Places To Be, People To Kill

ALL IN THE EXECUTION by Tim Waggoner

Tim Waggoner’s most recent novels include the Godfire duology, Thieves of Blood, Pandora Drive, and Like Death. He’s published close to eighty short stories, some of them collected in All Too Surreal. His articles on writing have appeared in Writer’s Digest, Writers’ Journal, and other publications. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio. Visit him on the web at www.timwaggoner.com.

“SO…HOW WOULD you like to die?”

Sarsour often began with this question. He found it an effective way to put prisoners-especially the sort he dealt with-off-balance. But it didn’t work this time. The man sitting cross-legged on the straw pallet simply smiled and continued looking at Sarsour with ice-chip blue eyes. Sarsour found the mage’s gaze disconcerting, and he fought to keep the unease he felt from showing on his face.

You are Sarsour Burhan, he told himself. Lord High Executioner of the Citadel of Tabari. And regardless of who this mage might have been on the outside, he’s merely another prisoner now.

But Sarsour couldn’t bring himself to believe that last part. Kardel Duvessa was one of the most powerful mages in the kingdom of Qadira, and a necromancer in his own right. But even a mage as skilled as Kardel couldn’t escape from the confinement ring surrounding his straw pallet, nor could he cast spells while inside it. The ring was a complex enchantment created by the Master Warder herself, an array of mystic gems, arcane symbols, and intricately woven energy lattices, that when activated, could imprison an arch-demon, let alone a human mage.

Still, this was Kardel Duvessa-a powerful, dangerous, cold-blooded killer. Less than a month ago, Kardel had destroyed a monastery far to the north by calling down a rain of fiery sky-rock upon the structure. None of the forty-eight monks inside at the time survived. At his trial, when asked why he had committed such a horrendous crime, Kardel simply said, I never did like monks.

The man was in his late forties, wolfishly thin, and completely bereft of body hair. Not only was he bald, but he had no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no hair on his hands, fingers, or knuckles. The absence of hair gave Kardel an otherworldly look, which Sarsour supposed was the point. The man wore the same clothes he’d had on when the Citadel’s Enforcers had finally caught up with him: an expensive doublet fashioned of crimson silk, cerulean leggings, and highly polished black boots with gold buckles. The Duvessa family were well known for their rarified tastes.

Sarsour decided to try another tack. He sat down on the stone floor opposite Kardel so as to address the mage on an equal level. Mages of Kardel’s stature never responded well when looked down upon, whether literally or figuratively. Sarsour wasn’t worried that he might be putting himself at a disadvantage. Though there were no bars on Kardel’s room-and thus no barriers between the two mages-none were necessary. Not as long as Kardel remained within the Circle of Confinement and Sarsour remained outside it.

Not that Sarsour was especially intimidating either standing or sitting. He was a short, chubby man with greasy black hair and an overlong droopy black mustache. He was garbed in the black robe of his office, the silver fur trimming his collar, sleeves, and hem a symbol of his rank as a master of necromancy.

“So you are to be my murderer.” It was the first time Kardel had spoken since being captured, and Sarsour was surprised by how calm the man sounded, considering the topic under discussion.

“Executioner,” Sarsour corrected. “Yes, I am. It is my responsibility to carry out the sentence handed down by the Council of Hierarchs. And unfortunately for you, that sentence is death.” Sarsour always said unfortunately to be polite. The truth of the matter was he thought the prisoners he dealt with got precisely what they deserved, but he knew it wouldn’t be very professional to say so. “However, the Council-out of respect for your family name-has granted you the courtesy of a private death, so that your family can avoid the spectacle of a public execution. Also, in appreciation of all that your family has done for Quadira throughout the centuries, the Council has also given you the freedom to choose your specific means of death. I have a quite a variety to offer, everything from a simple Twilight Sleep spell to the Ecstatic Demise of Ten Thousand Blisses. Do you have any preferences or would you like me to make some suggestions?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kardel said in a bored voice. “You won’t be able to kill me.”

Sarsour clenched his jaw in irritation, but he managed to keep his tone even as he replied. “Many others before you have said similar words to me. And let me assure you, those words were among the last they ever spoke.”

