by Clayton Wood
“Of course,” Craven replied. “You’ll return to the palace?”
“I will…when I’m done.”
“It was good to see you,” Craven declared, putting a huge hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “For the Pentad,” he added. Gideon gave a rueful smirk.
“Isn’t everything?”
And with that, they left.
Chapter 17
The Glargs were big, humanoid beasts with large, gnarly feet and thick, muscular legs that led to a blocky waist. They had huge, muscular chests and backs, with arms as big around as a man’s waist and powerful fists. Their heads were bald and ugly, with heavy eye ridges and deep-set red eyes. The peculiar man who’d painted the original Glargs centuries ago had chosen to make their skin a sickly yellow-green, like vomit.
Strong but dumb, the creations of a lesser Painter generations ago. Uninspired. But they were suitable in battle. A blunt instrument that was doggedly persistent and difficult to kill. And over the years, the few that had been painted had mated, as had numerous generations of their offspring, creating a large population of the beasts.
The Collector gazed down at the pieces of shattered white porcelain strewn across the packed dirt of the Testing area, a large outdoor arena consisting of boulders set in a closed ring. A Glarg stood before the mess, nearly seven feet tall, holding a big wooden club in one hand.
“Hmm,” the Collector murmured, turning to Simon…and catching the boy looking at him. Simon jerked his gaze away quickly, his cheeks flushing bright pink, and turned to stare at the pieces of his own creation. A porcelain version of himself that had moved like a marionette, with awkward, jerky movements. As expressionless as a doll, its only weapon a small, blood-stained bottle. But if Simon was disappointed by his Familiar’s quick loss to the Glarg, he didn’t show it.
The Collector studied the boy carefully. Short blond hair. Pale skin, as if he’d never seen the sun. Deep brown eyes with dark circles underneath. He noted Simon’s slouched posture. His quiet, sullen demeanor. A jagged scar on his left temple, and more on his forearms…along with a few relatively new cuts. Obviously self-inflicted. And this wasn’t the first time he’d found Simon staring at him when the boy thought he wasn’t looking. With an intensity that hinted at more than just awe, or hero-worship.
An odd one, this Painter.
Miss Savage had noticed it first, of course. She was the type of woman who turned men’s heads, and adolescent boys were no different. But Simon had all but ignored her when she’d saved him, seeming immune to her charms.
Which hinted at less…conventional tastes.
This hardly bothered the Collector. Indeed, it could prove useful in handling the boy. After a long string of mediocre Painters, men and women with mediocre minds painting dull, lifeless creatures barely worth drawing out – cannon fodder for the Pentad’s armies – the Collector had commanded Miss Savage to find someone different.
And Simon was certainly that.
He resisted the urge to reassure the boy, sensing that Simon was not disappointed. He had a difficult time reading Simon, which was unusual for him. Highly unusual.
He had to know more.
There was sudden movement, and the Collector turned to see the porcelain fragments sliding across the dirt. Slowly at first, then faster. Converging on each other. The pieces fit together like a living puzzle, and within moments Simon’s strange doppelganger had reformed, carrying its bottle in one hand.
Interesting, the Collector thought, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d seen self-healing creatures before, of course. But this was certainly a novel way to do it.
The doppelganger turned to face the Glarg, who grunted, irritated by the unexpected return of its enemy.
The Glarg swung its big club, smashing it into the doppelganger’s temple. The doppelganger’s head exploded, the pieces flying to the side. The Glarg swung a second time, demolishing the thing’s midsection.
The pieces fell to the dirt…and promptly reformed. Faster this time.
The Collector resisted the urge to comment, sensing that this was a time to observe. Simon’s expression hadn’t changed, other than a subtle flinch when the Glarg had attacked. It was clear the boy was sensitive; if this was all his creation was capable of, he would’ve already expressed his apologies.
The doppelganger faced the Glarg again, and again it was destroyed. But it reformed even faster now, its porcelain shards barely striking the ground before they flew back together. The Glarg growled, its eyes narrowing, clearly losing patience with the thing. It swung again, then again, obliterating the doppelganger. But Simon’s creation reformed each time, its fragments barely separating now before flying back together. It stood there, facing the Glarg, its shoulders slumped, the bottle still in its right hand.
The Glarg took a step back, cocking its head at the doppelganger.
Then it swung again, but this time the doppelganger ducked, avoiding the blow…and then leapt into the air, bringing the glass bottle down on the Glarg’s forehead with a loud clunk.
The Glarg blinked, taking a step back. The blow hadn’t really hurt it – it had a phenomenally thick skull, both literally and figuratively – but it had taken it by surprise. The Glarg scowled, swinging at the doppelganger again. This time the blow struck true, but the doppelganger reformed before the swing was done, leaping up and smashing the bottle atop the Glarg’s head again.
The bottle shattered, its jagged ends opening gaping wounds in the Glarg’s forehead.
The Glarg roared.
It threw its club at the doppelganger, striking the thing in the chest. Its body shattered, then reformed almost instantly. The Glarg rushed forward, grabbing it by the throat and slamming its fist into the doppelganger’s face, shattering it. The Glarg punched again and again as the doppelganger reformed, then grabbed its enemy by the arms, tearing them right off its body.
