The Painter Mage: Books 1-3

by D. K. Holmberg

  Devan glanced at the sky, where the sun already dipped below the tops of the trees, fading light filtering through the branches. A cool breeze worked through the park. In a little while, the lanterns I’d placed around the park would surge back on. That is, unless whatever the shifter had done last night had shorted out my painting for good.

  “So we’re not going to Arcanus today?” she asked.

  “Guess not.”

  Strange that I felt a hint of disappointment in saying that.

  7

  Devan found the next marking in the park.

  We’d split up, searching for any sign of other patterns carved or painted onto trees. I kept striking out, though I did find a few other things that were different than I remembered.

  When I first returned to Conlin, I’d spent the first week preparing the park. The sculptures here were created by my father and I wanted to know anything I could about them. Not only Agony, although he was the best known of the park sculptures, but also the others. It was one of these that I came across.

  With the growing shadows, I nearly stumbled onto it. Like the others, it was made of the strange, slicked-looking stone, carved or shaped or possibly even painted into existence, though I didn’t have any idea how he would have managed to paint a sculpture into being. It was something like a hand or a claw stretching out of the ground. Fingers were thrust outward, twisted and bent, and long nails pointed toward the center of the park. More than any of the others, this one bothered me the most.

  Most considered Agony a fearsome sculpture. It was the reason so few wanted to visit the park after dark. To me, two of the others were more frightening. The Claw—I don’t know what my father had named this piece—bothered me simply because it looked like something trapped in the ground was trying to escape. The sharpened nails would catch at you if you weren’t careful. Like me, now.

  I winced as my foot kicked the claw and bounced back.

  A hollow sound came from it, but nothing else. I didn’t worry about damaging it. Like with Agony, there wasn’t much that could damage it. The city had placed a sign nearby warning others to be careful with it, and most simply avoided it.

  I gave the Claw a wide berth and studied the trees. If Taylor had been through here, I figured she would have stopped at each of the sculptures. It was what I would have done had I learned of a Master artist leaving sculptures in the park.

  Nothing told me that she’d been through here. I saw no sign of footprints, even though it had rained the day before, and there were no markings on any of the trees.

  Could I have found the only one she’d marked?

  That seemed unlikely. The markings on the pine trees had taken a specific pattern. The long, thin triangle she’d made on the lone tree wouldn’t be effective for much, but as part of something else, it was possible the pattern would be more powerful, especially to an artist like Taylor.

  I hurried through the park, looking for anything that might draw my eye. If Jakes saw me, he’d likely have more questions of the kind I didn’t really want to answer. I suspected he knew more than he let on, though I wasn’t sure what he might know. Could he really know that a shifter had battled a painter and one of the Te’alan last night? Even with what I’d been through over the years, that sounded pretty incredible.

  Devan met me before I reached the next sculpture. “Found something.”

  She started off without waiting for me to follow, forcing me to run after her. She had shorter legs but moved more quickly than I could manage.

  “What did you find?” I asked as I caught her.

  She didn’t even seem to be winded. “You said the one you found was a white triangle?” I nodded. “Well, I found its counterpart.”

  We made our way toward the back edge of the park, nearly to the low, stone wall that established the park’s perimeter, before she stopped and turned, motioning to a tree. Like the other, it was an oak with branches that swayed in the late evening breeze.

  A series of perfect squares worked around the entire trunk at the level of my neck. They were made with the same white ink and covered with sap. Down near the base was another symbol, that of a pentagram surrounded by a circle, though this was drawn in black ink and practically encircled the tree.

  “What do you think this is meant to do?” Devan asked.

  I didn’t know. The triangle on the other tree could be a summoning shape or, given the way it pointed, an anchor to earth. The shape was wrong for either, the angles comprising the triangle odd for either summoning or anchoring. When you learn in school the different types of triangles, you never think they’ll really matter, but for painters, they do. An equilateral triangle pulls a different type of force than an isosceles, which is much different than a scalene triangle. The other tree had a scalene triangle. No summoning or anchoring I knew could be done with such a shape.

  But a perfect square? It created solidity and generated a type of strength. With the square and the right infusion of will, I suspected Taylor could draw energy from the tree, though I still didn’t know how she intended to do it, or why. And I didn’t know what purpose she had with the repeating squares or how they linked together.

  Like I said, Taylor is an artist, and it was becoming increasingly clear that she was incredibly skilled.

  “There’s got to be more,” I said.

  Devan nodded. “How far from the other mark do you think this is?”

  “I don’t know. A hundred feet? Maybe two hundred?”

  “There will be a pattern to them. We just have to understand what it is,” Devan said.

  A pattern comprised of patterns. Making something like that was difficult enough when working on a flat surface. You needed to ensure that the shapes you made tied together the way you intended. If shapes or lengths or colors were off, then the power a painter pulled could be distorted, possibly even enough to throw off the entire thing. Working in space like this where she used trees as her canvas? She was either very confident or the intent didn’t matter so much. Either way, I worried about what this was meant to do.