A mocking smile played about Kardel’s lips. “You misunderstand. I do not mean that you lack the skill to execute me, either by physical means or mystical. I’m saying that in my case, you will be unable to slay me. No one can.”

Sarsour let his irritation get the better of him then. “I suppose you’re telling me that you ascended to godhood when no one was looking?”

Kardel laughed, but it was a laugh without mirth. “Not quite.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” Every mage that had been found guilty of a crime by the Council of Hierarchs pled innocent, and every one sentenced to death presented him or herself as too powerful to be destroyed. But in the end, they all took the final passage across the Bridge of Unspoken Sorrows, and entered the shadowy realm of Gadaran, land of the dead.

Sarsour decided to call Kardel’s bluff right away. “Since you say you cannot be slain, you won’t mind if I cast a spell of Swift Passage upon you.” This was one of the most powerful death-spells in existence, and few mages could counter it.

Kardel shrugged. “Do as you will.”

Sarsour concentrated and whispered words in the ancient thaumaturgic language of magekind. His spirit reached out to a dark dimension filled with necromantic energies and drew a portion of the fell power into himself. He then flung his hands toward Kardel, sending twin bursts of crackling ebon lightning toward the condemned mage. The shadow-energy coruscated across Kardel’s body for a moment before finally dissipating, leaving the man unharmed. He didn’t blink an eye, let alone keel over dead.

With increasing frustration, Sarsour tried several other deadly enchantments-Fire-Blood, Ice-Hold, and even Astral Severance-but none worked. Exasperated, he eventually summoned one of the Citadel’s guards and ordered the man to drew his sword and slay Kardel. The guard tried, but though his steel was sharp and penetrated Kardel’s body with ease, the wound produced no blood and healed the moment the blade was withdrawn. Kardel grinned, as if the piercing blow caused him no pain, and Sarsour dismissed the bemused guard.

Sarsour struggled to keep the frustration he felt out of his voice as he spoke. “It seems that you were telling the truth when you claimed you cannot be killed.”

Kardel’s only response was to grin wider.

“Powerful as you may be, you couldn’t have managed this on your own. The power necessary to accomplish what you’ve done is almost beyond imagining.”

Kardel’s smile remained in place, but his voice took on a cold, hard edge. “Perhaps beyond your limited mental capacity to imagine. But then, the members of your family have never been known for their intellectual gifts, have they?”

Sarsour ignored the gibe. He was used to prisoners taunting him with false bravado. The problem here was that Sarsour feared Kardel’s bravado was real.

“Now I understand. However you managed it, you’ve made yourself immune to death in order to disgrace me and stain my family’s reputation.”

“Think of what you’re suggesting. In order for it to be true, I would’ve had to find a way to do what no other mage before me has been able to accomplish-defy death-and then destroy that monastery so the Council would sentence me to be executed. Why would I want to go to all that trouble just to embarrass you, Sarsour? Surely you don’t think you’re that important.”

“As an individual, no. But as a member of the family Burhan and the current High Executioner, yes. Your family, the Duvessas, served as High Executioners for fifteen generations until my great-great-grandfather took over the post, and it has remained in my family ever since.”

“Why should something like that bother me?” Kardel said. He was no longer smiling. “Just because after your great-great-grandfather’s betrayal, the Duvessas have had to bear the burden of having been bested by a clan of inferior mages? Because from virtually the day I was born, I’ve watched you live a life that is rightfully mine? How could any of these piddling trifles possibly goad me into taking such extraordinary measure to embarrass and humble you?”

“Because if there’s one thing the Duvessas value more than power or wealth, it’s pride,” Sarsour said. “So now I know why you did it. The question is how you managed such a feat and what I need to do in order to counter the enchantment.”

Kardel laughed. “Don’t waste your time. There’s nothing you can do. Except fail, that is. Fail, disgrace your ancestors, and lose the position of High Executioner, not only for yourself, but for your descendants as well.”

Sarsour had no direct descendants to worry about at the moment, but he saw no reason to point this out to Kardel. The disgrace to his ancestors would be bad enough.

“Even if I do fail, Kardel, you shall never leave the dungeon. You shall remain here, bound within the Master Warder’s confinement spell for all time.”

