Disclaimer: If you’re the kind of person that actually takes the time to read these things, you’re going to want to read this. I’m going to give you a little warning. Well several, actually. First of all goes your standard “Contains adult oriented material. do not read this if you are underage, easily offended, a member of the Christian Coalition blah blah blah. On to more serious stuff. This is the first thing I’ve ever written with the intent of finishing, and so I’m a nervous ball of energy as to the reaction I’m going to get. I’ve got the second part of this story finished, as well as the ideas for the third. If I keep on with this story, I really don’t know when it’s going to end, so you’ve got to let me know what you think, people.
Oh yeah. This story is NOT public domain. If you want to post it elsewhere, fine, on two conditions.
- Let me know. Takes all of five seconds to compose a letter to me. I’ve even gone and made the link for you. Taltrec@juno.com
- You gotta post it all, people, or at least as much as I’ve finished.
Now on to the story. Knowing Mencal the way I do, he’s dying to get into the spotlight. One last warning, I’ve been reading a lot of Anne Rice lately, but I’ve tried to make my own style. I’d like to thank Margaret Weis and Tracey Hickman for their Deathgate series, the basis in my story for Chaunterian Magic
Legacy
by: Taltrec
Prologue
What has gone before
(As recorded in “The Mage Wars: A History of the Chaunterian Uprising and Civil War” Vol. III, by Mrshlan, Master Scribe and Adjudicator, Central History Institute of the Tremarian Empire)
It is ironic that the bane of historians is history itself. As an event fades from the here and now and becomes the domain of the past, the destruction begins. Generations pass, and a story is told time and time again, the truth is unceasingly stolen away a bit at a time by small mistakes and innocent embellishments no matter the pains that are taken to preserve the accuracy. In such a way, facts deteriorate gently and painlessly into a condition, a state of being lightly referred to as “ancient history.”
The Chaunterian Civil War is ancient history.
What is certain that, before Tremarian recorded history, indeed, even before our noble species had left our green oceans, the Chaunterian Empire spanned from one end of this galaxy to the other, holding sway over colonies in a billion star systems and a billion worlds. The power of the Chaunterians cannot be overemphasized. As opposed to our own people, the Chaunterians had long since abandoned the pursuits and advancements of technology to what out own scientists are only now beginning to understand, the strands of power connecting every animate and inanimate object in the universe, this thing called magic. Using their powers, the Chaunterians were able to delve deeper into the nature of life than most could comprehend. It was a time of peace and prosperity for thousands of years. Perhaps it was only inevitable that strife follow, that war and hatred itself is an immutable law of the universe. A noble house of the Chaunterian royalty, the house of Krith’rhee as the ancient texts note them, rose in rebellion against the Emperor, desiring to seize power for themselves. Almost overnight, better than a dozen other houses had joined Krith’rhee in their battle for supremacy. The legends paint the revolutionaries as a band of evil, callous and blood-thirsty killers, but even in our times history books belong to the winners.
The Chaunterian Civil War is too kind a term for the conflict of a hundred and eight years. Holocaust and wholesale destruction also fail to adequately term the uprising. While we can never know if royals in extra-planar palaces crushed planets between their fingers as easily as I myself might a brittle twig as the children’s books depict. To this day, our scout ships uncover the remains and evidence of directed energy blasts, the power of which stagger the imagination. That both sides of the Civil War could raze planets, bend time and space about themselves, and crush utterly minds not immune to their psionic abilities is not disputed. In the end, it was two beings that decided the fate of this war. In single combat, the Patriarch of the House of Krith’rhee (whose name was obliterated from all written records) did battle against the Emperor of Chaunteria. The status-quo triumphed over the upstart noble. Without the skills and resolve of this wizard, the rebellion faltered. Rather than executing the defeated Chaunterians, as it is maintained that the rebels would have done, the Emperor himself began a magical ritual the likes of which had never been seen before. He took what theologians would term the souls of the rebels, tearing them from their bodies and banishing them forever from any planet within the domains of Chaunterian space. From time to time, one of these souls would incorporate itself into the biorhythms of a particular life form, effectively reincarnating itself at vastly diminished power and memory, into the body of another being, another species of intelligent life, on some alien world. Physicists to this day puzzle over the theory and the technique, but the legacy is evident. From time to time, on one inhabited world or another, will arise a man or woman possession the legendary rune markings of the Chaunterians, wielding their ancient magics and skills.
At this point, even the most accurate story regarding this affair becomes vague. Some time after this civil war, the entire Chaunterian race vanished. They left two legacies for the galaxy’s future populace. One was the mere legend of the Civil War; and the other is the occasional appearance of a banished Chaunterian noble. We can only thank the ancestors that, as of the time of my account herein, such refugees have made their emergence on worlds within Tremarian control, we who assume ourselves to be the heirs to the Chaunterians. But, gentle reader, despite our control over known space, there are countless worlds of which we know nothing. The Western Spiral Arm of the galaxy, for instance, is all but unknown to us. It is, perhaps, only a matter of time before a Chaunterian soul comes to find a home within the newborn of an unknown species, perhaps in great numbers.
