The Magic Collector

by Clayton Wood

  “Why would he?”

  “Because it’s like death,” he answered. “One day, he won’t be drawn out again. Each time could be his last.”

  Kendra had never considered this.

  “Cheery thought,” she grumbled.

  “To be in a painting is to die,” the Collector declared. “To be drawn out is to be given life.” He turned to gaze at the skull in the door. “Death is nothing to fear for those who’ve been in the canvas. They’ve already experienced it.”

  Kendra stared at him, waiting for him to continue. It was rare that the Collector spoke, much less at length. But he said nothing more. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the skull’s.

  A dull red light appeared in each of its eye-sockets, and the door swung open.

  The Collector turned to Kendra, gesturing for her to step through. She did so, passing him and going through the doorway into the room beyond.

  She found herself standing on a white marble balcony. It overlooked a room of indeterminable proportions. For the room was shrouded in darkness, a single light from a lantern on the wall above the door the only illumination. The balcony was semi-circular, barely six feet long and wide. And there were no railings.

  The Collector stepped onto the balcony beside her.

  “What…” she began.

  And then the Collector snapped his fingers, and the room was instantly bathed in a golden light.

  Kendra gasped.

  The balcony overlooked a room of considerable size, a large cylindrical room whose cone-shaped ceiling came to a sharp peak fifty feet above their heads. She glanced down over the edge of the balcony, and drew in a sharp breath. For the room was not a room at all, she realized; it was one of the castle’s huge towers, and they were near the top of it. The floor was hundreds of feet below.

  And hung upon the walls of the tower, from top to bottom and all the way around, were paintings.

  These were of uniform size, and spaced at regular intervals on the curved walls of the circular tower. Each with ornate frames, and some depicting empty rooms, or barren landscapes. But most of them were paintings.

  Of people.

  Kendra stared at the paintings. Hundreds, if not thousands of them, hanging in this monstrous room. A gallery unlike any she’d ever seen.

  “What is this?” she breathed, her eyes going from painting to painting. The Collector smiled.

  “My collection,” he answered.

  “But these paintings,” she protested, “…they’re of…”

  “People?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow at her. She nodded. “Does that bother you, Kendra?”

  She swallowed, staring at the paintings. Painting people was illegal, the greatest sin a Painter could commit. Not just in the Pentad, but everywhere…in any country she could think of. To have one painting of a person was sacrilege, but to have hundreds…

  “Why?” was all she could manage.

  The Collector turned to gaze at the gallery.

  “Why not?” he countered.

  Kendra swallowed in a dry throat, choosing her words carefully. She dared not offend the Collector…and this was most certainly a test. A test of her loyalty. Of her dedication to him.

  “Most laws forbid it,” she reasoned. “You of course are your own authority, and can do what you like.”

  The Collector smirked.

  “True,” he replied. “And true.” He gestured at the gallery. “This is power, Kendra.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “No man would let me do this,” he continued. “No government would allow it. They would use their power to stop me…just as they use their power to stop you Painters from painting whatever you choose.”

  Kendra nodded. The Collector offered that freedom. More freedom, anyway. That was why so many came to work for him. Why she came to work for him.

  “Did I ask for permission, Kendra?” he inquired.

  “No sir.”

  “The weak ask,” he stated. “The powerful take.”

  “But this…” Kendra said, gesturing at the paintings. “To what end?”

  The Collector sighed, clasping his hands behind his back and lifting his gaze to the ceiling.

  “Musicians tug at the strings of our hearts,” he mused. “Actors play at being others for a while. Writers create worlds to get lost in. But Sculptors and Painters create life.”

  Kendra said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

  “When a Sculptor creates a person, they’re still a sculpture. The sculpture knows this. It can turn to stone, or whatever its original substance was. It has no memories of what came before. It knows it was created.”

  He paused, lowering his gaze to stare at the paintings ahead of them.

