The Magic Collector

by Clayton Wood

  “Is it ever?” she inquired, a little smirk curling her lips. He broke out into a rueful grin.

  “Never.”

  She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear.

  “Tell me you love me,” she murmured. He grimaced, pushing her away a little.

  “You know I…”

  “Just say it,” she interrupted.

  “You know what I am,” he insisted, pulling away a little more.

  “A copy?” she replied. “I don’t care.”

  “A counterfeit,” he corrected. She smiled, running a hand through his hair.

  “You’re real to me.”

  He hesitated.

  “You know I love you,” he conceded. “But you shouldn’t love me.” He said it without self-pity, only as a statement of fact. She gave that little smile of hers, then pulled away a little. Arched an eyebrow, her gaze drifting downward.

  “I do what I want,” she murmured. “And I want you.” She glanced up at him, arching an eyebrow. “Any requests?” she inquired. He glanced down at the books on his desk.

  “I could use an inspiring tune.”

  Her smile faded.

  “As you wish, Collector,” she murmured. “Let me get a drink of water first.” She turned away then, walking out of his office and closing the door behind her.

  The Collector watched her go, smoothing his hair back. Collecting himself. He sat back down at his desk, his gaze drawn to a huge painting hanging above the door to his office. A stunning creation…a painting of the surface of a lake, with the edge of a wooden raft visible at the bottom, as if looking down at the water from the raft. He stared at the water, peering below the surface, into the empty depths of the water. So detailed that it almost seemed real.

  Almost.

  He felt the affection he had for Miss Savage fade, replaced by an all-too-familiar bitterness. It was why he kept the painting there, always in his line of sight. A necessary reminder of what was real…and what wasn’t.

  Of the great lie of his existence.

  The Collector looked down at his desk, forcing himself to focus on the books before him. Written by authors who had studied the forbidden art of necromancy…and the secret, nearly impenetrable world of those who practiced that art.

  There was a knock on the door, snapping him out of his reverie.

  “Yes?” he called out.

  The door opened, and Miss Savage returned, walking to her usual chair in the corner of the room and standing before it. She lifted her right hand up to the ceiling, extending her thumb and first two fingers, each of which had a silver ring. Then she drew her arm down…and a violin bow appeared between her fingertips. Sitting down on her chair, she set the bow against her left shoulder, and her magical violin appeared there, out of thin air.

  A gift from when she’d been a slave for the Pentad.

  She began to play.

  The music tread softly at first, gently easing into the Collector’s consciousness. Long, beautiful notes, mournful but sweet. He felt them first only with his ears, but as Miss Savage’s eyes closed, as her body began to sway with the music, he felt it in his mind, and in his heart.

  Sweet and sad, like memories of better times. Memories of his childhood. Much of it a lie, but still…

  He resisted the music’s pull, and almost brought his hands to his ears and ordered Miss Savage to stop. Not for the first time, he wondered how much her music was manipulating him…and how long its effects could last.

  Trust her.

  He closed his eyes, letting her music wash over him. Letting it take him on its journey. Allowing it to tell him its story. His story.

  It compelled him to remember.

  * * *

  In the beginning there was pain.

  It slammed into the back of his head, shooting through his skull. Cold wetness enveloped him, swallowing him whole. His head slipped under, his vision going black.

  Then a hand grabbed him by the wrist.

  He felt himself being pulled then, not upward but forward. Light assaulted his eyeballs, and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling himself being pulled out of the water. He landed with a thump on something hard. A wooden floor. His clothes were soaking wet, water dripping from him to form a pool around him.

  He gasped, drawing air into his lungs, and opened his eyes.

  And found himself in a medium-sized room. He instantly recognized it as Dad’s studio on the second floor of their home on the lake.

  The lake…

  “Oh god,” he heard a voice say.

  He got to his feet, his bare feet almost slipping on the slick floorboards. To his surprise, Dad was there, standing before him. Smiling at him.

  But something was terribly wrong.

  Dad looked old. His skin was wrinkled, his hair stark white and thinning. His clothes were torn and spattered with paint, and tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  And he reeked of alcohol.

  “Oh god,” Dad blurted out, grabbing him and pulling him in to a tight embrace. “Oh god oh god.”

  “Dad? What’s wrong?” he asked, pushing away. He glanced back…and realized that he was standing a foot from a painting leaning against the wall. A painting of a raft on a lake, looking down at the water. The center of the painting was pure deep blue, an empty abyss. “Dad, what happened?”

  “You…got hurt,” Dad answered. “Don’t you remember?”

  He struggled to remember, but everything was hazy. Suddenly he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, or what’d happened before. Or much of anything. Just vague memories of Mom and Dad, and of the lake.

  And nothing else.

  “What’s wrong with me?” he demanded, panic rising within him. “Why can’t I remember?”

  “Shhh, it’s okay son,” Dad soothed, reaching in to hug him. “You’re okay now. You’re with me.”

  He hesitated, then relaxed, giving in to his father’s embrace. All the while not noticing the bottles of paint clustered around an empty easel in the center of the studio, and the paintbrushes littering the floor.