Perhaps this has already begun.
Chapter One
A discovery
David Bishop’s life was changed forever the day that he found the book. At the age of 15, his entire existence prior to that day was marked by the knowledge that he had never fit in with anyone. Parents, his sibling, “friends” and even teachers, he was never like them. In a purely physical sense, David had always been an uncommonly beautiful child. Auburn hair that he had tastefully grown long enough to ponytail, as well as a pair of near hypnotic eyes that had a curious violent tint to them, and an attractive physique the result of one of his few passions, swimming. Despite these gifts of attractiveness that might have done so many others a world of good in a superficial world, David was a boy with few friends, and an even smaller desire for them. Not only was his intellect advanced beyond the understanding of most, David’s social skills never helped him win over those put off by his knowledge and understanding were done so by his attitude, a subtle kind of tooth-sucking manner that seemed to imply to any that spoke to the young man for any length of time that he thought he knew more than you, that he was oh so much smarter than you. And, often times, he did, and he was. Lastly, and this was something that David kept strictly to himself, for he knew how much concern it would place those around him if they knew about his innermost secret. Beneath that beautiful exterior, David was dead completely to feelings of attachment to any of those around him. His mother was nothing to him aside from a force that occasional attempted to give direction to his life in ways that he always detested, his sister Toby was simply there. And on top of that, any qualified psychiatrist would recognize a gray area of moral flexibility that would give that doctor grave concerns.
The only person that he had ever felt an emotional attachment to, the closest thing to actual love for another human being stemmed from his relationship with his uncle Alexander. Never Alex, Alexander. His uncle was the exception to the rule. On those occasions that Alexander stopped in his travels, occasions that came far too rarely for often alone and lonely David, he would make certain to come by the little house where David and his sister lived with their mother after their father, Alexander’s brother, had died in an automobile accident. He and David would have the most wonderful times together, times that seemed to David one of the few silver linings of a huge, dark cloud. In Alexander, David found an equal to himself, one who shared his love of history and philosophy, in learning all the things that were there to be learned. With Alexander, David had spent his summers in all the countries of the ancient world, walked cheerfully into archeological expeditions with shovel proudly in hand, seen treasures in museums barred to public access. His relationship with the silver-haired man was closer than that of father and son, that was certain. David had cried for the first time in this life when he was told that he had died in an accident, a cave-in at one ancient temple or another, in Peru. He delivered a rather moving eulogy in which he quoted Franz Kafka quite a bit. No one got it. He then sat numbly in the lawyer’s office as he was told who got this, and that of the old man’s fortunes. A trust fund had been established for him. How nice. The lawyer also had a box of “special effects” that Alexander had personally wanted his nephew to take possession of. He took the box containing his inheritance, and placed it under his bed, and promptly forgot about it as he went to mourn the loss of a kindred spirit.
Three months later, Katherine Bishop, his mother, had decided to go on a (late, it was June, after all) spring cleaning frenzy, and when David came home from one of his last days of school, he discovered the box on top of his desk. For the first time, he opened it and began to go through its contents. An old photograph of himself and Uncle Alexander at a dig, in front of an ancient statue of Anubis. What a fun summer that had been, to be in Egypt. Various trinkets and knickknacks Alexander had suspected (correctly) that his nephew would love. A ceremonial dagger with a blue gem set into its hilt. And a book.
He lifted the book from in between a pair of silver bookends, and glanced at the title. The Impotence of Science. Sounded interesting, he would have to read it. He was done with tears, but there was still that distant sense of loss when he thought of his beloved Alexander. He flipped open the cover, and a folded piece of paper fell out, David immediately recognized it as Uncle Alexander’s personal parchment, the kind he would get once a month or so when Alexander had not been in his company, detailing his uncle’s latest travels or discoveries. Like a starved man, he grabbed it from the floor and unfolded it. There, on reading his uncle’s familiar, elegant writing, he learned that this find would bring about that change in his and in so many other lives.
My Dearest David,The only circumstances by which you would ever read this is on the event of my death, death at the hands of those I would call kindred to myself. Of these you will learn in but a moment. I had always wished to tell you what you are soon to read in person, and because I am not able to , I am most sincerely sorry. There is no easy way in which I will be able to tell you what I need to, at least in a way that you will be able to accept it, indeed, it will sound to you as so much science-fiction and fantastic nonsense, so I will simply to it with the candor and honesty that we have come to expect from each other.
You and I, David, are heirs to a legacy that transcends all space and time. We, not merely those of our kind, but you and I in particular, were not always as we are now. Once, in another life, we were the most powerful wizards of a race of wizards that ruled this and possibly other galaxies. Our memories have been taken from us, but not those of our names. We were the Chaunterians, and we were mighty. Our sin, like that of this world’s Lucifer, was pride. It was not merely enough for us to rule in fact, but we wished to rule in name, and so we led the House Krith’rhee into rebellion against the one House nobler than our own, struck against the royals in an attempt to seize power. We were defeated with the loss of our general, and banished from our homeworlds. I consider it a miracle that you and I, of the hundreds that live in this era of Earth, should arrive together, within the same mortal bloodline, within the same century. At the time of the Banishment, you were my son, Mencal, as you were known then.