  “When a Painter creates life, however, it is indistinguishable from other life. It can have memories or feelings given to it with a stroke of a brush. It can believe that it’s real…that it was never really a painting.”

  He went silent.

  Kendra waited for a while, but he did not continue. She fidgeted, the silence growing more and more awkward with every passing second.

  “And?” she asked at last.

  “That is true power,” the Collector declared. “To create life.” He sighed. “But it is something I cannot do.” He grimaced. “I’m not a Painter, after all.”

  “But you have us,” Kendra countered. “You have Painters to do it for you.”

  The Collector smiled, putting a hand on her upper back, between her shoulder blades. His touch was warm, and surprising. For as far as Kendra knew, the Collector never touched anyone.

  “I do,” he agreed.

  “So…” Kendra stated, gazing at the countless paintings before them. “What are you going to do with all of these people?”

  The Collector’s smile faded.

  “They’re not people,” he declared. Kendra blinked.

  “What?”

  “They’re Painters.”

  And then the Collector shoved her forward.

  Kendra cried out, stumbling toward the edge of the balcony. She fell forward, her belly striking the edge, her upper body dangling off. She felt herself sliding off, and scrambled to grab onto the balcony. But her fingers slid on the slick marble, and she fell head-first off of it.

  She screamed.

  Paintings whizzed past her in a dizzying blur, wind howling in her ears as she plummeted toward the floor of the tower far below. She reached for her chest, for the chest-painting that should have been there, but of course she wasn’t wearing her Painter’s uniform. She called out for Nightmare, her faithful Familiar, but he was stuck in a painting…and it was far too late.

  The floor rose up to meet her, so quickly that she barely had time to think. To process that these were the last seconds of her life.

  And the last thing she saw before struck the floor were a grid of paintings laying upon it…directly beneath her.

  Then, after a life spanning one hundred years, there was oblivion.

  Chapter 28

  The White Castle of Havenwood was filled with grand rooms and hallways, each with a unique name etched into fine golden plaques on the doors leading to them. And they were as unique as their names, these spaces. The grand foyer had a white marble floor, huge fluted stone columns thirty feet tall supporting intricately carved arches that held up a grand, equally impressive wooden ceiling. Tall, narrow mirrors went from the floor to the ceiling on the walls to either side, giving the illusion that the room was even larger than it was. A wide stairway with a red runner led downward in the middle of the room, with two stairways going up on either side of it. Two twelve-foot-tall statues of dragon-people hybrids with their great wings spread wide flanked a set of huge wooden double-doors directly opposite the entrance.

  “This,” Grandpa declared, told them as they stopped to admire the view, “…is the Hall of Dragonkind!”

  Bella spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.

  “It’s beautiful,” she brea
thed. And it was. Everywhere she looked, there was art. In the statues, the carvings on the columns and arches, and even the ceiling. Patterns inset into the marble floor. Even the golden designs stitched into the red runners going up and down the stairwells. She suspected she could spend days studying this one room, and still not catch all the little details.

  “Isn’t it?” Grandpa agreed. “It’s just like I wrote it,” he mused, looking around with the same expression as Bella.

  “I forget you’ve never actually seen it,” Gideon said. Bella frowned at that.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’ve never been here,” Grandpa explained. “The Queen wasn’t too keen on the idea.”

  “For fear of him not wanting to leave,” Gideon clarified. Grandpa nodded absently. Then he glanced at Gideon and Bella, and looked down at himself.

  “Well now I feel underdressed,” he confessed, grimacing at his ratty clothes. “Do you have anything for me, Gideon?”

  “Of course,” Gideon replied. “I have one of your old suits in my Conclave.”

  He retrieved the black disc from his top hat, setting it against one wall and activating it. Grandpa stepped into the Conclave, and minutes later he returned.

  “Grandpa!” Bella exclaimed.

  For he was now dressed in a fine white suit, with a black dress shirt and tie. His hair, normally haphazardly springing from his head in tight curls, was now neatly arranged, and he held a leather-bound notebook in one hand and a golden pen in the other. He stuffed these into the pockets in his suit jacket, then noted Bella’s slack jaw.

