He relaxed and allowed himself to slip slowly into a trance. The sensation was pleasant, not unlike immersing one’s self in warm bathwater. The warmth enveloped him, and then he felt himself begin to grow lighter, less substantial, as if he were floating and at the same time losing mass. Soon, he could no longer feel any physical sensations whatsoever, and the warmth gave way to a vague suggestion of coolness, though this was more sensed than felt.
Sarsour was free of his body.
Though he had no physical eyes, he could nevertheless see, and a swirling ocean of darkness filled his vision. He concentrated on moving toward the darkness, pictured the image of the place he wanted to go, a place he had never seen but only read about. The darkness cleared then, parting as if it were little more than ebon fog blown apart by a strong wind, and Sarsour found himself standing at the edge of a cliff beneath an empty black sky. He appeared to have physical form once more, but he knew this to be an illusion. He was still very much a spirit in this place.