What does this mean, you may ask yourself. If means that, quite simply and plainly, that a force, an energy field generated by the universe itself, called magic. Magic exists, I practice it, and with it can accomplish all of the feats you and I would read about together on ancient tablets telling tales of ancient gods, and countless more. You may disbelieve me, but I pray that you bear with my, my beautiful boy. We, those of us with the abilities to work magics, have existed alongside this backwards world since the rise its civilization. That much has been banished from the mind of all those wizards I know, and even myself, all but the most rudimentary of our knowledge and out skills, and our memories. We are a race, distinct and separate from the human race, present but invisible throughout the annals of history. When a human child is born with a Chaunterian soul, that body at birth begins a change that converts the flesh into a substance able to bear the strains of our magic. The time it takes this change depends completely on the power of the soul occupying the human body, but at the time of the change, it is always evident to all. I cannot describe the agony I have felt seeing you grow into the man you have become, and yet not being able to tell you the truth of your heritage. David, you could be a great wizard, perhaps even the most powerful of your generation. In my search of the ancient world, I have discovered a means to facilitate, to expedite that change within a still-human member of our kind. Read this book, it is a false cover to disguise what you will need to learn and do to introduce yourself to the magic.
I know that my account of our heritage may have even strained the rare trust that we have shared in each other, and thus I am prepared to offer verifiable proof of my claims. On the back of this missive is a series of rune sigils. Trace them from beginning to end with your finger, and you shall see that nothing but truth is found in my pen.
My only regrets are that I will not be able to see the fine young man you grow to be. Do your Family...your true Family... proud. Do what you will, now you have the power. Be beautiful, powerful, live without concern for the moralities that your mother, bless her feeble heart, tried to instill in you. You make your own laws from this time forth, my beautiful son.
Yours very sincerely and lovingly,Alexander Bishopknown at the time of his Banishment as Antar
David’s world turned on end even before he was a quarter of the way through the note, having to read it twice to make absolutely certain that he wasn’t hallucinating, and then took the dustjacket off of the book. Belief of Uncle Alexander’s words came instantly, from the simple fact that Alexander had been the one person who had given him a perfectly frank and honest answer to every question he had ever asked, nothing but truth flowed from Uncle to nephew as clearly as if through a plane of glass. Nevertheless, he turned the paper over, and found exactly what Alexander had promised. Far more complex than the ancient Nordic squiggles was a pattern unlike any think he had ever seen before. His hand went to a point of the drawing, perhaps by instinct, perhaps purely at random, and began to trace the interconnecting symbols. As his fingers touched the paper, a thin wisp of smoke curled up into the air. And as the line grew longer, a blue fire ignited in the wake of his finger. The flame died in an instant leaving a brown scorch mark, as if he had been writing on the parchment with a cigarette butt. But he wasn t. He was using only his own finger, and it was setting the paper ablaze. As he came back to the beginning of the construct, blue light began to radiate from the complete burn of the runes and it leaped, completely from the paper, hovering in the air before David’s wide eyes. The runes spoke to him, spoke to him in his Uncle’s voice. A message, David realized, waiting for him.
I love you, my son was the whole of the recording, and it was enough to bring that alien sensation of tears to his eyes again. He looked to the book he still had resting in his lap.
David was not surprised to discover that it was not a book published by a mechanical press at all, but rather a lovingly worn black leather tone, somewhat slim, and filled with the same sheets of fine parchment his uncle preferred. Handwritten, every page, David discovered, with numerous illustrations, diagrams. Reading a page at random, he further learned that a majority of the text was in a language that he could not read, or even recognize, he who had studied with Alexander most every language spoken by man since the custom of writing began. These runes made no sense whatsoever to him. More and more curious. David turned to the first page carefully, for it obviously was important to Alexander that he read this, and found the introduction in English. Bearing himself down, he began to read.