Kardel shrugged. “Perhaps. But that will be a small price to pay to see my ancestors avenged. Now if you’ll be so kind as to go away and begin your life as a failure, I’d appreciate it. I’d like to get some sleep.” Kardel then lay down, curled up on his pallet, and closed his eyes.

Sarsour watched him for several moments, trying to think of a witty rejoinder. But none came. Before long, Kardel’s breathing deepened as sleep came to him, and the High Executioner turned and walked away.

“It’s not as if you haven’t had to deal with difficult situations before.”

Sarsour nodded and took a sip of his thorn tea. Adila had made it tepid and bitter, just the way he liked it.

“But this is the first time I’ve ever had to execute a mage of Kardel’s caliber before.” Sarsour sighed. “I’m not sure I’m up to the task.”

Sarsour sat at the head of a long mahogany table in the dining hall of his home. As Lord High Executioner for the Citadel of Tabari, he was granted a small manor home to the south of the Citadel itself. It wasn’t the best location in the city: that would be directly east or west of the Citadel. The view these locations offered of the Citadel’s crystalline structure at sunrise and sunset was magnificent. Still, his home was pleasant enough, and members of the Burhan family had occupied it for several generations. Though that might well change if Sarsour couldn’t find a way to execute Kardel.

Adila sat on Sarsour’s right, though her proper place was at the other end of the table. But the damn thing was so long that if she sat that far away from him, they couldn’t hear each other unless they shouted. So when it was just the two of them-and it almost always was-they dispensed with protocol.

“You managed to kill Berra, Queen of Blood, didn’t you?” Adila pointed out. “And she had the ability to regenerate organs and missing limbs.”

“True.” That had been a tricky case. It had taken Sarsour almost three months to devise a spell that transformed Berra into a sentient pool of water. He then had her poured into a rain barrel and placed outside during the dry season. She evaporated over the course of a week and had never been seen again.

“And what about Jarkar the Spiritwalker?” Adila asked.

Jarkar had possessed the power to make his body completely intangible so that nothing could harm him. The Master Warder had been able to create a confinement ring that held his ethereal form, but for the first time Sarsour-despite his best efforts-had been unable to carry out the sentence of execution. He tried withholding the evil mage’s food and water but soon realized Jarkar didn’t require either as long as he remained wraithlike. Eventually, Sarsour developed an intangible blade matched to the specific density of Jarkar’s ghostly form. The executioner set the blade into a very tangible handle and was able to use the newly created weapon to fulfill his duty.

“If you could figure out a way to kill those two, then you should be able to do the same with Kardel,” Adila said. She was a slim, petite woman with curly brown hair tinged gray in spots. Neither she nor Sarsour were especially old, but they weren’t exactly young either. Though the spouse of a master mage usually wore clothing that resembled her husband’s (or his wife’s), Adila wasn’t overly fond of black. She favored bright colors, and this afternoon she had on a yellow dress with billowy sleeves that her arms seemed lost in.

Adila taught youth preservation and restoration at the university, popular specialties to be sure, given the demand for such services, especially among the rich and powerful of Qadira. Such magic could do little more than postpone the inevitable, of course, but that was more than enough for most people. Adila’s colleagues at the university often made the observation that it was ironic that she should marry Sarsour, considering that she specialized in spells to extend life and he was a necromancer who specialized in magical executions. But where others saw irony, Adila saw balance.

We complement each other, she’d once said to Sarsour. Male and female, life and death…What could be more perfect?

What indeed?

Sarsour smiled and reached out to pat his wife’s hand. “I appreciate your faith in me, my love. But I’m afraid the situation is different this time. Somehow, Kardel has managed to find a way to make himself immune to death.”

Adila’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is such a thing possible?”

“Apparently. I fear Kardel may be the first prisoner a member of my family has failed to slay since the Buhrans took over the office of High Executioner.”

“Even if that does occur-and I’m not saying it will-would that be so awful? The Council of Hierarchs would just commute Kardel’s sentence to life imprisonment without the chance for parole, yes?”

“That’s right. Kardel will still be punished for his crimes, no matter what. Nevertheless, I will be disgraced in the eyes of the Council, and they may well decide to replace me.” And if that happened, it would mean the end of the Buhran family’s tradition of service to the Council. Sarsour’s replacement-whoever it might be-would become the founder of a new line of High Executioners-and Sarsour’s family name would eventually be little more than a footnote in the history books.

