The Painter Mage: Books 1-3

by D. K. Holmberg

  “What aren’t you telling me, Taylor?”

  She bit her lower lip, again looking like a younger version of herself, and pushed blue-stained fingers through her hair. Did she know how that augmented her power? Was she not an artist as I first believed? But for Hard to have shown her the book, she had to be.

  Unless Hard hadn’t.

  “You found another book,” I realized. “That’s why you came.”

  I crossed the distance separating us too quickly for her to react. Doing so disrupted the pattern I’d been creating, but I didn’t care about that, not now. I slipped my hand into her pocket and grabbed as she protested, trying to push me away. The force from her ink-stained hand almost managed it, but I kept my feet set wide, the placement practiced, as I did.

  The book looked much like the other I’d seen. The cover was different, a darker leather with a strange grain to it, but inside resembled the one I’d taken from Hard, the one my father had intended for me. I flipped through the pages, ignoring Taylor as I did, eyes scanning the shapes for patterns, translating those I recognized, as I searched for anything that might help.

  As I studied the book, I ignored the buildup of energy. I shouldn’t have.

  A burst of force struck me in the chest, knocking me down. The book went flying from my hands. I rolled, the breath knocked out of me, reaching for a handful of powdered ink and readying my attack.

  Could Taylor have attacked me like that? I didn’t think anyone in Arcanus learned enough offensive magic to matter. They focused on defense. On hiding.

  Taylor screamed. The wind caught her voice.

  Not her then.

  I stumbled to my feet. Only then did I realize the lanterns around the plaza had gone out.

  Shit. The lanterns had taken nearly a week to construct. Enough power had gone into them that they shouldn’t simply go out like that. That they did told me that whatever came was powerful.

  I grabbed a fistful of powder and dumped half in the other hand. With a flick of my wrist, I scattered powdered maroon ink in a quick circle, closing Taylor in with me. If I was wrong—if she had been the one to attack—then I was making more trouble for myself.

  “Are they here?” There was an edge of panic in her voice that had replaced the calm.

  Within the circle, her voice seemed overly loud, but I didn’t think it wouldn’t carry beyond the edge of the circle. “Quiet,” I hissed.

  She looked over, her eyes wide. “Is it the hunters? I haven’t seen any sign of them in my time out of Arcanus. I thought I was safe.”

  Now I knew she wasn’t the one to attack me. As much as the hunters might frighten her, this kind of attack wasn’t from them either.

  But there were other magical creatures. More than even the Masters in Arcanus cared to admit. The thing was, from what I’d seen of the protections my father had set around the town, Conlin was protected from them too, so I should be safe here. So what had changed?

  Something she said caught my attention. “What did you say?”

  She spun in a circle, dragging her foot slowly around her. A blue flash appeared on the stone. If I let her complete it, she might destroy the defense I’d created.

  “Taylor!”

  I shouted it at her, hating to yell but having no other choice. For a moment, I considered slapping like they always did in the movies, but with the power she controlled, I didn’t dare. If she released it unintentionally, she might accidentally strike me. I might be able to deflect most—the charms woven into my belt would help—but I didn’t know how skilled she might be. Instead, I grabbed her arm, and jerked her around to face me.

  “What did you say about the hunters?”

  The question more than anything else pulled her back together. Her eyes hardened again and she paused in her circle, her boot stopping just as she was about to seal it. The growing pressure from the surge of blue energy she worked built around me. Useless. Worse than that, wasteful. She might be an artist, but she knew nothing about the nature of colors.

  “They followed me. The hunters must know I’m here—” She started away, as if preparing to run deeper into the park, and I definitely couldn’t let her do that.

  There was no other choice. I knocked her out with a pinch of ink scattered across her circle, infusing it with a surge of power. Her eyes went wide as she fell. I scooped under her head, catching her before she managed to reach the stones.

  Taylor was lighter than I expected. Pencils spilled out of her pocket as I lifted her into a fireman’s carry. I glanced around the plaza. Nothing else moved, but without light I couldn’t be certain. As usual, Agony seemed to watch me.

  I shot it a glare and hurried to the edge of the stones. Once I left this circle, I would have to rely on whatever protections I could muster. My charms would protect me, but I doubted they would extend to Taylor. I checked the ink in my satchel. Not enough for what I might need. When I came to the park, I hadn’t really known what to expect. During my time back in Conlin, I hadn’t sensed other painter magic. When I did, I’d grabbed what I’d had on hand—thankfully red ink or I might have really been in trouble—and hurried to the park. Now it was mostly gone. I wasn’t completely helpless without it, but it would be close.

  The ground rumbled and power built.

  I hesitated, focusing on the signature of the power. Not hunters. From what I’d read, they came with howls and violence. So far, Conlin had avoided drawing the attention of hunters. Whatever this was felt different. Powerful—especially if they managed to nearly knock me out while I stood in my circle. And strong enough to overcome even my father’s defenses around the city.

  But where did it come from? I saw no sign of anything outside the circle. With all the precautions I’d placed around the park, I should feel something if a magical entity approached, but there was nothing there. And for me to have been attacked while in the circle…

  I cursed myself for stupidity and turned back to Agony.