Chapter 2
Initiation
By the time David completed the parts of the book written in English, he accepted in completeness the truth of uncle Alexander’s story, more because of the trust he placed in the man than what he had read. But, he had to admit to himself, what he read in the book was utterly and completely fascinating. According to Alexander’s Primer, magic was based on the Waves of possibility and the Line of reality. Reality is the manifestation of meeting Waves of possibility, a large and almost incomprehensible weave of physics in the midst of a myriad of infinite potentials. The Chaunterians were able to bend the line of reality until it matched to place on the Waves in which his intended effect was reached. In time, through the discovery of his own limits and powers, he may instantly look out on the countless waves of infinite possibility to find the part of the Waves where his desired reality would be true. The more improbable a desire, the more difficulty a wizard would have in bending reality to his wishes. The magic was worked by drawing (on this David was not certain how, the Primer stated drawing, but David doubted that wizards carried about pads of paper and pens) the language of the universe, a rune-based language made up of better than one-hundred and seventeen characters, put together in certain ways to create the effect, to work the magic. Utterly fascinating, David marked the pages in which the list of runes was given (he had no time to begin to memorize all of the runes and their effects now) and moved on. This was undoubtedly what Uncle Alexander must have meant, the ceremony, the Deliberate Alteration of Terran Biorhythms. On completing this, he read, his legacy would be realized, the soul that had inhabited his body since his birth would come to the forth, he would be in recipient of a bare percent of the power he had supposedly commanded in his previous lifetime, but greater than that any human commanded. He put the book down for a moment and shuddered. It would be utterly insane to go through with it...wouldn’t it? Even if it worked, there would be moral ramifications of taking that kind of power. No, he wouldn’t do it, he would burn the book and note and forget that any of this had ever happened.
An hour later, David returned from the store, laden down with the materials he would need to begin the ritual. Before he began, he closed the door to his room, the universal signal to his sister Toby, younger than he by five years, aged 11, almost 12, that he was not to be disturbed. That girl had been spanked more than once for violating that, and wouldn’t risk her little butt again unless it was vitally important to the survival of the universe. He had the privacy he needed.
He was as a sacrifice on the altar of destiny. He could not identify any particular point in which his actions were forced, per se, but by the time he had unpacked, it did not seem that any other alternative was for him possible. David took his shirt off, as the book demanded, and placed four candles at the compass points. White to the north, red to the east, black to the south, and green to the west. He held the little velvet pouch, this was the most important part. Crushed diamond. He began to read aloud, calling forth a slow and steady chant. It could have been his imagination, but did the candles just seem to flicker? He kneeled in the center of the four, pouring the glittering dust of diamonds into his palm, chanting. Chanting, not stopping, allowing the rhythm of his voice to carry his mind into a place where it would need to be. Slowly, and with frightening ease and swiftness, David could feel his mind detaching from the sensations of his body, distantly aware of the motions of the spell, motions that his body seemed to be taking of its own volition. This frightened him, he was no longer certain that he could stop from bringing the point of the knife, that same knife that had been left to him by Alexander, into the flame of all four candles if he wanted to, the magic seemed to be coursing through his very veins, jerking his hands and lips and lungs with control more complete than that of the most skilled marionette...now he could see, feel his hand bringing the knife to touch in the collection of dust his left hand held, and very barely hear his voice rising into a tremendous crescendo of pure power, aware of the pain as the knife now touched to his own breast........and his vision was being called away from the earthly contemplation, David could see, for one brief and fleeting moment, the whole of creation, and he could see the Waves carrying it all....and then nothing.
David slept, immersed and riding on the Waves.
Consciousness came slowly to the young David, to that beautiful boy with reddish-brown hair. It seemed that the entire waking world could wait, for David was safe and secure now in the arms of his mother, the truest mother that any being could know, the blessed, blessed Waves. How could he never have seen it before, stretching its way through all things living and not, how could he never have felt it before? But as all people do, especially when in the grasp of a particularly sweet dream, David woke all too soon.
One eye, and then the other. And then a rapid series of blinks brought him to full awareness. He looked at his clock to see how much time had passed. The glowing digital characters stated that it was 4:34 in the afternoon, barely an hour after he had begun.
“How could everything have happened, how could I have been shown the things I had seen, in barely an hour?” he whispered to himself, sitting upright.
Magic, a voice whispered from inside his own head, almost his own, but not quite. It a voice that he knew, had known all of his life, it was the voice of a survivor, the part of himself that kept him safe through dozens of bouts on the schoolyard with boys older, stronger than him, boys who had hated David for some reason or another. Most often, that hatred stemmed from a jealousy over David’s obviously vast intellect, coupled with his quietly arrogant attitude about that gift. But now, this voice spoke to him with a clarity that David had never known before, words being formed within the confines of his own brain than whispered suggestions. He stood up, slowly, and saw himself in the mirror.
And nearly fainted again. Of the knife, of the diamond dust that had cost him nearly every penny he had saved, there was no trace whatsoever. His skin had gone through a transformation, becoming as burnished and golden as if he had painted himself with metallic body glitter. He touched the back of his hand; the golden skin was hard now, it was like touching a slab of living marble. And now on his chest, glowing with its own inner light, were two blue markings, like tattoos would be if they could be made from neon tubing, and lit with a powerful current. The marks were two half circles, facing away from each other and connected by a very small dash, almost like an “H”with the little stems curved.
“What is this?” David asked, touching the markings very tentatively. It felt...like his skin, his new skin, not even abnormally warm.
As if on cue, the voice spoke again. Your name, Mencal. That is who you are, how the Wave recognizes you, and the source of all your magic. Protect the rune, for without it, you are powerless. Your skin has transmogrified into a physical blend of your original form and your Terran one. Now you will be able to work your magic without burning up your body. Normally, it will take a Chaunterian soul many years to convert a Terran body into a suit its needs. You have accelerated that change. If you wish to join human society, or even go out in public, you will wish to craft illusions about yourself to disguise the color of your skin.