Adila didn’t say anything for a time. And when she finally broke the silence, she looked down at the tabletop instead of meeting her husband’s gaze.

“There might be advantages to your leaving office,” she said softly.

Sarsour couldn’t believe he had heard her correctly. “You can’t be serious!”

Adila continued to avert her eyes as she went on. “It would give you more time to research our…problem. And perhaps finally find a solution for it.”

Now Sarsour understood. He reached out and clasped her hand, and when he spoke, his tone was gentle and loving. “I’ve been trying, you know. For years now, I’ve spent every extra moment researching fertility spells and counterspells to remove curses.”

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 cannot be killed. Presumably by anyone or anything.”

“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.

A rope bridge was attached to the edge of the cliff-the lines weathered and fraying, wooden slats warped and cracked. The bridge stretched across a vast gulf of space, and though Sarsour could not see the other side, he knew that the opposite end of the bridge was attached to another cliff much like this one. This was the Bridge of Unspoken Sorrows, the entrance to Gadaran.

“Are you going to stand there staring for all eternity or are you going to cross?”

Sarsour turned and saw his father standing next to him. In this realm, Farren appeared not as a translucent shade but rather a flesh-and-blood man. But Sarsour knew that appearances could be deceiving, especially in this place.

He gave his father’s spirit a smile. “Nice of you to join me.”

“I wasn’t about to let my son and heir enter Gadaran without a proper escort. What would our ancestors say?”

“What, indeed?” Sarsour responded, amused. Farren was just as gruff in death as he had been in life, but Sarsour was grateful for his presence. Though the mage technically had no lungs here, he inhaled deeply as he stepped forward, took hold of the bridge’s guide ropes, and began crossing.

The air was cold and dank, and smelled of rot and grave mold. Strong crosswinds blew through the canyon, making the bridge sway. Though he knew it wasn’t a good idea, Sarsour looked down and saw nothing but darkness between the wooden slats. According to legend, the abyss below stretched on forever without end. It was one legend that he had no intention of confirming, however. Sarsour looked forward again, gripped the guide ropes tightly, and kept his gaze fixed on the bridge ahead of him so that he wouldn’t get dizzy.

The wind picked up speed, whistling and howling as it surged through the canyon. It sounded almost like voices-mournful, lost, despairing. It had to be his imagination, though. Legend made no mention of any spirits guarding the bridge. But the wailing sounds grew louder the farther Sarsour walked, and by the time the opposite end of the bridge finally came into view-the shade of his father following silently behind-the voices had taken on an edge of anger, and specific words became clear. Or rather, one specific word: they were shouting Sarsour’s name, over and over. Strands of etheric mist became visible, darting and swirling, over, around, and under the rope bridge. Faces coalesced out of the mist, disembodied ghostly heads that glared at Sarsour as they flew by, crying out his name as if it were some sort of epithet. At first Sarsour didn’t recognize any of the faces, then their features gradually became more defined, and he realized that he was looking at the spirits of all the men and women he’d executed over the years.

He recognized Renlak, originator of the Great Pestilence, and Paraselcis, also known as She Who Walked in Darkness. And there were so many more, all of them mages, all of them men and woman who’d chosen to use their mystical abilities and training for their own selfish-if not outright diabolical-purposes. Hundreds of them, and all had met their ends thanks to the necromantic spells of Sarsour Buhran.

Without taking his gaze from the swirling storm of angry spirits, Sarsour shouted back to his father. “What is this?”

“A welcoming committee!” Ferran shouted back. “When you’re Lord High Executioner for the Council of Hierarchs, you tend to make a lot of enemies-especially over here!”

“Wonderful,” Sarsour muttered. He’d already dispatched these villains once before. Now it seemed he would have to do so one more time. Making sure his feet were firmly planted on the wooden planks beneath him, Sarsour raised both of his hands high and began chanting a rite to repel angry spirits. It was a simple exorcism spell, but it might serve well enough. Though these spirits had all been powerful mages while alive, they didn’t appear to be anything more than angry ghosts. But even as he began the rite, he knew something was wrong. He could not feel necromantic energy flowing into his body, and the words that passed his lips sounded like nothing more than nonsense syllables, with none of the sinister sonorous overtones they took on as magic began to activate. The spirits showed no reaction either. Instead of turning away and fleeing back into the eternal blackness that had birthed them, they continued flying through the air, glaring at him and shouting his name. If anything, they flew faster and shouted more loudly than before.

