The Magic Collector

by Clayton Wood

  It was the damn girl!

  He should have known better. That terrible white light had drained him after he’d attacked the girl the first time, ten years ago at Blackthorne. After he’d thrust his sword into Lucia’s heart. It made perfect sense now. Lucia had cursed him…so that any time he got close to her daughter, he’d be drained.

  You never should have gotten close to the girl, he told himself. You should have known better.

  He opened his eyes, staring down at his gloved right hand. Feeling the pain there. Dread twisted his guts, fear at the thought of what horrors might be waiting for him under that black cloth.

  Despite every inch of him screaming not to, he pulled the glove off.

  A flap of skin on the back of his hand came with it.

  He drew in a sharp breath at the sudden pain, watching as blood welled up from the large skin tear. His hand was practically skeletal, the skin so thin it clung to his bones like tissue paper. His fingers were bent at odd angles, his fingernails chipped and yellowed.

  Blood dripped off the sides of his hand, pooling on the desk-top.

  The Collector stared at his ancient hand, watching as the blood continued to ooze from it. For the first time in a very long time, he reconsidered his vow to never return to the canvas.

  You could have one of your Painters heal you, he told himself. Just this once.

  He reached down to pull open one of the desk drawers, retrieving a small mirror within. He closed the drawer, then held up the mirror with his good hand, staring at his reflection.

  The left side of his face was much as it had been, but with some new, fine wrinkles here and there. But the right side…

  He almost dropped the mirror.

  The hair at his right temple was pure white, and much sparser than it had been. And his skin was deeply wrinkled, like an old man’s, the skin there loose and thin, with liver-spots on his cheek. The skin on the right side of his neck was loose as well, in stark contrast to that on his left.

  He lowered the mirror to the desk, setting it down gently.

  And then he lifted his left fist up, sending it crashing down on the mirror with a loud bang!

  The mirror shattered, pieces flying across the desktop and falling to the floor with a clatter.

  That damn witch!

  Even in death, Lucia was getting her revenge.

  You should never have killed her.

  The Collector closed his eyes, remembering how she’d stood defiantly before him, guarding her daughter and Thaddeus. Short and slender, with chocolate-colored skin and curly hair that sprung from her head, wild and free.

  Just stood there, smirking at him as he’d thrust his sword into her heart.

  And how, as she’d slumped to the floor, as he’d strode up to finish off that screaming little brat, a white light had appeared on his right hand. His sword hand.

  And how that light had crawled up his arm, then shot outward at the girl, flowing into her chest.

  He opened his eyes, staring at his right hand.

  If only he’d known then what he knew now. He’d been young. Brash. Stupid enough to attack a Necromancer. Callous enough to try to kill an innocent little girl.

  The Collector stood abruptly, his chair tipping back and falling onto the floor with a thump. He strode out of his office, to the tall inverted tower with the spiraling staircase that would bring him back to Castle Under. He’d vowed never to step into another canvas, but he’d never anticipated this. There was too much work yet to be done. His sacred mission was not even close to being complete.

  He needed more time.

  Just this once, he told himself as he entered the tower. With a thought, he activated his boots, and shot upward into the air at breakneck speed, the spiraling staircase of the tower a blur around him.

  Then never again.

  Chapter 38

  Without Grandpa, the magic of Havenwood was gone.

  Ash coated the ruins of downtown Havenwood, the tightly-clustered buildings near the base of Dragon’s Peak bereft of life. After hours of searching – well through the night and into the next morning – neither Bella nor Piper found a single soul. No survivors, no corpses.

  The town was deserted.

  Eventually they made their way up to the top of Dragon’s Peak, to Castle Havenwood. The Studio, once filled with people and paintings, was also deserted. The paintings were gone, only sculptures remaining. And one entire wing of the castle – one supported by a giant mushroom stalk – had collapsed completely after the stalk had been severed by the horrible beast that had attacked the White Dragon.

  After another hour of searching the castle, they found a couple dozen survivors huddled in a locked vault in one of the upper floors. It took quite a bit of convincing to get them to unlock the door, after which everyone was relieved that the attack was over…and that the White Dragon was still alive.

  But as the artists followed Bella back down to the ground floor of the castle, walking out of it and traveling down the spiraling cobblestone road to downtown, relief turned to horror.

  For their families were gone. Their friends. And their homes had been all but destroyed.

  And, curiously, their paintings – every last one in Havenwood – had vanished.

  The sun was already well above the horizon by the time Piper pulled Bella away from the others, facing her with dark circles under his eyes.

  “Let’s go back to your place and get some sleep,” he prompted, walking toward the spiraling cobblestone street.

  And so they made their way, one foot in front of the other, until they were home.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Bella woke, and the survivors of Havenwood had a meeting in The Studio.