Still running his fingers over the alien slight on his alien flesh, David spoke, feeling utterly ridiculous, to the voice, “Who are you?”
I am your conscience. Your shadow, or alter ego. Your genetic memory, the voice of the soul that occupies your body. Whichever you prefer, I could not tell you in a way that you would understand exactly what I am. A guide through this period of adjustment, Mencal. Your guide. Who you were.
“A...a spirit?” David asked.
If you like.
David slowly pressed his hands to his temples. This was just too much, he decided. He had more than halfway convinced himself on the way home from fetching the supplies that Uncle Alexander had been crazy, a notion long since fleeing the boy. When he spoke again, he tried to place as much firmness and authority in his voice as he could. “How should I address you?”
As you like.
“Well now, why not be difficult? What about Gabriel? You seem sort of like an angel to me right about now.”
Gabriel is acceptable.
It was all David could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Somehow, he understood what Captain Kirk felt like dealing with the emotionless Spock. He sighed. “Well then, Gabriel, how do I work magic?”
You must memorize the runes, first. They are the alphabet to the language of the universe. When placed together, which they can be in an endless number of patterns on a three dimensional surface, you may accomplish anything your imagination can conceive and your will can power.
David was already reaching for the book, turning to the page of the runic alphabet. He could hear in the next room Toby putting on a CD, he could hear the beat of the Spice Girls pounding through the walls. He groaned: Toby had been an irritant every day for the past year, it seemed, with her constant barrage of fads as she went from her childhood, “sports is a god” mentality to the wonders of her preteen years, a period that David had not been looking forward to. But things seemed to have changed, haven’t they? He considered yelling at her to turn things down, when an idea occurred to him.
“Gabriel?”
I am here for you.
“Is there any way that I could make my bedroom walls completely soundproof?”
Of course, Mencal. You have but to will it.
David...Mencal closed his eyes, and concentrated, tried to imagine a layer of impenetrable silence between each of the four walls of his little room....and the most extraordinary thing happened. He could see patterns, a complex three-dimensional illustration in his mind, comprised entirely of the runes just barely memorized from his uncle’s book. Acting on instinct, pure intuition, he lifted his hands and began to trace, curving his fingers into the intricate patterns, his violet eyes growing wide at the sight of his hands leaving trails of blue fire in the air behind them, and flaring with powerful brightness as the construct was completed. The construct vanished, the walls pulsated for the briefest of moments...
Silence. Mencal sniffed the air, unable to detect even the faintest trail of smoke. He had to sit down, feeling a bit drained as if he had just jogged a mile all at once. But it passed quickly, though he no longer had the energy he had when he had begun. He shook his head. “Gabriel, she just turned her CD player off, right? I mean, there was no way I could have done that...was there?”
Unknown to me is the operational status of your Terran sister’s musical instrument. You wished for your room to be silent of all noises from the outside world, you drew the proper construct, your wish was made into reality as the Waves interwove themselves at your demand.
Mencal shuddered. Things were getting a little too deep for him now. “No, impossible. Something else...I want a sandwich. Could I make a sandwich or a bowl of soup or something out of nothing?
It is most difficult to create from nothing, or to destroy into nothing. Within your power it is, but not to many Chaunterians on Sol 3, and at great expense of personal energies to the few that are. Smaller things are less taxing on the wizard’s energies.
“Like if I wanted to levitate?”
Before the voice of ‘Gabriel’ could answer him, Mencal had the answer for himself. Another rune construct formed in his mind, much more complex than the last, and his fingers were already in motion, weaving and dancing. And as he completed, he could feel the pull of gravity, long taken for granted as a constant...simply fade away. He was suspended by nothing, a neat two feet from the ground, still in the kneeling position. He gaped, certain that he was about to be dropped from this surreal dream he had entered. That, of course, did not happen.
“G-g-g-g-Gabriel?”
I am here for you.
“Ummmm..how do I get down?”
Before, you simply wanted to create an alteration, without lasting effects, to the walls of this room. The rune construct faded after the Wave had altered reality. Now, you are keeping in constant duration your levitation, to end it, simply obliterate the rune structure. Mencal looked down, and there, two feet beneath his hands, was the pattern he had just traced. He reached out, having to alter his positioning on his bed of nothing, to reach, and with a single pass of a hand, cast the glowing squiggles into nothingness, now falling with light thud to the floor.
His body was a bit bruised, but Mencal’s mind was racing. He accepted magic as a reality now, but now what to do with it? Easy enough answer, anything I want, he realized.
Very, very softly whispering. “Anything I want.”
He considered his baby “sister” Toby, and an evil thought crossed his mind, and a wicked grin crossed his face.
“Gabriel?”
I am here for you.
“Teach me about controlling people...”