“You’re wasting your time!” the spirit of his father shouted. “This is the land of the dead. Death-magic holds no power here!”

Sarsour halted his chanting and lowered his arms. “You might have told me that before I got started!”

“I thought you would figure it out on your own.”

The heads continued swirling around the bridge, so many that they formed a solid column of etheric energy. The noise of their wailing became deafening, and Sarsour had to clap his hands to his ears to try to muffle the sound, but it didn’t help much. While the heads continued circling, ghostly, disembodied hands appeared in the air above the guide ropes on both side of the bridge and began violently shaking it. The spirits obviously hoped to knock Sarsour off and send him tumbling into the dark abyss below to fall forever and ever, without either hope of rescue or death.

Sarsour yelped and grabbed hold of the guide ropes, but a large pair of phantom hands-so big they could only have belong to Arthis the Strangler-grabbed Sarsour’s wrists and forced him to release his hold on the ropes. The ghost hands then began to tug Sarsour toward the edge of the narrow bridge and the vast yawning emptiness that waited below. Sarsour knew he would be lost if he didn’t do something soon. So he did what any grown man might do in a similar situation: turned to his father for help.

“You’re supposed to be my spirit guide in this realm. Do something!”

“Guide, yes. Rescuer, no. It’s against the laws that govern Gadaran for me to interfere so directly.” Ferran considered for a moment. “I suppose this is an extraordinary situation, though.” He reached into his robe pocket and brought out a miniature ram’s horn carved out of bone. He placed the horn to his lips and blew. A high-pitched tone rang forth from the horn, seeming to grow louder and stronger until it filled the entire dimension of Gadaran, echoing from one end of the land of the dead to the other.

The ghostly shades of Sarsour’s enemies stopped and hovered in midair, eyes darting nervously back and forth. When the last echo of the horn blast died away, everything was silent for a moment. But the silence was soon broken by a loud battlecry as a stream of new spirits poured onto the bridge and came toward Sarsour like a flood of mist. Sarsour saw no faces in the mist, but he sensed numerous presences within it.

As the mist drew near, it separated into individual streams that arced into the air toward the hovering spirits of Sarsour’s enemies. The mist-streams slammed into the disembodied heads, creating small masses of roiling white that thrashed about violently.

“What’s happening?” Sarsour asked his father.

“Family reunion,” Ferran said, grinning. “I summoned our ancestors to come help. Now quickly-while they have the others busy-hurry across. Once you’re in Gadaran proper, the spirits will bother you no longer.

Why this should be, Sarsour had no idea, but he assumed it had something to do with the laws of Gadaran his father had mentioned before. Keeping a loose hold on the guide ropes with both hands, Sarsour began hurrying to the other side.

When they saw Sarsour escaping, the spirits of his enemies howled their fury and fought to free themselves from his ancestors. But the spirits of the Buhran family line managed to keep hold of the vengeful ghosts until Sarsour had set foot on the rocky soil of Gadaran. The spirits of the mages Sarsour had executed let out one last frustrated howl before dissipating into nothingness. An instant later, the misty forms of his ancestors did the same, and all was quiet once more at the Bridge of Unspoken Sorrows.

Sarsour sighed with relief, then turned to his father, who’d followed him off the bridge and now stood beside his son.

“Thanks,” Sarsour said.

“Don’t thank me just yet, boy. You’ve still got a ways to go. Ferran gestured past Sarsour, and the necromancer turned to behold a huge desert of black sand stretching toward the gray horizon.

“I don’t suppose I can just will my astral body to soar across that,” Sarsour said.

Ferran shook his head. “The laws of Gadaran-”

“-forbid it. I was afraid of that.”

He started walking, Ferran following close behind.