  Devan fidgeted. “Come on. Let’s see if we can’t find the next one.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “The same thing you should be. We don’t really know what happened last night. Taylor was involved, I think we’re pretty clear on that, but the,” she lowered her voice as her eyes darted around, as if searching through the shadows for someone who might be watching, “shifter that attacked last night might still be here. Probably is unless she killed it.”

  “I don’t think a painter can pull enough power to kill a shifter. From what I remember, they’re almost pure power.”

  “If it’s not dead, then it stands to reason that it’s still out there. And we don’t know if it came after you or after her. Either way, I don’t want to be stuck out in the open if it returns.”

  “They aren’t werewolves,” I chided. “If a shifter wanted to come out in the daylight, it could.”

  “Are you prepared to fight it?”

  I was still pretty drained from the attack. “I’ll do what’s needed to keep you safe. You know I will.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  I shrugged. “That’s why you’re with me.”

  “There are many reasons I’m with you.”

  “Including my charm.”

  She laughed, dragging me by my arm deeper into the woods, veering us in a wide circle away from the fence at the back of the park. “The last mark wasn’t near one of the sculptures.”

  I’d noticed that. For some reason, I thought it might be, but so far, neither of the patterns had been close to sculptures.

  Devan moved more surefootedly than I could manage and I stumbled a couple of times. I’d like to think I managed to catch myself, that Devan hadn’t needed to prop me up to keep me from falling, but that wouldn’t necessarily be the truth. As we neared Thistle Street, we found the next mark.

  This was stranger than the others. A series of interlock
ing spirals worked themselves around another oak. This one stood near the street, but not so close that we couldn’t see the pattern surrounding the spirals: another triangle, though this was an equilateral triangle. Power thrummed from this one.

  Devan wouldn’t go too close to it.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “You feel it.”

  “I feel something, but I’m not sure what it is.”

  Devan circled the tree before stopping back where she’d started. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line as she studied the trunk. “This marking. I’ve seen it before.”

  I decided it was time to start taking notes so I could visualize the intent of the pattern. I pulled out the notepad I’d brought and quickly sketched the patterns from the first and second trees, indicating on the page roughly where we found them. Then I started on this one. As I did, I realized the spirals weren’t as I expected. They were inverted, twisted to draw the eye inward. An arcane pattern.

  In my time with Devan, I’d become skilled with arcane patterns. For the right painter, such patterns could focus even more power than traditional patterns, but there was always a risk. If the pattern was made wrong—even slightly wrong—then the power could rebound back at the painter. It was this reason Arcanus refused to teach them. I’d often wondered if the Masters ever studied them. My father had, but then, he wasn’t exactly the same as many of the other Masters.

  If Taylor really did study at Arcanus—and I still wasn’t certain—seeing a pattern like this made me suspect that at least some of the other Masters worked with them.

  Another thing jumped out at me as I drew the shapes that had been marked on the tree. Painting had intent, at least the way I did it. Colors mattered. Shapes mattered. Even repetition mattered. Each thing a painter did carried with it the intent of the painter, a way of augmenting their personal power. Some powerful painters barely had to use anything to create impressive effects. Others needed elaborate paintings to accomplish the most mundane task. But everything had a certain intent. When you were skilled enough at recognizing color and pattern, you began to understand intent even if you didn’t know the painter. That was why the book of my father’s was valuable. If anyone could understand what he’d been doing, the patterns would not only allow increased potential for the painter, but would help that person recognize intent even better.

  I’d worked with enough offensive patterns—things like the marks on the trees around my place—to recognize them. I might not know what the pattern was intended to do, but I recognized the way it drew power, and how that power could be pushed outward. These patterns were different.

  “You’re quiet,” Devan said.

  I tapped the page, my pencil hovering over the top. Working in pencil was impermanent, leaving the painter free to practice without fear of harming themselves. There could still be power to such drawings, but not like there was with paint. Most novices started with pencil. Few graduated to inks. While I’d been in Arcanus, no one had allowed me to touch ink. I was nothing more than a tagger.

  “It creates a focus,” I said. “And this one,” I motioned toward the scalene triangle, “anchors it all to the park.”

  As I studied it, I realized there would be at least one more pattern. Possibly two, depending on what Taylor had intended. I still didn’t know why she’d left the marks in the first place, but I thought I knew what it would do.

  “Well?”

  I looked up from the page. “It’s containment of some kind.”

  Devan frowned. “Like a circle?”

  “A circle is simple containment. Done right, it can be protective as well. This is something different.” I pointed to the spirals on the tree. “These draw some of that power, but the way they’re inverted casts that power away from the tree, sending it through similar marks.”

  “None of these have been similar,” Devan argued. “They’re all white, but the shapes are all so different.”

  “But they’re connected.” That would be the missing pattern. “If we can learn how, maybe we can figure out what the pattern does.”