  Or the still-wet paint of his father’s signature at the bottom-right corner of the painting he’d been pulled from.

  * * *

  The Collector opened his eyes, emerging from the memory.

  Miss Savage’s music continued, visions of his childhood flashing before his mind’s eye. Of a gurgling stream and autumn leaves covering the ground. Running through that colorful patchwork, laughing. Chasing his father around the meadow.

  Not your father. Not your memories.

  This was the childhood he’d been given. One manufactured, not lived.

  Lie after lie after lie.

  He was about to tell Miss Savage to stop when the rhythm changed, the notes coming faster now. He felt his mind match pace with it, his focus shifting from his childhood to the present. The Collector relaxed, grateful for the reprieve.

  His thoughts quickened.

  The melody grew more complex, Miss Savage’s bow drawing up and down madly, the fingers of her left hand dancing over the strings. His mind matched that frenetic pace, and he opened his eyes, focusing on the books on his desk. He picked up the first one, opening it and starting to read. His eyes darted over each page, and he finished each in seconds, memorizing them instantly.

  Faster and faster she played.

  The Collector flipped through page after page, finishing the first book, then the second. Then the third and fourth. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts racing.

  Necromancy. Curses. Regeneration.

  He’d tried every method of healing money could buy, which was just about everything…and nothing had worked. Not the ring of regeneration, a cocktail of healing potions, or various other powerful artifacts.

  Which meant that Lucia’s curse wasn’t a simple aging spell. It had to be something more. Something devious.

  If he couldn’t heal, then the life that had been taken from him was no longer
a part of him. It could not be returned. The curse must have made this – his withered flesh – his new normal. Of course, if he went into a painting, he could be healed…

  His gaze lifted to the painting hanging above his office door, of the raft on the lake.

  Never again.

  He grimaced, lowering his gaze and wracking his brain. Lucia had been a Necromancer, a member of a mysterious, secretive cult. No one knew where they came from, or who led them. Their magic was as mysterious as they were, the few books written on the subject already in his possession. And yet they’d offered little information on Lucia’s curse…and none on how to cure it.

  Round and round his mind went, whirling with possibilities. Thoughts moving at incredible speed, propelled by Miss Savage’s music.

  But as usual, in the end, he came up with nothing.

  “Stop,” he ordered.

  The music ended.

  Miss Savage opened her eyes, glancing at the Collector. His thoughts slowed, becoming more indistinct. More distractible. He sighed in frustration.

  “Thank you Miss Savage,” he murmured. “That will be all.”

  “No luck?” she inquired.

  “Not yet,” he answered.

  “Would you like another song?” she inquired.

  “No,” he answered. “Thank you.”

  She curtseyed, then left the office, closing the door behind her. The Collector sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. He felt suddenly exhausted, spent by her music. Leaning back in his chair, his eyes went to the painting above the door to his office. A constant reminder of why he did what he did. Of how important his calling was.

  I may not be real, he thought. But my actions are.

  He studied the painting, taking in every detail. Details he’d long since memorized. Then he sighed, lowering his gaze to his desk.

  Gideon Myles, he mused.

  To think that Gideon had spent ten years in Blackthorne trying to save his old friend Thaddeus. To think that he’d let them cut off his hand…the standard price of employment for unvetted Painters wanting to join the Collector’s service.

  “So dedicated,” he muttered.

  Gideon had always been loyal, to a fault. That dedication extended to everything…which was precisely why Gideon would never be a threat to him. The fool was living a lie. A lie he’d go to his deathbed believing. A lie he’d told the Collector so many years ago, one the Collector had believed. Gideon was a fantastic liar…one of the best.

  The greatest liars always lied to themselves first.

  Oh, he’d let Gideon live all right. For now. And as the foolish Painter went from one self-imposed prison to another, the Collector would continue to consolidate his power. It wouldn’t be long now before he’d have the resources to annihilate the Pentad.

  But Gideon’s little stunt required a change in plans. He would deal with the Pentad soon enough, but first he needed to retrieve that girl.

  The Pentad would fall, but now Havenwood would have to come first.

  Chapter 22

  It was mid-morning by the time Bella and Gideon found themselves riding up the gentle, winding slope of a large hill a few miles outside of the Forest of Giants. Bella was relieved at the return to a normal scale of things. Grass was once again mere inches tall, pebbles no longer as large as boulders. Bees shrank, ants were once again more liable to be stepped on by her than the other way around. A curious novelty, the Forest of Giants, but hardly a place for humans. At least this human.

  They rode mostly in silence, for which Bella was grateful. She’d become accustomed to long periods of silence living with Grandpa, and found the constant chatter some seemed to require – particularly her classmates – quickly tiring. The silence gave her time to think.

  And for the most part, she thought about Grandpa.

  Bella spent hours reminiscing about all the good times they had together. Of Grandpa’s easy smile and hearty laugh. Of him lying next to her at night, telling his wonderful bedtime stories. She’d never met anyone more alive than him, and found herself profoundly grateful for having been given the chance to know him.

  But at this particular moment, as she and Gideon left the Forest of Giants far behind, she found herself pondering Goo.