Sarsour knew, academically anyway, that time passed very differently in Gadaran than it did in the realm of the living. But actually experiencing this phenomenon was an entirely different matter. Sarsour had no idea how long they had walked. Indeed, he had no real sensation they had made any progress at all. The sky above remained so unchanging that Sarsour wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn that he had been merely lifting his feet and putting them down in exactly the same spot for hour after hour. But eventually a black spire appeared in the distance, slowly growing larger as Sarsour and the spirit of his dead father approached.

Sarsour had read descriptions of Tenebron, the Obsidian Palace, in various sources, but while most had gotten the basic details right, none had been able to communicate the immense majesty of the dark tower. Seemingly miles high in length, it stretched toward Gadaran’s empty sky as if it were a pillar holding up the great void above. The pinnacle of Tenebron-if indeed there was one-blended with the dark sky-shroud, making it impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

Father and son continued on until they reached the tower and stood before its main gate. It rose fifty feet into the air and at first glance appeared to have been wrought from black iron. But as Sarsour looked closer, he saw that what he’d taken to be bars of metal were instead long lengths of bone-femurs, to be precise. But these were the leg bones of giants, and colored black instead of ivory. Sarsour knew of no such creatures in Qadira-at least, none humanoid-that were huge enough to have femurs like this. But this wasn’t Qadira; it was Gadaran. The sight of the gigantic leg bones, and the thought of what they’d might have once belonged to, sent a shiver through Sarsour. He hoped his father hadn’t noticed.

“This is Tenebron, the Obsidian Palace,” Ferran said, speaking loudly and formally, as if he were a tour guide or perhaps one of the palace staff greeting a newcomer. “Home to her most dread majesty, Lady Sumehra, Queen of the Oblivion.” Ferran lowered his voice and added, “Be careful, my son. Though you yet live, that condition can be remedied easily enough should Sumehra wish it.”

Though his physical body was an illusion in this place, Sarsour nevertheless swallowed nervously. “I understand.” He started to reach for the gate, but it swung open of its own accord, as if the tower had been expecting him. Who knows? Perhaps it had.

Sarsour passed through the open gateway and underneath the black stone arch that formed the tower’s entrance. He expected the atmosphere inside to be cold and frigid as midnight in winter, but he was surprised to find the temperature most comfortable. Beyond the arch was a long corridor-the floor, walls, and ceiling of which were made entirely from blocks of highly polished black stone. Though no source of light was visible, Sarsour had no trouble seeing. More of Sumehra’s magic, no doubt. The corridor had no door or open entryways-at least, none that Sarsour could detect-so he began walking. His sandals made soft slapping sounds that echoed up and down the corridor, seeming to grow louder and harsher with each echo. Ferran’s feet made no noise; he was dead after all.

The corridor seemed to stretch on and on, far longer than it should have given what Sarsour had seen of the tower’s apparent circumference from outside. But he didn’t question this and, in fact, really didn’t care how and why this could be so. He’d come here in search of only one piece of knowledge: how Kardel had made himself immune to death. After a time, the corridor began to widen, and finally it opened onto a grand chamber that Sarsour guessed lay at the center of the Obsidian Tower. A large gleaming black throne rose from the middle of a round stone dais. Atop this throne sat a woman so beautiful that for a moment Sarsour couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, wasn’t even aware that he wasn’t breathing. The woman had smooth skin as white as porcelain, and long alabaster hair that hung down on either side of her finely sculpted face. Her lips were black instead of red, and her eyes were open and completely white, like those of a statue. She wore a dark-blue gown cut low in the bodice, along with a great deal of jewelry. Earrings, necklaces, rings, bracelets, all of them made form the same highly polished white substance. With a sick roil of his stomach, Sarsour realized he wasn’t looking at real jewelry. Sumehra’s accessories had been made from human bones, ligaments, and teeth.

Though Sarsour had studied every text that had ever been written on Gadaran and its queen, none of them had ever attempted to describe Sumehra’s appearance. Many scholars believed this was because the Dark Lady was too hideous for mortal comprehension, but now Sarsour knew otherwise. It was because she was too beautiful.

The floor in front of Sumehra’s throne wasn’t empty, though. It was filled with dark figures that appeared roughly human-shaped, but which seemed to have been fashioned from living shadow. These creatures knelt before their mistress, row upon row of them. Incoherent whispering filled the chamber like the susurration of ocean waves as the shadow-things prayed to their goddess-queen.