  “You like?” he inquired, striking a heroic pose.

  Bella nodded, realizing that she was grinning stupidly. Unlike his clothes at home, which had become far too big for him, this suit fit perfectly. He looked imposingly handsome…like a man of means and distinction.

  “Shall we be off?” he inquired, offering his arm to Bella. She hooked her arm in his, and in Gideon’s, and the two men walked her to the double-doors ahead. These opened up into a grand hallway, which led to another room, simply labeled: The Studio.

  And that, Bella found, was where the people were.

  The Studio was a massive room with three levels, filled to bursting with men and women painting and sculpting. The middle of the room was open, giving a spectacular view of the domed ceiling high above…a ceiling upon which a sprawling mural had been painted, like the Sistine Chapel. Some of the artists were talking amongst themselves, or critiquing each other’s work, but most seemed to keep to themselves, thoroughly engrossed in their work.

  But when a few noticed Grandpa, Gideon, and Bella enter the room, there was a gasp…followed by more noticing, and more gasps, until every last person on the first floor – and some on the second and third – were staring at them.

  “Thaddeus Birch!” a woman cried. A few others echoed his name, and Gideon’s. The artists all abandoned their work, rushing to standing before the three…and forming a crowd of formidable proportions.

  “Ah, hello,” Grandpa greeted, smiling at them. Gideon let go of Bella’s arm, tipping his top hat. The crowd burst into excited murmuring, then outright applause. Grandpa took a rather embarrassed bow, which made the applause even louder. It carried on for quite a while, and even after it was done, the assembled artists still whispered excitedly to each other, a few even stepping up to shake Grandpa’s hand. This led to a line forming for everyone to shake his hand, which Grandpa did with his customary warmth and grace.

  Bella could only stare, hardly recognizing him. She thought back to what he’d said, after she’d thought him crazy for being paranoid about Reynolds and Stanwitz.

  Maybe one day you’ll get to see me like I was.

  Her eyes became moist, and she wiped them with the back of her sleeve. Which, given that her forearms were painted, plunged her face into that painting. She jerked her head back, blinking at the strange, pulsing sensation she’d experienced.

  “This may be a while,” Gideon warned, leaning toward Bella. “We can explore a bit if you like.”

  “Love to,” she agreed. “Is that okay, Grandpa?” she asked, tapping on his shoulder. He turned to her.

  “Hmm?”

  “Gideon wanted to show me around.”

  “Oh yes,” Grandpa agreed. “This may be a while.”

  Gideon led her through the crowd, and while many of the Painters and Sculptors in line reached out to welcome Gideon back, most were so focused on Grandpa that they didn’t really notice.

  This allowed Gideon to show Bella around the room. There were all sorts of paintings, of a huge variety of things. Some of the artists seemed obsessed with painting food, while others painted spectacular clothes. Still others painted animals, and a few painted more fantastical things, such as goblin-like creatures, fairies, and the like. But for some reason, Bella found herself drawn to the food…probably because she hadn’t eaten in a while.

  “Havenwood has its own food supply,” Gideon stated, noticing the direction of her gaze. “The huge mushrooms in the mushroom forest have big caps that explode on occasion, sending big spores falling all over the kingdom. They’re quite tasty, actually.”

  “Ew,” Bella replied, making a face.

  “It does get old eating them after a while,” Gideon agreed. “Luckily we have a few Painters that love painting food.”

  “And the clothes?” she asked, gesturing at a painting filling with dresses of various kinds.

  “Havenwood has Painters interested in all sorts of different things,” Gideon replied. “No one wants for anything, I assure you. Anything material, that is.”

  “You said there’s no king or queen?” Bella inquired.

  “Not here,” he answered. “It…takes a little explaining. Come, let me show you.”

