Chapter 1
“Oi, saru!”
Gilthion slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the room, tracking dirt across the floor. The inn he – no, they – were staying at was sparsely furnished, in the mage’s opinion. The two beds were hard, the mattresses filled with straw instead of down, the floor bare and not carpeted, no tapestries to line the walls and only three miserable candles to provide light. It was, accordingly, in his best interests to finish This Damn Mission and get back home, and back to civilization. “Saru! Where the hell are you—“
The mound of pillows and blankets on one of the beds exploded outwards as a tussled brown haired head popped out of it. “I have a name, you know,” the head whined.
“Whatever. I’m going out. Don’t—“
“I’m going with you.”
“You are not.”
“Am too.”
“Shut up,” Gilthion growled, massaging a temple in gesture born of habit. “Would you stop being a stubborn prick and cooperate for a change?”
The remaining blankets tumbled to the floor as a boy of about fifteen hopped off the bed. “You’re going after that possessed guy, aren’t you?”
“None of your business.”
The boy bared his teeth in a grin, fairly radiating energy and a sense of
insolent familiarity. “It is my business when I have
to haul your bleeding and unconscious body back over forty miles of rough
terrain in late autumn. You need a second on this mission to hold down the target
long enough for you to kick the demon’s butt.”
Gilthion was silent for a minute, his back rigidly stiff and a frown creasing his face. Candlelight made shadows dance across his pale features, shimmering off the bright golden hair so uncharacteristic of these northern parts. Or uncharacteristic, full stop, even back in distant Chou An and the courts of the Empress of Tougenkyou.
“Suit yourself,” the mage said eventually, drawling in laconic imitation of the General he had been speaking to earlier. “I’m not going to wait while you take forever and a day to get ready.”
“One minute,” the boy promised – too late, as the door slammed shut behind Gilthion’s retreating back.
*
They walked, and the odd beam of moonlight broke through the clouds to trace a path for them, silver upon a beaten path that would soon be invisible under snow. The first flakes of the year were already falling, spiraling in little flurries that melted before they reached the ground. Gilthion scowled at them and picked up his pace, drawing his cloak close. Behind him, the sound of following footsteps faltered momentarily. “Hey, Sanzo—“
SHIT. Gilthion was spinning even before the second syllable of that name sounded in the air. Anger – the impatient furious irritation born of having had to drum this lesson in too many times – bubbled up instantly, almost a reflex action. “Don’t call me that.”
The boy looked over from whatever he had been studying, and shrugged. “Slip of the tongue, sorry. Besides, why not? It’s your real name. But anyway, it’s snowing!” Curiosity and excitement flashed across his features as he leapt, trying to catch a snowflake between his fingers. “We don’t get snow this early back home—“
Gilthion strode forward to grab the boy by the lapels of his tattered coat, and gave him a hard shake. “How many times do I have to tell you—“
“—that you’re traveling incognito and no one must know your real name, and what’s up with that, like I said?” the boy whined. “’Gilthion’ has become a far more famous name and you answer to it, so what’s in a name?”
Gilthion scowled blackly at him, resisting the urge to fry the boy into the next century. “Power, you moron. But you’re too thickheaded to understand that.”
“Feh,” the boy said. “It’s just a word.”
“And a word that I will gladly roast you for uttering if you ever deign to mention again!”
“Oh come on. Just because some insane dribbling old hag muttered that it would be important? Said I’m sorry, ‘k?”
Gilthion made a sound of disgusted impatience, and dropped him. “Shut up and walk already.” He turned and set off back down the road without a backward glance. His boots churned up small clouds of dust, which merged with the larger ones that the boy made as he hurried after. Snowflakes twirled out of the sky as heavy clouds moved across the moon. Somewhere behind, a shadow detached itself from the trees and followed.
*
Black. It was dark now, with the moon hidden behind these accursed clouds. It was dark, and the darkness weighed down on his shoulders and closed in on his throat like a noose.
Not a noose, a sibilant thought whispered, somewhere in the depths of his mind. Say rather the protective wing of a mother that shields you from prying eyes. Say rather the caress of a lover, that guides you and strengthens, calling out your inner being to become who you truly are…
The mental surge of protest at that was strong enough to make him stumble, one hand clutching frantically at his head as if he could tear the very thoughts from his mind. His fingers, stiff with the blood that had caked over them – and there was always so much of it and it would not wash away – twisted between black strands and yanked mercilessly. There was a brief flash of pain, but the silent war of voices never ceased.