  Gideon had made her store Goo in a different painting than he’d been created in. Apparently it prevented anyone from determining how he’d been made, keeping his creation a trade secret. Gideon did that for all of his creations, putting them in different paintings after they were drawn out. Even Myko’s painting – the one with the moon in the distance – wasn’t the one he’d been painted on originally.

  It was still beyond belief that she’d created Goo.

  For it was clear to her that Goo was very much alive, a creature with thoughts and feelings. To think that she could make a life…it was sobering indeed. An incredible responsibility. Not quite as monumental as having a child, but similar. The Pentad’s strict rules, requiring licenses and government approval for each painting, seemed more reasonable now. It didn’t take much imagination for her to see how a Painter could abuse their power.

  “Bella,” Gideon stated, riding alongside her. She broke free from her reverie, focusing on him. It was clearly not the first time he’d said it.

  “Hmm?”

  “We’re almost there,” he notified. He pointed to the top of the hill, which was only a hundred feet away or so. “Come on,” he urged, kicking his horse’s flanks and pulling ahead of her. She matched his speed, and within moments they made it to the top of the hill.

  And were treated a magnificent view.

  The hill sloped downward ahead, to a forest over a thousand feet below. This forest extended for miles, and out of it rose a mountain a few miles away. A quite unusual mountain, in that it was cone-shaped, corkscrewing upward into the sky. Fine white buildings seemed to cover every square inch of the mountain, with a marvelous white castle standing on its peak. The castle had three towers, each taller than the one before, and capped with brilliant silver peaks.

  The second most peculiar thing about it was what lay at the foot of the corkscrewing mountain: a veritable forest of giant mushrooms. They had to be well over a hundred feet tall, with huge caps of various colors. The most peculiar thing was what surrounded the mushroom forest and the mountain.

  A huge, white…thing.

  Bella frowned, staring at it. It almost looked like a massive white snake over a mile long, completely encircling the base of the mountain.

  “What is that?” she asked, turning to Gideon. Gideon smiled, gesturing at the mountain in the distance.

  “That,” he proclaimed, “…is Havenwood!”

  Bella frowned, turning back to the scene before her. Then she pointed at the white snake-thing.

  “No, I mean the thing around it,” she clarified. “At the base of the mountain.”

  Gideon chuckled, his green eyes twinkling.

  “That,” he declared, “…is the White Dragon.”

  Bella blinked.

  Gideon smirked, retrieving his spyglass and handing it to her. She peered through, following the long white body of the thing, spotting huge scales on its surface. Then she froze, drawing in a sharp breath.

  For there, as plain as day, was the magnificent, horned head of a dragon.

  She stared at the creature, countless times larger than even the castle at the top of the mountain.

  A dragon circle

  White and good…

  A chill ran down her spine.

  “Oh my god,” she breathed, lowering the spyglass. She barely noticed it slipping out of her hand. “Oh my god.”

  “That’s what people usually say,” Gideon agreed, a look of bemusement on his face. She stared at the White Dragon a moment longer, then turned to him.

  “It’s huge!” she exclaimed.

  “The largest dragon ever recorded,” Gideon agreed. “Your grandfather’s finest creation…other than your mother, that is.”

  “He made that?”

/>   “Of course,” Gideon confirmed. “He made all of it. The mountain, the town, the castle, the dragon…even the mushroom forest.”

  “He made all that,” she repeated. “With a book.”

  “That’s right.”

  Bella didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. For the first time in her life, she understood what it felt to be rendered speechless. To think that Grandpa, a kindly, frail old man, had created that…

  She found herself swelling with sudden pride, tears brimming in her eyes.

  I always knew you were special, she thought with a smile. Even without magic, his stories had been magical. He’d been magical. And there, before her very eyes, his magic lived on. Like Grandpa’s final bedtime story for Bella…a story she could quite literally call home.

  “Come on,” Gideon prompted, nudging his horse forward and down the hill. “I’ve been waiting ten years for this. It’s time to bring you home!”

  * * *

  They reached the bottom of the hill quickly, riding their horses through the forest beyond. Gideon led them at a faster pace than before, clearly eager to reach their destination. It was a little over an hour before the forest opened up suddenly, revealing a huge grassy meadow…and the truly massive tail of the White Dragon. It formed a curving wall ahead, easily a hundred feet high, if not higher. Its shimmering white scales were simply massive, seeming to glow as they reflected the sunlight from the blue sky above.

  Gideon took them rightward, following the curving tail, bringing them gradually closer to it. For the dragon was still a good half-mile away.

  “Incredible,” Bella breathed. She found herself unable to wrap her brain around just how large the thing was. “Does it have wings?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” Gideon confirmed. “You can’t see them from here, of course. He’s curled up around Havenwood, with his tail slightly overlapping his head. We’re heading toward the tip of his tail now.”

  “It’s a he?”

  “According to Thaddeus,” Gideon replied. He gave a little smirk. “I’m not about to check.”

  “What’s his name?” Bella pressed. She noted that the tail-wall was getting a bit shorter as they rode, the tail slowly tapering off. It was only fifty feet high now.