But the arms yanked right back in place…and the doppelganger swung its bottle at the beast’s temple, slicing its ear and cheek.
The Glarg went ballistic.
It swung its arms in a blind fury, tearing into the doppelganger. But it was futile; the doppelganger recovered almost instantly each time it was attacked. It swung at the beast’s head again and again, every blow opening another few gashes in its head and face. Blood poured from the wounds, staining the jagged edges of the bottle.
The Glarg stumbled backward, dazed…and before the Collector’s eyes, the doppelganger’s bottle came back together, whole once again.
The doppelganger swung that bottle at the Glarg’s head over and over, each time hitting it harder, swinger the bottle faster. The Glarg backpedaled, but the doppelganger advanced, each blow striking true. The bottle broke again and again, but reformed faster each time, just like the doppelganger.
It was part of the doppelganger.
The Glarg fell backward, landing on its butt on the dirt, blood pouring down its neck and chest.
Still the doppelganger attacked, swinging that bottle like a madman, its right arm a blur. It struck the Glarg’s temple so hard the beast flew onto its side on the dirt, its eyes staring vacantly outward.
But the doppelganger was not done.
It knelt over the Glarg, striking it over and over. Always to the head. A dozen times, then a hundred. Over and over until the Glarg’s thick skull caved in. Until its face was bloodied mush.
A full minute passed until the doppelganger stopped its frenzied assault. It stood then, its broken bottle re-forming, blood staining its porcelain body. Its narrow shoulders heaved up and down as it stared silently at its tormentor, dead at last.
Then it turned about, calmly walking to Simon’s side opposite the Collector and standing there silently. Its shoulders slumped forward like Simon’s, its eyes downcast.
The Collector gazed at what remained of the fallen Glarg, then turned his head slightly, eyeing Simon. The boy was staring at the fallen beast, his face terribly pale.
The Collector glanced down at Simon
’s hands, noting that they were clenched into fists.
“You’re hired,” he declared.
Simon blinked, glancing at the Collector. He gave a weak smile of his own, but said nothing. The Collector turned away from the Glarg, walking Simon back toward a tall, dark castle in the distance. A castle with three spires, one far taller than the rest. Above the tallest spire, balanced perfectly on its point, was an identical tower. An upside-down tower that led to an upside-down castle that perfectly mirrored the one below. And above that, an upside-down mountain surrounded by an upside-down lake high, high in the sky…also mirroring the ones below.
Castle Under and Over, settled atop Mount Inversus. The Collector’s homes.
“Is that all your Doppelganger does?” the Collector inquired. Simon blinked.
“Doppelganger?”
“Your Familiar,” the Collector clarified.
“Sort of,” Simon answered. “But I have an idea for something like it that might be…interesting.”
The Collector raised an eyebrow.
“And that is?”
Simon hesitated, then told the Collector exactly what that idea was. The Collector listened, and for the first time in years, he felt goosebumps rise all over his body. He gazed down at Simon as they made their way toward his castles, regarding the strange, solemn boy with newfound appreciation.
This was no ordinary Painter.
It took mere seconds for him to come to this conclusion, and to realize that he couldn’t just leave Simon under the tutelage of his senior Painters. No, this boy was different. Special.
This one he would have to manage himself.
“I believe I can help you,” he told the boy as they walked. “Would you like to test your idea?”
“Yes sir,” Simon answered.
“Good,” the Collector declared.
They continued toward the castle, the Doppelganger following meekly behind its creator. When they reached the entrance, the Collector stopped, turning to face Simon.
“Tell me Simon,” he stated. “Have you ever considered painting…bigger?”
* * *
Castle Under, the bottom of the two mirror-image castles that served as the Collector’s home, was clearly grander than anything Simon had ever seen. The boy walked at the Collector’s side, obviously admiring the castle’s huge, ornate hallways, devouring the scenery with his eyes. Polished wooden floors with ornate designs carved into them. Huge paintings hanging high up on the walls with frames of solid gold, each encased in locked crystalline display cases. Statues of men and beasts alike in every corner of every room.
Every one of them magical, created by the Collector’s army of Painters and Sculptors, or purchased from other collectors.
Or acquired through…other means.
The Collector studied Simon as they strode down one of these hallways, gesturing at a particularly large painting hanging on the wall a good twelve feet up as they walked. It was of a stormy sky over a barren landscape, countless lightning bolts striking the earth.
“That painting is titled ‘Fulgur,’” he explained. “Lord Denton refused to part with it for any sum. So I stormed his castle and took it.”
Simon nodded, admiring the sheer skill of the painting. The lightning bolts practically hummed on the canvas. A rare thing indeed, such power. A sign of a legendary Painter.
“Does that bother you?” the Collector inquired as they left the painting behind. “That I’ve acquired so much of my collection through force?”
“No sir,” Simon answered.
“Why not, Simon?”
“The strong take from the weak,” Simon reasoned. The Collector considered this.
“True,” he conceded. “What do you think of that?”
“That I shouldn’t be weak.”