Sumehra turned toward Sarsour and Ferran as they approached, and she smiled. Her ivory teeth were so white-Like polished bone, he thought-that they seemed to glow with a bright light. So intensely did they gleam that Sarsour had to squint, and even then he couldn’t look directly at Sumehra. He’d read numerous accounts written by men and women who’d nearly died but managed to hold onto life and revive. They all spoke of moving through a dark tunnel at the end of which waited a dazzlingly bright light. Sarsour now understood just what that light truly was: the smile of the Queen of the Dead as she greeted her new subjects.

“Welcome, Sarsour, Lord High Executioner of the Citadel of Tabari, and one of my most loyal and faithful servants.”

Sumehra’s voice seemed to emanate from the very air, issuing forth from everywhere at once. Her tone was warm and smooth as honey, but there was a jarring undertone that sounded like the buzzing of angry bees.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sarsour saw his father kneel to the Dark Lady, and he began to do the same.

“Hold, Sarsour,” Sumehra commanded. “In Gadaran, only the dead owe me obeisance. You, however, are still alive…for the moment at least.” Her smile widened slightly, and though still bright, Sarsour no longer had to avert his eyes from the glare.

Having no wish to offend the Queen of the Dead, Sarsour straightened and inclined his head in thanks.

Sumehra stepped down from her dais and came toward Sarsour, the hem of her long dark-blue gown hissing softly across the stone floor as it trailed behind her. Sarsour could hear no footsteps as she approached, nor could he detect any movement of her legs. He had the impression that the Dark Lady was gliding toward him, her feet-assuming she had any, that is-hovering inches above the floor. When she was within five feet of Sarsour, she stopped. He could feel the otherworldly strength of her presence pressing against him like a crashing ebon wave. He wanted to step back away from her, wanted to avert his gaze. But he stood his ground and forced himself to look her in the eyes.

Sumehra gave a slight nod, as if she were pleased.

“You summoned your father’s shade to guide your astral form to me and now you are here. State your business.”

Sarsour took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was strong and firm. “The Council of Hierarchs has tasked me with executing Kardel Duressa for crimes he committed against the people of Qadira. But I am…having trouble performing that duty.” Sarsour went on to tell her of his attempts to slay Kardel, and how all of them had failed. When he was finished, he added, “It is my belief that the only way Kardel could’ve made himself immune to death is if he entered into some sort of pact with you.”

Sumehra looked at him for several long moments, during which time Sarsour noticed the Dark Lady never blinked or breathed. But then, she wouldn’t need to do either, would she? For though she looked like a human woman-and an unimaginably beautiful one at that-she was the embodiment of Death itself. What need would Death have to blink or draw breath?

“You are right, of course,” Sumehra said at last. “Kardel was so resentful of your family taking over the position of High Executioner that he came before me in spirit form-as you are doing now-and asked me to grant him a boon. If I would make him immune to death by all means other than natural aging, the spirits of his ancestors would serve as my personal attendants for all eternity.” The Dark Lady turned and gestured at the shadow creatures still kneeling before her throne. None of them had moved since Sarsour’s arrival.

Sarsour’s eyes widened in amazement. “There are hundreds of those creatures.”

“Thousands, actually,” Sumehra said. “Those you see here are but the shades of the highest-ranked mages of the Duressa line. The remaining ancestors are elsewhere in the tower, waiting until I have need of them.”

Sarsour was both impressed and appalled. “I can’t believe that Kardel would go to such lengths to embarrass me.”

“Not just you, Sarsour,” Sumehra pointed out. “But your entire family. If he succeeds, not only will you undoubtedly be relieved of your duties as Lord High Executioner, but no member of the Buhran line will ever be permitted to hold the office again.”

“But what good will that do?” Sarsour said. “After the crimes Kardel was committed, no member of his family will ever be able to serve as Executioner either!”

“True,” Sumehra admitted. “But he doesn’t care about that. All that matters to him is avenging his family and damaging the reputation of yours.”

In Qadira, family honor was everything, especially among the higher classes. But even so, Sarsour still couldn’t comprehend paying such a high price for vengeance. He looked upon the hundreds of shadowy spirits kneeling before Sumehra’s throne. All of them had willingly entered into the Dark Lady’s eternal service-all in the name of revenge.