The moon peeped out from between the clouds, and disappeared again, and the sun must have risen at some point, because it was bright day, but when he looked up again, night was wrapping its folds around the sky. Time was a meaningless blur of road under his feet, the renewal of fresh blood on his hands, and movement in the dark. Lightning fast, and the rage of blinding colors, and people were dead at his feet, the corpses stacking to form a funeral pyre that shot fire towards the sky…
…He always tried to give them a decent funeral after he was done. He didn’t know why, but it soothed that part of him that hurt – that was always hurting, these days. And then the voices would stop for a little while, and there would simply be the crackle of flames, purifying flames that wiped out the shadow of his passing. If only his soul was as easy to purify.
He was calmest beside water, and it was beside a river that he half-knelt, half-fell now, watching the swirling currents carry the misty stain of blood away. The water was freezing, but he didn’t care, trailing his hands in it and sighing in relief. Just for a while. Just for a little while, the grief and the guilt that were his constant companions would retreat, and a stillness would settle across his mind.
He awoke, in the stillness of the deepest part of the night, to the sight of pale white snow dancing in the air. A flake landed on his face, melting against the warmth of his skin. It lingered for the briefest of moments, a drop of water at the corner of an eye, then it was gone.
Something seemed to shift, some sense of something coming together, clicking fast in the deepest part of his soul. A breath of air from some forgotten summer…
He rose slowly, and his eye lighted immediately upon gold.
*
Cho was crouched by the stream when he found him.
“Stay out of sight. I’m handling this alone and I don’t need you to butt in at some inopportune moment and mess things up,” he snapped.
His companion nodded sullenly and disappeared up a tree, scaling it deftly like the monkey that Gilthion so often accused him of being.
And then he strode forward to confront this allegedly demon-possessed man.
Something was strange, he realized, as he neared the kneeling figure. Demon possession wasn’t typically this… neat. Demon possession equated madness, and madness equated a certain amount of messiness – bedraggled hair maybe, or splattered blood. It didn’t equate this calm man with cracked spectacles turning to regard him with the sense of weary patience.
“I suppose you’re here to arrest me,” Cho said, and his tone was civil and courteous, with no hinting of the raving murderer that the General’s men had spoken in hushed whispers about.
Gilthion smirked, recalling certain symbols scored into the walls of the man’s room.
“And if I was?” he called back.
Cho’s shoulders sagged slightly. “I can’t go with you. I … need to go somewhere. There is…” he paused, eyes going slightly unfocused. “…something? I need to find…”
Interesting.
He shrugged. “None of my concern. I have orders to bring you back. Now are you going to—“
Something flashed – yellow-green-white – in Cho’s eyes, visible even in the dim light, and the man charged abruptly. Gilthion neatly side-stepped the attack, then raised an eyebrow in surprise as Cho turned with greater speed than he had thought humanly possible. Claws – for the man’s fingernails had lengthened into deadly three inch long scimitars – slashed rapidly downwards towards him.
And bounced harmlessly off his shields, which crackled from the impact.
He saw Cho’s eyes widen in surprise, noting in that instant the curiously slitted pupils, before he unleashed a spell of his own.
The bolt caught Cho in mid section, sending him flying backwards to crash against a tree.
Gilthion strode forward, readying more power at his fingertips.
And abruptly, Cho lashed back, but not with the physical blow he had half been expecting.
Magic crashed into his shields, reeking of elemental water energy, cutting through them in an instant. He took the bolt almost full force, and found himself streaking across the ground, skin screaming in agony from where it had been seared away.
What the—
He didn’t have the luxury of remaining frozen in shock as the second bolt came flying towards him. He threw up shields – too fast, too hastily – and the sheer power of the blow tore straight through them. He saw them fragment in his mind’s eye, iridescent threads ripping apart, fragile as a spider’s web, a split second before he flung up an arm and yelled for help.
“GOKU!”
*
“Magus? Magus Gilthion?”
“He’ll be fine! Just needs some rest, is all!”
“He was so badly beaten up when you and General brought him back in…
are you sure he’s okay?”
“Of course! Naw,
magic damage always looks much worse than it really is. Don’t worry about it.”
“But he seems to have healed overnight! That’s… miraculous, if I may
say so.”
“Eheh. Maybe he cast some healing spell on himself? Think we ought to leave?
We might be disturbing him.”
*
And he awoke.
No fanfare to it, no slow surfacing from troubled dreams, no lingering grasp of fatigue to drag him back into the void.
And from the lack of screaming pain, he knew that Goku must taken a hand in his accelerated recovery.
“You awake?” a voice chirped, as a face appeared, upside down, in his vision.
He growled out what could have passed as an acknowledgement, and sat up abruptly, throwing off the covers.
“Watch it!” Goku protested. “You could’ve slammed straight into me!”
“Shut up.” He stood, looking around for a mirror. “Did you get him?”
“He ran.”
“What?”