  Whatever attacked had to come from within the circle. I thought it Taylor, but she’d been too frightened to do anything. As I watched, the small plate at the foot of the sculpture bulged slightly.

  Nothing had moved that plate before. Others had tried, the city determined to have something meaningful written on it, but hadn’t managed to lift it and they didn’t want to damage the sculpture. Too valuable, they felt. I always wondered if there wasn’t a different reason, one my father had a hand in.

  The plate bulged again.

  At least now I understood how I’d been attacked, if not by what.

  I could run, get away before whatever it was came through that plate and hope the protection I had around the park would keep me safe, but that would only buy me time. If something could push through the plate like that—and with enough force to overpower not only my protections, but my father’s—then I wouldn’t be safe for long.

  Palming the last of the powder, I sprinted to the plate. After lowering Taylor to the ground, I traced patterns as quickly as I could along the stone, pushing the ink into the stone: a broad circle for containment, a perfect square representing protection, and the last—a flourish I wasn’t certain would work—a tight inverted spiral I hoped would obfuscate whatever magical entity tried pushing through.

  With that, my power sagged. I’d spent more than I was accustomed to using. Painter power was like a muscle and I hadn’t really been exercising it in the time Devan and I had been back in Conlin. Even the initial circle had been a relatively potent creation. An artist might find it easier, but then again, an artist would have a more elegant solution than what I did.

  The bulging of the plate eased.

  I leaned back, relief working through me. Damn, but it had worked.

  I glanced at Taylor. The power I’d struck her with kept her unconscious. Maybe I’d used more than I intended on her, but that was the risk I took with my type of power. At least she still breathed.

  She moaned slightly and rolled over. Her leg caught the edge of the
powdered ink sinking into the stones. I grabbed her and pulled her away. As I did, the plate began to glow with white-hot light.

  Scrambling back from it, the power working through the plate was more than I could imagine. I jumped to my feet and hauled Taylor back. How much time did we have before the plate burned away? Seconds? Minutes?

  Something about the plate changed. I stared at it, drawn toward it like a moth to a bulb. Or a mosquito to a bug-zapper. I knew I shouldn’t, but I went anyway.

  Where before it had always been perfectly smooth and flat, now dark shapes writhed within the glowing plate, shapes I had seen before. At that moment, I knew I needed to see them closer. The pattern emerging on the plate might help answer the questions I’ve had for nearly a decade. The heat radiating from it sizzled in the air, pressing me back. Ignoring it, I crawled forward, oblivious to anything but the pattern.

  I reached the edge of my circle and crossed the threshold, knees dragging through the fresh ink and breaking the containment I’d formed.

  The plate exploded with power. Energy surged through me. Colors swirled around it. My ears thundered. The hair on my arms stood out as I stretched toward it. I could feel my face burning but didn’t care. I needed to see that pattern. I needed to understand.

  And then it faded.

  It happened with nothing more than a sizzle. Power and light were there and then they were not. I crouched on arms and legs, staring at the now-bronze plate, unable to understand what had happened. Answers had been there. Power great enough to surge through both my father’s protections and mine had nearly come through.

  “Escher?”

  I licked cottony lips and twisted around. Taylor stood next to Agony, one hand resting on the statue’s hip. Dark brown ink stained the tips of both index fingers and I understood. Somehow she had managed to contain whatever attempted to push out through the plate.

  I had underestimated her again.

  “Can you stand?” she asked.

  In answer, I pushed to my feet. My head pounded and the flesh on my face felt raw. Electricity sizzled through me as if I’d just stuck my finger in a light socket. I’d felt power like that a few times before, and never from anything on this side of the Threshold.

  She reached into my pocket and grabbed the book I’d taken from her. The look on her face dared me to stop her. The way I felt, I wouldn’t be able to stop a child right now.

  I looked at the plate. Now it looked no different than it ever had.

  “How did you—” I licked my lips again and swallowed, trying to force moisture down my throat. “How did you know?”

  Taylor’s dark eyes turned to the plate, now looking no different than it had ever appeared. “Because that’s why I’m here.” She motioned around the park. “Come on. There must be someplace safer than this we can talk.”

  All I could do was nod.

  2

  Taylor sat in my living room, arms crossed over her chest, her blue-streaked hair pushed back behind her ears, and stared at me from the folding chair I’d set out for her. I hadn’t bothered to get much furniture for the house, not certain how long I’d actually be here, so other than the chairs and pair of mismatched halogen lamps humming on either end of the floor, it was empty. Well, that and the small TV and Blu-ray player. She clutched the book tightly in one fist, as if afraid I might take it from her again. Given the chance, I would.

  “Tell me how you ended up in the park,” I said. I paced across the faded hardwood as I spoke, walking from one end of my living room to the other. Since the room—and the house itself—was tiny, that didn’t take long. Gray surplus blankets serving as curtains hung over the two windows, less to filter the light than to keep back the draft.

  “I told you already.”

  I stopped pacing and faced her. “You told me about Hard. And the book. You said nothing about how you came to Conlin.” Or how she had such control with patterns. Arcanus had powerful painters—the Masters were all artists of considerable power—but they were naïve in many ways. What would happen if they learned how to cross the Threshold?