Chapter 3
Toby
Mencal didn’t bother to put a shirt on as he left his room. As soon as he had crossed over the doorway, he went beyond the barrier of silence created in his room, the music of Toby’s godawful bands filled his ears once again. The ten feet between the two children’s’ rooms were the longest ten feet he ever had to cross, as the voice of his morality screamed at him for what he was about to do, for what he was even thinking about doing. Guilt, that powerful weapon, was pounding away at him for all it was worth. In truth, it was only Uncle Alexander’s closing remarks about being the maker of his own laws that kept him going on. He did a brief consultation of the runes, and soon created a field about himself that would make him invisible to the eyes and ears, and immediately felt a pain from behind his temples, a pain so sharp and random that he feared that his conscience had tried to kill him for what he was about to do.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH, Gabriel, what is this?!” He screamed, and only his just-completed spell kept little Toby from hearing that blood-curdling shout.
Invisibility is a very complex spell, that even advanced wizards undertake with difficulty. The pain that you are feeling is one you will feel to lesser or greater extent each time you overexert yourself, and remain until you have rested. Take pride in the pain, Mencal, many wizards as new to the craft at you would simply not have been able to visualize the proper rune structure, or been unable to cast such a complex spell.
Mencal was not feeling very proud. He pressed his temple for a few moments, until the pain abated slightly, and he felt sure enough to stand and march to the bathroom in search of three or four advil. He studied himself in the mirror, still gasping slightly at the naming runes gleaming at him from his bared chest, the golden gleaming skin. And now he discover a new alteration his initiation had imposed on his body. Already dancing and hypnotic orbs at the start of his day, now his eyes gleamed from his glowing skin like twin violet candles in a skull, almost enough to light the bathroom by themselves. Mencal felt as if he could stare into those depths for hours at a time, immersed in the swirling of the purple liquid...
He posed for a moment for a chuckle more than anything else and, though a very bright boy, David was ignorant at how the years of swimming had sculpted his already lean frame into a rather attractive body of wiry muscle. He went back into the hall, pausing outside of Toby’s door, preparing himself against the dying siege of his conscience, and entered her room.
She was sitting at her desk, looking from a calculator to the sheet of paper in front of her, obviously working on her homework until Mom got home and gave her someone else to pester. She did not seem aware of her brother entering with unnatural silence, nor of him shutting the door behind him. Mencal (as even David was thinking of himself now) sat down on the bed, near the desk, and studied the girl. Until very recently, Toby and David had a relationship based on the lack of one. Toby could never understand what David saw in those “dusty” old books, and “creepy” Uncle Alexander of in the same way that David would never be able to understand Toby’s love of getting out there on a soccer field, or baseball field, or whatever and kicking some butt, as she so eloquently stated it. So they more or less left each other alone for a good amount of the time, that is until the girl had begun to go through her delightful period of puberty. Now, looking up to her face, Mencal had to admit that her five years of sports addiction had paid off. At age eleven, Toby was not destined to be a heartbreaker; she already was. Maybe four and a half feet of nicely toned muscle, early developing, but still small swells of breasts, a devilish little face, deeply tanned skin and, Mencal’s personal favorite combination of features on any single person, intense blue eyes and soft brown hair.
“My own laws, Uncle Alexander,” Mencal whispered as he reached out, without really thinking about it, and brushed his hand against Toby’s soft cheek. She gave a jump, and stared at him with such sureness that Mencal was certain that he had been spotted. But reason overtook him quickly, and he thought to himself, “she’s just looking to see what touched her, she probably thinks it’s a bug or something.” Sure enough, a few moments later, Toby turned back to her book, as if nothing had ever happened, and Mencal began to weave the runes.
One, two, three, and then a fourth, and Mencal duplicated the first spell he had ever cast, completely soundproofing this room with a minor alteration; the windows and doors locked shut in such a way that they could not be opened by anyone but him. Even before the glow faded, Mencal was weaving again.......
Toby was having some problems. It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on the sheet of numbers in front of her. Now, the Bishop children had been raised with the beliefs instilled in them by their mother that sex, in any form aside that from procreation, was a dirty, almost evil thing. These beliefs had taken a more firm hold in Katherine Bishop’s daughter than in her son. So it was a source of continuing unease to Toby that she should be thinking such...such dirty thoughts in the middle of the day. Thoughts about...boys, touching and kissing and other things only identified in the vaguest of terms in her young mind. And now, this was becoming really capital Bad, these thoughts were having an...effect on her. She could feel something happening between her legs, this kind of moisture gathering like maybe she had to pee, but didn’t. She couldn’t resist the urge to rub herself briefly through her shorts, but that only made the sensation more intense.