  “The White Dragon will heal,” one man stated. He was Griggins, an older Sculptor who was short, squat, rotund, and had a long, curly white beard. He appeared to be the de-facto leader of the group. “But it’s going to take a long time. We need to paint a potion or something that will help it heal faster.”

  “I can do that,” a woman offered.

  “We need to do more,” Piper piped in.

  “The dragon is still our best option for defending Havenwood,” Griggins insisted.

  “Tell that to everyone who isn’t here,” Piper retorted. Griggins grimaced.

  “If you have a better idea, please enlighten us,” he replied.

  “You’re artists,” Piper stated. “You can make whatever you want. Build an army. Make weapons. Defend yourselves.”

  “We’re not combat Painters,” someone else protested. “That’s who the Collector hires. We can’t compete against that!”

  “He’s got paintings from Blackthorne, for gods’ sake,” another argued.

  “So that’s it?” Piper exclaimed incredulously. “You’re just gonna give up?”

  “Why don’t we ask the Pentad for help?” someone else inquired.

  “And have them arrest all of us for illegally painting?” Griggins countered. “We’re all technically criminals, in case you forgot.” He shook his head. “Our best bet is to help heal the White Dragon,” he insisted. “Then have an emergency plan. We’ll all go into the vault like we did before if there’s another attack. It worked yesterday.”

  “And if they force their way in next time?” Piper pressed.

  “Well, Gideon is coming back, isn’t he?” a woman pointed out.

  “That’s right,” Griggins realized. “Gideon’s a combat-Painter. The best!”

  “What if he doesn’t come back in time?” Piper asked.

  “Then we hide in the vault.”

  Piper threw up his arms, storming out of The Studio and into the grand foyer of the castle. Bella hesitated, then followed him. Piper stopped before one of the statues of the Dragonkind, leaning against it. He seemed to be swearing under his breath.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “These damn artists,” he complained. “Everyone in Havenwood has their head in the clouds, making fa
nciful crap and expecting the White Dragon to protect them. Even when there’s proof that it won’t.” He shook his head, turning to face her. “This is what happens when you convince people they aren’t responsible for their own fates. They all turn into useless victims waiting for a damn hero to come and save ‘em.”

  “Well, we can’t wait for Gideon to get back,” Bella argued. “We have to get Grandpa, and your wife.”

  “Great idea,” Piper sneered. “Let’s just go strolling into the Collector’s castle and ask him to give ‘em back.”

  Bella gave him a look.

  “We’re not going to ask him,” she retorted. “We’re going to make him.”

  Piper’s eyebrows went up.

  “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” he inquired.

  “Grandpa told me the secret to defeating the Collector was in his new book,” she answered. “We just have to read it to find out what it is.”

  “Okay…”

  “And in case you forgot, I’m a Painter too,” she reminded him. “I can paint things that will help us.”

  Piper gave her a doubting look.

  “You any good?” he inquired. Bella squared her shoulders.

  “If I want to get Grandpa back, I’ll have to be,” she replied.

  * * *

  And so Bella returned to her studio in Mom’s estate, deep in the bowels of Dragon’s Peak. But she didn’t paint, not at first. First, she studied.

  Every room of Mom’s house had paintings in it. Bella looked at each one, studying the brushstrokes, the colors. Not only did she study the story each painting told, but she deconstructed how Mom had told them. All the tiny details that were the difference between a novice painter and a master.

  After all, according to Gideon, Mom was the second-best painter he’d ever met.

  In-between these sessions, Bella sat on the couch in the living room Grandpa had become fond of taking naps in, reading Grandpa’s first book on Havenwood, titled “The Magic of Havenwood.” Of course, since she was already in Havenwood, reading the book didn’t transport her to another world. Still, she found herself lost in Grandpa’s prose, a story every bit as good as the bedtime stories he’d told her.

  And when she was done with that, she read the sequel…and was about two-thirds of the way through when she saw it.

  “I found it!” she cried, leaping up from the couch she’d been reading in. Piper – seated in a comfortable chair nearby taking a nap – jolted awake.

  “What the…!” he blurted out. “Damn kid, don’t scare me like that!”

  “I found it,” she repeated, holding the book before her. “I found Grandpa’s secret to fight the Collector!”

  Piper stood up, reaching for the book, and Bella handed it to him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “There’s a Plane of Reflection,” she explained.

  “Duh.”

  “Grandpa wrote about it in the first book, that the Dragonkind lived in Havenwood – they built Havenwood in the Plane of Reflection, and so its mirror-image appeared in the real world. And the White Dragon was born in the Plane of Reflection, but somehow managed to come into this world.”

  “I read the first book,” Piper stated wryly. “Everyone in the damn world has.”

  “Well, the first book says that after the White Dragon went through, the Dragonkind lost the ability to travel into the real world,” Bella continued. “But in this book, I think he created a way.”