“He ran.” Goku fidgeted uncomfortably. “He was too fast, and I was worried about you…”
“You should have gone after him instead of worrying about me,” Gilthion snarled.
Goku shrugged. “You weren’t a match for him. I didn’t think I’d be. Plus, he was a magic user…”
Gilthion found the desired mirror, and scowled brutally at his reflection as he combed errant strands of hair into place. True to Goku’s magical abilities – rudimentary, but still passable – he had healed without a scratch to mark the abuse he remembered taking.
“Besides, the General…”
He paused at that, turning back to regard Goku. “What about him?”
“He was there. Must have followed us. And he freaked out. Thought you were going to die.”
“How could he follow us without us… without you noticing?” Gilthion demanded. “Or were you too busy being a moron?”
“Nothing of that sort! I don’t know! Maybe he’s a mage too!”
Whatever Gilthion had been
planning on saying next stilled and died, unspoken. A mage too. I’d never
considered that. But he had been…
Why didn’t he warn me that Cho was one too? And why didn’t I sense it? And if he wasn’t using magic to hide his presence, his mage potential should have shone out like a beacon… For that matter, why didn’t I sense Cho’s mage potential either?
“Something’s really strange about all of this,” Goku said, giving voice to his thoughts.
“Whatever.” He turned back to the mirror, scowling at the damage done to his robes. “We’re going after Cho again. After I get a shower.”
“But you weren’t a match for him,” Goku pointed out.
If anyone else had dared to even suggest that, Gilthion would have blasted them to smithereens just to show off his unprecedented and hereto unrivalled abilities. He wasn’t just a mage of the highest order, he was the only mage of the eighth order, had been the only one in centuries, and he was more than a match for anyone. And anyone else who had dared to suggest otherwise had gone to Hell in a handbasket.
But his incredible offensive capabilities had met their match in Goku’s unprecedented shielding abilities. The kid hardly had anything in the way of offense to speak of, but even unconscious, he had the strongest damn shields that Gilthion had ever seen. And appeared to be almost completely unaware of that fact.
“My shields were low,” he growled instead. “Wasn’t expecting a magical offensive, let alone one on that scale. I’ll get him the next time.” No unrated mage is going to kick my ass and get away with it.
“The General said he wanted to see you when you woke up,” Goku added.
“The General can go and screw himself. I’m not letting Cho get away just because someone decides he wants to talk.” He glanced around the room, eyes settling on the pack nestled in the corner. “Get me the map. And where are we?”
“You’re going to Gate?” Goku asked. “But—“
“But nothing. Cho’s not a trained user. He might sense it, but he wouldn’t know what the hell it was.”
Goku shrugged. “All right then.”
*
Gating to a place you had been to before was easy. He
recalled that river bank again, recall the gentle
caress of falling snow, the gurgle of running water, the swish of grass waving
in the breeze. He let the image fill his mind, let it permeate him, until his
breath seemed as one with the wind, and he himself as insubstantial as the
falling snow.
Then he breathed out again, making the image more real than the room he was currently in.
And then he sat down on the snow-covered grass that he had fallen out of thin air onto and waited for Goku to show up.
The boy turned up a good fifteen minutes later, looking embarrassed and cursing quietly under his breath.
“You sure took your time,” Gilthion said, spearing him with a glare.
“Not… all… of us are… as good as … you are… at this crap,” Goku wheezed, flopping over backwards to regard the sky. “…If you were in … that much of a … hurry… you could have grafted me into your gate.”
“And waste my energy? No thanks.” He stood, brushing off the snow and scowling at the wet patch it made on his robes. A little flick of his fingers later, and the water drained out of the fabric, falling like fine rain back onto the ground.
Goku shot him a sardonic look. “So you can waste your energy on keeping dry instead?”
“Stop being a brat,” Gilthion said. “You need the practice anyway. Or do you want to suck forever?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and strode off.
It was there, just as he’d feared and suspected it would be. The fine trail that marked an elemental user’s passing. Unshielded, leaking stray energy, leaving tracks for enemies to hunt him down. No trained mage would have done that. And yet… and yet he had been powerful enough to…
Perhaps it was the effect of that working that was performed on him, he thought. Those symbols in his room. Someone trying to destroy a soul by splitting it in two. A spell I thought existed only in theory, because no one is powerful enough to cast that, and it takes far too much time and energy.
But it all made sense, like two pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. Obviously, whoever had tried to kill Cho before – back in his army barracks – had bothered with the usual preliminary checks and sensed his obviously massive mage potential. And whoever that had been had decided that a standard bolt based magical attack was insufficient, and had brought in the heavy guns…
…And had failed, leaving Cho with a soul splitting in two and unraveling at the edges. The doctor and the murderer. The yin and the yang. Not demonic possession at all.
Now the only question was why.