Soon enough, the sensations began to overpower her, and she stood up, almost swooning at the conflicting sensations of passion, want, and shame. Her face was flushed even through her dark tan as the images in her mind became even more distinct...her mind traveled back in time to two weeks prior, when she had inadvertently walked into her brother as he was getting out of the shower. She had not seen a boy naked since she had been very young, and she could remember very clearly that tubething between his legs, could all but see it in front of her as her fantasies raged beyond her best abilities to control. It was almost as if these thoughts were being...broadcast at her somehow. She simply could not concentrate on anything but these jumbling images of kissing, touching, filthydirty things, she insisted, even as she all but tore her shirt off, revealing to her invisible watcher that adorable little training bra. Her shorts followed, and after that, the undergarments, revealing to Mencal his sister’s body in all it’s beauty. Not a bit of hair revealed itself beneath the girl’s neck, bringing to Mencal’s mind memories of his own body at that age....Toby brought her hands up and down along her breasts, her pink little nipples, down between her legs, all as she attempted to satisfy this hunger.
Toby was lying on her bed now, making discoveries about her body that would give her mother conniptions. Those smooth, virgin pussy lips were glistening with released moisture, and she was beginning to rub them softly at first, then with increasing pressure as she discovered the pleasure, the further wetness...
“Oh God....oh God oh God oh God,” she moaned. “David...David...”
Mencal would have smiled softly were it not for the lingering cords of disbelief. It was working, better than he had ever imagined that it could. He had anticipated a struggle, a battle of wills and the things he read about in science fiction stories. But, instead, he was seeing for the first time, a naked girl. And what a sight! Now Toby had discovered her vaginal passage, and was probing the tightness with one tiny finger. But the true beauty of this was that no matter how hard the girl tried, she would be unable to achieve an orgasm. It simply would not happen, Mencal’s spells had seen to that. Nothing to spoil his fun, at watching his sister writhe, gasping and calling the name of the boy in her fantasies, him. And now he did smile, a lean, wolfish smile. She was screaming his name now, screaming as her fingers plunged into her depths. David, she was calling, David please help me. Another tiny flicker of his fingers, and her libido was raised another notch, she became slightly more desperate to achieve release from the maddening prison of passion he had placed her in.
“The greatest show on Earth,” he said to himself, unconcerned of the volume of his voice. Toby couldn’t hear him, hell, even if she could, she probably wouldn’t do anything but beg him. Poor kid, she didn’t even know what she would be begging for, thanks to what their mother had drilled into her head. She probably still thought making babies had something to do with birds and bees. Uncle Alexander had told him no such fables.
He was standing over the girl, watching her jerk, savage, grunting moaning and crying. He couldn’t resist the temptation, his hands lowered onto the pillboxes on her chest, to those tiny swells, and brushed the dark nipples. Toby’s reaction was encouraging, he noted. She all but purred in between gasps, arching herself fully into the invisible caress. He shook his head, whispering, “Poor little girl. You’ve been kept in the dark for so long, haven’t you? No need to worry any longer. I’m going to teach you things....” he trailed off, amazed at the utter change that had occurred in him within the confines of the afternoon. Was he even, technically, human anymore? Thoughts like this began, as if the first few had been the first droplets of a deluge, all the while poor Toby suffered frustrations unimaginable. He sat down again, in the same place where his sister had been sitting, and summoned his guide again.
“Gabriel?”
I am here for you.
“I have some questions for you.”
I shall answer to the best of my abilities.
“Am I still human?”
Your use of the word ‘still’ implies that you were human to begin with.
“What do you mean?”
The addition to your body at conception the Chaunterian soul altered your genetic code to one able to work magic changed your genetic structure to such a degree that you have never been, genetically, a human
“Well that helps.” Mencal shrugged. It seemed to him that he was still himself, and that was all that seemed to matter to him. “Is what I’m doing to my sister right? I mean, should I be making her think these things and feeling that way about me?”
Beings such as I are completely neutral in morality. I can no more comprehend ideals of right and wrong than you could my very nature.
Mencal looked, for a long while, at the girl he had called his sister for eleven years, searching every nuance and crevice of his mind, emotions. Perhaps ‘Gabriel’ was right, perhaps he was not human, for he could not find within him any shred, any sliver of what might be considered love. Only a distant protective impulse that probably stemmed from a possessive root in him than any real bond. Instantly, he absolved himself of any guilt at the things he was doing to her. He was enjoying it, immensely. His mind was already racing along paths of other games he could play, other ways that he could control the actions, the thoughts, the body and mind of his sis...no, she had never been his sister. “The only family I ever had was Uncle Alexander, and he’s dead now. It’s just me, and two women in this house.” The utter power he had over her...that was causing the throbbing in his own genitals just as much as the erotic sight of the young girl masturbating, dancing on her sheets for him. He was stroking himself through his pants, had been for some time, he realized.
It was time to end the game, he decided. A few runes undid what was done to him in the hallway, and it seemed to Toby that her brother simply appeared over her bed. She noticed, but did not register, his burning eyes, tawny skin. the tattoo on his chest.
“Oh God, David, oh please help me I...I....I.....” she trailed off, a few sweaty strands of hair making a veil of sorts over her deep blue eyes.