“I wish to avoid allowing such disgrace to fall upon my own family name,” Sarsour said. “And more than that, I have a sworn duty to perform. Will you allow me to slay Kardel?”

Sumehra looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “I’m sorry. I made a pact with Kardel, and I cannot break it.”

Sarsour sighed. “That’s it, then.” No matter how skilled a necromancer he was, his power was nothing compared to that of Sumehra. Kardel would spend the rest of his life in prison, where he would eventually die of old age. But Kardel would have succeeded in revenging his family against Sarsour’s.

“Of course, there might be a way that you could still perform your duty,” Sumehra said. “For a price.”

Sarsour swallowed. He feared to learn what price the Queen of the Dead would ask of him, but whatever it was, he knew he would pay it. But before he could say anything, his father’s spirit stood and stepped between Sarsour and Sumehra.

“My Lady,” Ferran said. “I stand ready to pay whatever price you might set for your assistance.”

“Father!” Sarsour protested. “You have no right to make that offer!”

Ferran turned to glare at his son. “I have every right. I was High Executioner before you, and I, too, am a Buhran. My honor is on the line as much as yours.” Ferran’s expression softened and he laid a hand on Sarsour’s shoulder. Sarsour couldn’t feel his father’s touch, but that didn’t matter. The gesture spoke for itself.

“Please, son. You still live and have a wife that loves you very much. And, the gods willing, the two of you may yet have a child one day. Let me do this for you.”

Sarsour hesitated, but he saw the pleading in his father’s eyes and finally nodded. Ferran smiled gratefully, then turned once more to face the Queen of the Dead. “It is settled. Whatever your price, I shall pay it.”

Sumehra looked from father to son then back again. “Very well.” She gestured with her left hand and Ferran’s form grew dark, his features indistinct. Within seconds, he had become a shadow creature just like the others that still knelt before Sumehra’s throne. Once the transformation was complete, the shadow-thing that had been Ferran Buhran walked over to join the others and knelt with them

“One can never have too many personal servants,” Sumehra said.

Sarsour knew the only reason he didn’t cry was because his astral form didn’t possess true tear ducts.

“Now listen closely,” Sumehra said. “As I told you, I will not go back on my agreement with Kardel. Only natural aging will kill him. But you are defining your duty too narrowly, Sarsour. You may be incapable of destroying Kardel’s body, but what of the man himself?”

Sarsour frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“When you return home, tell your wife what I said. She’ll know what to do.”

Sumehra gestured with her right hand and the throne chamber began to blur around Sarsour. He realized that the Dark Lady had dismissed him, and his astral form was preparing to return to his physical body. But just as Sarsour’s vision began to grow too hazy for him to see Sumehra, he understood what the Queen of the Dead had suggested to him, and the necromancer laughed.

Sarsour and Adila stood looking down at the squirming, cooing, gurgling, pink-faced creature swaddled in soft, warm blankets within the newly purchased crib. The room-which until recently had served as Sarsour’s study-had been refurbished, entirely under Adila’s direction of course, into a child’s nursery, complete with colorful murals of cute woodland animals on the walls and mounds of toys wherever one looked.

“Thank you for helping me, my love,” Sarsour said.

“My pleasure. After all, what are spouses for? Besides, I benefited, too.” Adila gazed down lovingly at the recent addition to their family.

Kardel’s body might still live, but the man-his identity, his memories-had been wiped away thanks to Adila’s youthening magic. An enchantment this strong could only be used once on a particular person, Adila had warned, but that was all right. Once was enough. For all intents and purposes, the man known as Kardel Duressa was dead. The Council of Hierarchs, while pronouncing Sarsour’s solution unorthodox at best, was nevertheless satisfied that justice had been served. What’s more, they had granted Sarsour and Adila permission to adopt the baby.

“Isn’t he the most precious thing?” Adila said. “What shall we name him?”

“I thought we might name him after my father,” Sarsour said.

Adila looked down at their son, considered for a moment, then smiled. “I’d like that. How about you, Ferran? What do you think?”

The baby gazed up at them with eyes that were wide, blue and-most of all-innocent.