  Gideon led her out of The Studio and back into the Hall of Dragonkind, stopping before the rightmost dragon statue.

  “This is King Draco of the Dragonkind,” he explained, gesturing at the statue. “And this is Queen Vecta. They are the rulers of Havenwood…and of all the Dragonkind.”

  “The Dragonkind?”

  “Dragon people,” Gideon explained. “The rightful citizens of Havenwood.”

  “But…” Bella replied, looking about the empty room. “Where are they?” Gideon smiled, gesturing at the wall to the left.

  “See for yourself.”

  Bella frowned, but walked dutifully up to the wall. It had wooden panels, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors spaced at regular intervals. She glanced at Gideon.

  “I don’t get it,” she admitted.

  “It takes a bit of reflection before you figure it out,” Gideon admitted.

  Bella raised an eyebrow, turning back to face the wall. She glanced at the mirror, then blinked, leaning in closer.

  And gasped.

  For while the room was utterly empty save for themselves, in the mirror’s reflection, she saw a bustling crowd of people. Well, sort-of-people. They had bodies like people, but with elegant dragon-wings, and fine scales instead of skin.

  And in the reflection, she spotted a young girl-dragon-person leaning in, staring through the mirror right back at her.

  “Oh!” Bella gasped, taking a step back. Gideon chuckled.

  “The Dragonkind live in the Plane of Reflection,” he explained. They live in Havenwood’s reflection.”

  “There was a girl,” Bella stated. “She was staring right at me!”

  “We can only see them in reflections,” Gideon replied. “And they can only see us that way. We live in two different planes of existence.

  “So they’re really…there?”

  “Oh yes,” Gideon confirmed. “They exist. I’ve spent quite a few days studying them. A fascinating culture.”

  “But they can’t ever come here?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Gideon confirmed. “The Pentad never would have approved Thaddeus’s book if he’d created a race of creatures that could potentially threaten them. So Thaddeus,
genius that he is, made them live in the Plane of Reflection.”

  Bella frowned.

  “The Pentad had to approve his book?”

  “All of them,” Gideon replied. “The Pentad controls all art forms. Any that could represent a threat to the kingdom are rejected. That includes music, sculptures, paintings, and especially books from Writers as powerful as Thaddeus.”

  “What about acting?” Bella inquired. “Isn’t that one of the five magic arts?”

  “You have a good memory,” Gideon stated approvingly. “Yes it is. It is forbidden to emulate a government official, or a physician, and so forth. And acting without a license is a criminal offense.”

  Bella nodded, peering into the mirror again. The Dragonkind girl had moved on, but the crowd of Dragonkind remained.

  “All created by a book,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  “Your grandfather is a truly gifted man.”

  “I know,” she agreed. “His bedtime stories were epic. I always wondered why he wasn’t a more successful writer.”

  “And now you know.”

  She turned away from the mirror, facing Gideon.

  “So…something’s been bothering me,” she confessed. “When you saved Grandpa, and pulled his lookalike from the painting to trick Stanwitz and Reynolds into thinking he was dead…why didn’t you get me?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You could’ve saved me then,” she reasoned. “And pulled me out of the book.”

  “That was the plan,” Gideon replied. “After your grandfather pulled out his ‘corpse,’ we both read our copies of the book to return to the library at Blackthorne. I put Thaddeus in the coffin and stored him in the painting, but I was caught by some of the guards and had to…dispose of them.”

  “You killed them?”

  “No, I tossed them into some paintings,” he corrected. Bella frowned, recalling the painting with the broken glass case she’d seen, the one with the guard appearing to fly backward through the air.

  “Oh.”

  “I searched for the book afterward, but it wasn’t where I’d left it. The bounty hunters must have taken it somewhere else before they’d gotten lost in the book. I looked for it everywhere…but didn’t find it until the next day, when Reynolds and Kendra came to the library and got lost in it. I followed after them. Followed you, actually, to the library. I saw you open the book, and returned to Blackthorne right before you did.”