The Collector eyed Simon as they continued past the painting. The boy’s shoulders were still hunched forward, his eyes downcast when not studying the paintings on the walls. The light from the lanterns on the walls cast dark shadows under his eyes.
“Were you weak, Simon?”
Simon froze, his eyes darting up to the Collector’s. His throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed.
The Collector stopped beside him, turning to face the boy. Still, he kept silent, waiting for an answer. Knowing that the silence would grow more powerful with every passing second, until it was unbearable.
Silence always extracted truth from the weak.
But to his surprise, the boy did not speak.
The Collector waited a bit longer, then gestured for Simon to continue walking. The Collector studied the boy as they made their way down the hall, noting the scar on his left temple, and the crisscrossing scars on both forearms. He glanced back at the Doppelganger, still following behind Simon. At the cracks in its porcelain skin. And that bloodied bottle forever clutched in its right hand.
“Where are the other Painters?” Simon asked. The Collector sighed inwardly, seeing the sudden change in topic for what it was…a deflection. But he humored the boy, sensing that it would not be profitable to pry any further.
“Some are in my workshop,” he answered. “Others are in Castle Over.”
“The upside-down castle?”
“That’s right,” the Collector confirmed.
“I’d like to see it.”
“The Painters who do have to earn it first,” he explained. “If you work hard, one day you’ll be promoted…and then you’ll get to see Castle Over.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” the Collector replied. “In fact, I’ll take you there myself.”
“I’ll work hard, I promise,” Simon declared. The Collector smiled.
“I know you will, Simon.”
The hallway turned left, and they walked silently for a while, until Simon glanced up at him.
“What happens there?” he asked. “In Castle Over. What do Painters do there?”
“They add to my collection,” the Collector answered.
“Your collection?”
“Of paintings,” he clarified. “I am the Collector, after all.”
“So…is everything there upside-down? Or is gravity reversed, and everything feels normal when you’re there?” Simon pressed.
“Be patient,” the Collector counseled. “Prove yourself and you’ll see soon enough.”
“Yes sir.”
The hallway ended at a closed door, and they stopped before it. The Collector retrieved a key from his pocket, handing it to Simon.
“Go on,” he prompted.
Simon slipped the key into the door’s lock, turning it. There was a click, and Simon turned the knob. The door swung open, revealing the room beyond.
His eyes widened.
A truly massive room lay beyond, one that took up most of the fourth story of the castle. The Collector gestured for Simon to continue forward, and Simon did so, stepping onto a small balcony beyond the doorway. A balcony standing three stories above the floor of the rectangular room below, with a spiral staircase leading downward to the right. The room had a huge floor made of gray stone, and each of its four walls was five stories high and over a hundred feet across, made of a rough white material.
“Come,” the Collector prompted.
He led Simon down the spiral staircase to the floor below, walking up to the rightmost wall. There was a long wooden platform on the floor before the wall, one that extended from one end of the wall to the other. The Collector stepped up on this, and Simon followed, standing at his side.
“Going up,” the Collector warned. “Elevare,” he incanted.
The platform began to rise.
The Collector heard Simon draw in a sharp breath, watching as the floor dropped beneath them. It rose a good fifty feet before the Collector commanded it to stop. He gestured at the wall.
“Touch it,” he prompted.
Simon hesitated, then walked up to the wall, putting a hand on it. His eyes widened.
“It’s…!”
“Canvas
, yes,” the Collector confirmed. “I do hope it’s large enough for you,” he added with a little smirk. Simon gazed at the canvas-wall, running his fingers over it.
“Wow,” he breathed.
“Rest assured that you’ll be provided with plenty of paint,” the Collector stated. “Enough for these canvases and many more.”
“Is this where all the Painters paint?” Simon asked. The Collector shook his head.
“No Simon,” he replied. “I don’t want you painting with the other Painters. They’re…not like you, Simon. They’re mediocre. Assembly-line painters at best. They’ll hate you because you’re better than they are, and they’ll pull you down to their level. You,” he added, “…are special, Simon. You paint with your heart. You paint your truth. And I value the truth, Simon. More than you will ever know.”
Simon frowned, staring at the massive studio.
“So all this…?”
“Is yours,” the Collector confirmed.
“All of it?” Simon asked incredulously.
“Every last inch.”
“I can’t believe it,” Simon admitted, shaking his head. “This…it’s unbelievable.”
“Believe it,” the Collector replied. He gestured at the massive room. “Welcome to your studio, Simon. And welcome to your new home.”
Chapter 18
Bella and Gideon left the military camp shortly after their talk with General Craven, saying their goodbyes to Yero, then taking two horses and riding away from the foot of the mountain. Myko had chosen to go back into his painting, leaving Bella and Gideon alone in their journey. Bella had never been on a horse before – other than during their harried escape from Blackthorne – and it took a bit of getting used to. But after a few hours, she’d relaxed into it. They took a wide, winding path through the forest beyond the camp, Gideon setting a pace that was quick, yet tolerable for horses and humans alike.
“What was that all about?” Bella asked. “Back there in the camp?”
“It’s…complicated,” Gideon answered.
“Why did they want to arrest you?” she pressed.