  Taylor sniffed. “Then you weren’t listening.”

  I opened my mouth to argue before clamping it shut. She was right. I hadn’t been listening. As soon as she started talking, my brain went somewhere else. That had been a mistake. I’d made my share of them, so I added that to the list. Regret, she was my friend.

  I grabbed another folding chair and flipped it open to drag it across from her. “Then tell me again,” I asked, this time more gently than before. Maroon ink still stained my fingers. I’d have to remember to scrub it clean later. For now, I scrubbed them across my pants. If I didn’t, colors could mix and contaminate a future painting, creating unexpected effects. Something like that could be dangerous.

  Taylor uncrossed her arms and stared at the book in her hands. When she started speaking, it was as if she spoke to it rather than to me. “I didn’t know what I had when I found the book. I recognized some of the symbols, but not enough to make sense of them, not like Hard would have managed.”

  “Where did you find it?” While the Arcanus library was massive, finding anything of use in it was an exercise in patience. I’d spent months combing through the library for a single book I found referenced in a different book. From what I could tell, there was no organization to it.

  Taylor thumbed the edge of the book. “Tall stacks, near the hearth.”

  I thought about what I remembered of the library and frowned. “That makes it—”

  “About as far from the door as you can get.”

  The door. There was only one door like it in Arcanus. It was set back into the dug-out rock of the library, something like the mythical sword in the stone. Not so mythical within Arcanus, but then, should that be a surprise? The library had been built around the door. Symbols like those in her book worked across its flat gray surface. Most felt certain there was a pattern, but no one had ever managed to decipher it. During my time on the other side of the Threshold, I always wondered why they had not.

  “And that book helped you open the door?”

  She shook her head absently. “Not that one. Hard opened that about a year ago.”

  Taylor said it so nonchalantly that I almost missed the importance. “Wait—Hard opened it?” If he’d opened it a year ago, I would have known if another painter appeared on the other side of the Threshold. That meant it either didn’t cross the Threshold, at least not into the same realm I’d been in, or it opened someplace else. “He’s never managed more than activating some of the symbols.” And it took incredible energy for him to manage that, even for an artist like Hard.

  She pulled out her pad of paper and one of the pencils she had stuffed in her pocket. Her hand moved over the page with a practiced stroke, quickly sketching the outline of a shape I immediately recognized but hadn’t seen for nearly a decade. Taylor even managed to capture most of the symbols on the door.

  In the time since I left Arcanus, I had tried drawing the door. The memorization of patterns came easily to me; it was the reproduction I found difficult. Each time I tried putting pencil to paper to recreate it, I failed. Even after learning all that I had, I still hadn’t managed. Dozens of attempts littered my notepads, hundreds more crumpled and tossed away. And Taylor managed to make a better representation in minutes than what I had managed in years.

  Like I said, there’s a difference between a true artist and a tagger.

  “These are linked,” she began, touching a pair of symbols on her drawing. One was a complicated eight-pointed star and the other was a series of interconnected spirals. Both would have been too complex for me to draw in an evening. Taylor sketched them in moments. “On this door, you need to activate both at the same time.”

  “Both? That would take immense focus.” Or splitting focus, but I don’t know that anyone in Arcanus had mastered that, not like I had.

  I pulled my chair closer so I could take a look. Taylor wore a floral perfume, the fragranc
e subtle and exotic and not unpleasant. I forced the thought out of my mind.

  She shook her head. Black hair swished as she did, revealing the streaks of blue ink, the color for thought and mindfulness, that still stained it. “Activating a single symbol is difficult, but when you work both at the same time, the work eases.” She tapped the page, pointing to another pair of symbols, their shapes more complex than the first. One looked like a stick figure with legs crossed in front of it, the other a spiraling orb. “And if you manage to suffuse each of these at the same time,” she tapped again, “the door opens.”

  I closed my eyes and imagined standing before the door again. It had stood unopened for centuries, long before Hard’s time, since it was first rediscovered. Most agreed the door was ancient, possibly a thousand years or more old, but as far as I knew, none had ever managed to trigger more than one of the symbols. It wasn’t until I’d crossed the Threshold—accidentally, in my case—had I learned why. To power a doorway, the painter had to divide their focus into each of the appropriate symbols. It had taken me a decade and the fear of death to accomplish it.

  “What’s on the other side?”

  Taylor started drawing again, the pencil scratching across the page. I opened my eyes and watched her work. She made precise movements, each line placed perfectly, the image quickly emerging: a long hall, stone ringing around it, making it look more ancient than Arcanus itself, and rows of doors.

  I sucked in a quick breath. What Taylor drew was nothing like what I had expected. “There are more?”

  I once thought the door in the library of Arcanus the key to finding my father. In the time since I’d left, I’d learned enough to think that was only the beginning. Now I wondered if even that might be wrong. Maybe it was the key to understanding much more than my father.

  She smiled tightly. “Twenty-one, if you count the initial door to enter this hall. None of them are the same. Each has a different set of symbols.”