David’s voice, almost always short and cool, struck her with an ice she had heard from him only when he was very angry. But he didn’t seem angry now...but rather like he meant to be obeyed, and would be obeyed, or there would be hell to pay.
“I know. And if you ever want that ache to be satisfied, if you want to cum (dirtyword, dirtyword, the last lingering bits of Toby’s reasons screamed) then you’re going to do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand, Toby?”
“Ohhhhhhh.......yes, please, yes.”
Mencal smiled. “Good. Then get off that bed, and get down on your knees in front of me.”
Toby almost couldn’t control her slender frame enough to obey his command. Like one drunk, she wobbled slightly on her knees, her hands, soaked with her sweet honey, continued to work at her pussy. She tried, desperately, to get some control over this situation, “What....oh.....oh....what’s happening here? What do......ah, oh god....what do you want me to do.”
Had he said this under any other circumstances to her, Toby would have told their mother at the nearest opportunity, and heard the sounds of a belt flying against her brother’s bottom that same day. “Undo my pants.”
Toby’s eyes shot wide open, disbelieving. “What?!”
“You heard me.”
Mencal’s former sister was weeping. She didn’t want to undress her brother, no. Mom had told her about all of the horrid things that boys would want her to do, things like “sucking on their things. filthy, disgusting.....” But, God, she couldn’t bear this ache that was almost painful to her anymore. She would do anything...anything David wanted to make it go away. Her hands left her raw, sore passage and fumbled at his belt buckle, with great effort able to pull down his pants and underwear.....see up close what she had seen from across the room two weeks ago.
“Please....no....not in my mouth...please, David...”
“Yes, in your mouth. I can make it this bad forever, so you do it, you do it now, Toby.”
Bowing beneath the weight of her brother’s threat, Toby moved to obey. Grimacing, she touched her lips ever so softly to her brother’s cock, right at that little hole. Mencal’s concentration was broken at the rush of sensation...he placed a hand lightly on her head as she kissed him again, causing him so shudder. Her lips....god....her lips were so soft, so wet. Almost like she was teasing him. She began to lick, clumsily and ignorantly, but this was the first time a girl’s lips had been on his penis, and Mencal was certainly not going to complain. As her teeth began to graze his swollen purple head, Mencal knew that he would not last long. Casting a final spell, he lost himself to the utter pleasure men seldom find save when a woman is taking them into her mouth. That wet, sucking sensation, the feel of cheeks encaving from the force of the vacuum...the feeling of the back of her throat....her head bobbed back and forth taking him deeper and deeper into her through, pulling, tugging with her mouth...
Mencal was experiencing for the first time in his life an orgasm brought about by another person, spurting his seed into his helpless thrall’s mouth, who gagged, swallowed and sputtered even as the last spell came into effect. Tying together the siblings’ orgasms, the moment Mencal had began to cum, so had she. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, waves of violent pleasure rocking over her, enveloping her...so fleetingly brief, and yet so wonderful...wonderful?! What I am thinking, Toby said...that was...oh no, what did I just do? The look in the girl’s eyes told Mencal that she was panicking, and so his hands danced again, and the girl fell into a deep sleep. He picked her up, easy enough to do, he discovered, when you are a wizard, and tucked her into her bed, and began to weave spells once more.
“I’m sorry to say that you’re not going to remember this when you wake up, little one. But I can’t have you running and telling all to Mommy dearest now, can I? At least, not until I’m ready to deal with things. Hmmmm...you know something? Why erase all the work I’ve done? Let’s see, your memories of today will come back to you when I say the word ‘Eden,’ OK? Yes, that works. But until I’m ready for you again, you’re going to be obsessed with learning all about sex as you can, aren’t you? Not from Mom, no, she won’t tell you anything you can use. But your friends,” Mencal’s hands were constructing a complicated structure as he went on, “yes, and books, or whatever. And, I’m sorry to tell you, that you are going to have the most intense dreams about a mystery man, doing the things you’ve learned about. I wonder who it will be.” The grin across the boy’s face was pure mischief, wicked mischief. “You won’t do anything about these dreams, knowing what a little prude Katherine...” this caused both the boys words and hands to pause, he had never called his mother Katherine before this, and the almost instinctive way that he had done so caught him a bit off guard. “....Katherine groomed you into, but you won’t be able to forget, now will you?” Finally, the pattern was complete, and the construct flowed over Toby’s prone form.
Mencal was exhausted, utterly drained by this last spell, with pain throbbing from the crown of his head to the base of his neck. It was all he could do to resist the temptation to curl up next to his little...well now, if not his sister, then what was she? Whatever, he decided, not quite ready to make the transition and call her what his unconscious mind already considered her, what he would, perhaps, turn her into; a slave.
Mencal relocated the bottle of advil into his room, having a sneaking suspicion that he was going to need it in the future. He downed four of them, and laid down as the pain, as reluctant to leave as an uninvited guest, lingered on and on. And in that time as his body and mind healed of the strain he had placed on them, Mencal decided what he was going to do with his powers, what would change in his life this summer.