  I started to turn back toward the center of the park. If I was right, these marks should circle the park in some fashion. That pattern wouldn’t matter quite as much, not with the way Taylor had made the markings, but there would need to be one more to finish the outer edge. Otherwise she’d be left with a triangle, and with what we saw on this tree, I didn’t think that was her intent.

  Devan grabbed my arm. “Are you sure we should keep after this?”

  There was another layer to her question, the fear Devan had. She wanted to keep me safe. As much as I might think I could protect her, when it came down to it, Devan protected me nearly as much as I protected her. “We need to know what she was doing.”

  “Was?”

  “Or is,” I said. “Either way, I don’t like the fact that it’s here and we don’t know why.”

  “What if she’s here?”

  I had the growing suspicion that she was still in Conlin. Either she had made these marks before finding me—before going back to my house and stealing the book—and hadn’t needed to use them, or she’d made them afterward.

  And if she’d done it afterward, that meant whatever reason she’d made them—whatever she’d hoped to contain—still hadn’t been done. After last night, I could think of only one thing that would require something as complex as this appeared. But there weren’t any doors here, so why would she try to create a crossing in the middle of the park?

  “I don’t like that look on your face,” Devan said.

  We hurried across the front wall. Thistle Street ran on the other side, but the wall here was high enough that it blocked the passing cars from view. The sound of engines racing past filtered over the wall, but not much else. “Why do you think she’d need a containment pattern?” I asked Devan.

  She ran easily next to me, her skin shining with a faint glow. I wondered how many others would have noticed besides me. With the question, she nearly stumbled. “She wouldn’t…”

  “I don’t know. What if all of this was planned? She had to know about the protections I’d placed here. She’s too skilled not to notice. And she summoned me to the park. Whatever tried coming through that door had been powerful.”

  “Powerful like a shifter?”

  I turned toward Agony. When we’d been there today, the plate had looked no different than usual, but there had been no questioning the power straining against it last night. It was power I hadn’t managed to contain on my own, but Taylor had. At least, I thought she had.

  “You think a shifter came through across the Threshold?”

  I shrugged. “What if it did? What if it chased her here and now she’s trying to catch it?”

  Devan glanced at the notebook I clutched in my hand. “Will it work?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” We slowed near the far corner. “We need to find the next mark. Then we might be able to tell.”

  “Or if she’ll just piss it off.”

  “Or that,” I agreed. “Better not waste too much time.”

  It had gotten dark enough that I couldn’t see the trees clearly. Devan didn’t have the same trouble. Her eyesight was much better than mine both during the day and at night, but she recognized my limitations. She stayed close to me and her glowing skin, from power pressed away, gave off enough light for me to see.

  We moved carefully. I infused one of the charms that I’d linked to the lanterns with a trickle of power, just enough for me to be aware if anyone else made their way through the park. If anyone saw Devan glowing as she was, there’d be questions. Better to avoid them altogether. The couple that I’d seen earlier seemed to be gone. I didn’t sense anything else, though I no longer felt certain I could trust that completely. The shifter had escaped my detection.

  “There,” Devan whispered.

  She moved toward a nearby oak tree that rose high overhead. Branches rustled in the steadily gusting breeze, bu
t they were green and vibrant, unlike those on the pine tree near my house.

  Devan ran her hand over the bark. “Look at what they did here,” she said.

  This was different than the others. Maybe we wouldn’t have seen it except at night. Rather than marked with ink, this was carved into the bark, deep enough to solidify the pattern. I suspected she’d used some ink in the process, something to press power through, but wasn’t able to tell, not without either setting off what she’d done or making clear that we knew about the patterns.

  This one was more complicated than any of the others. It was a series of interlocked shapes, without anything that made sense as a pattern. The steady sense of power came from it, pressing away from the tree.

  “Come closer,” I said to Devan.

  She moved close enough for me to make out most of the shape. “Can you copy it? We can go back to the house and figure out what she intended.”

  “Not this,” I said. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Maybe in the daytime I could copy it, but with as dark as it was and as tired as I’d been, I didn’t think I’d be able to manage anything nearly as complex. I might not even be able to do it fully rested. The marking was incredibly complex and I wondered if only a real artist could manage it.

  If only I had a camera. I didn’t keep even so much as a phone on me. Most of the time, it didn’t matter. Who did I have to call anyway? But I would have liked the ability to take a picture of this shape. At least then I might be able to sit back and study it to see if I could recreate what Taylor had done.

  As I considered, I felt a slow buildup of power.

  “Devan?” I asked, but I knew it wasn’t her.

  “I feel it too.”

  “What is it?”

  She sniffed the air as she tilted her chin toward the tree. “A painter. And powerful.”

  A painter meant Taylor, unless she really hadn’t been alone.

  I looked over toward Agony in the middle of the park before glancing back at the tree. When I did, I realized what I felt. The pattern on the tree had taken on a soft blue light.