  Piper frowned, reading the passage Bella had pointed out:

  “The Everstream flowed into Lake Fenestra at the foot of Havenwood, a reflection plane to see. And through its waters the land of the Dragonkind, where a multitude will bend its knee.”

  Piper looked up at her.

  “I don’t get it,” he admitted.

  “It’s the typo,” she explained, pointing at the page. “A reflection plane to see.”

  “And?”

  “He put it there on purpose,” she replied. “A Reflection Plane to see, and through its waters…”

  “A multitude will bend its knee,” Piper finished, his eyes widening. “So he made the lake…”

  “A way to get into the land of the Dragonkind,” Bella concluded excitedly. “Where an army of Dragonkind will bend its knee!”

  Piper re-read the passage silently, then lifted his gaze to Bella, giving her a rare smile.

  “I think you’re right,” he breathed.

  “Let’s go,” she prompted, leaving the living room.

  “Where are…”

  “To the Dragonkind,” she interjected. “It’s time we got ourselves an army!”

  She led him out of the mansion and up the Water Dragon tunnel, emerging at the mouth of the cave. They both squinted at the bright light from the sun high above, waiting until their eyes adjusted, then continuing down the spiraling path to the base of Dragon’s Peak. The lake, filled with ash and debris after the attack, had already cleared completely, its waters recycled continuously by the twin heads of the long-dead Water Dragon.

  “I’m going in,” Bella stated, walking to the very edge of the lake. She peered into the water, seeing the rippling reflection of the sky and part of Dragon’s Peak. And a few Dragonkind standing at the edge of the water in that reflection, one of the pointing at her and saying something to a colleague.

  She took a deep breath in, then jumped into the water!

  And stood there, ankle-deep in the lake.

  She spun around, looking up at Piper.

  “Well that didn’t work,” he quipped. “Try jumping up and down.”

  She did so, hopping over and over, but nothing happened. Piper watched her, a smirk on his lips. She frowned at him.

  “You knew that wouldn’t work,” she accused. “Why’d you have me do that?”

  “Umm…”

  “I don’t get it,” she grumbled out, walking back onto the shore. “I’m sure that’s how we’re supposed to do it!”

  “Just because he wrote it doesn’t mean it’s real,” Piper reminded her. “Maybe Gideon hasn’t gotten the book published yet…or not enough people have read it.

  Bella realized he was right, and her shoulders slumped.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s okay,” he reassured. “We’ll just keep trying. It might take a while.”

  “Alright,” she agreed.

  They trudged back up the mountain, returning home. And after she’d finished the second book – and found no other clue as to how to reach the Dragonkind – there was nothing else to do but wait…and paint.

  * * *

  With no way to tell what time it was, Bella fell into a pattern of napping when she got tired, then waking up and getting to work. Perhaps inspired by her work ethic, Piper got to practicing his Acting, a process that was fascinating to behold. Transforming from one character to the next with ease, Piper went from being a humpbacked old man to a mysterious cloaked stranger in a matter of seconds.

  “How do you do that?” Bella inquired. “Do you just pretend and it happens?”

  “It’s not pretending,” he countered. “It’s being. When I act, I am my characters. I feel what they feel. I become them.”

  “Oh.”

  “I create them the same way you paint things,” he explained. “By creating a story about them.”

  Bella supposed that made sense. Magic, as Gideon had told her, loved stories. In fact, stories were magic, as far as she was concerned.

  Which meant that if she wanted to stand a chance against the Collector – and his Painters – she needed to tell a better story than they could.

  But what exactly?

  “Oh, by the way,” Piper said, breaking her from her train of thought. “A few of my characters are beat up…and one is dying. I need you to heal them for me.”

  “By painting them?”

  “Right,” Piper confirmed. “I’ll change into each character and go into a canvas, and you heal them.” He gave her a doubting look. “You ever do tha
t before?”

  “Yup. To Gideon.”

  “Alright, well if he trusted you to do it, I will,” Piper decided.

  “Want to do it now?”

  “Whenever,” Piper replied. “Time stands still for my characters when I don’t use them, so there’s no rush. Go paint some more first.”

  Bella did so, making her way back to her studio. She grabbed a fresh canvas, placing it on her easel. Then she sat down on the floor, her chin in her hand, staring up at that blank space. She needed to tell a story…a better story than the Collector’s Painters. But what?

  What would Grandpa say?

  She closed her eyes, remembering how she’d laid in bed beside Grandpa, asking him what she should paint. Remembering what he’d said.

  Something that makes you feel something.

  She sighed, opening her eyes and gazing up at the canvas.

  Throwaway art pleases the eye, good art changes people’s minds, and great art…great art opens their hearts.

  Her hand went to her heart, and she felt the hardness of her mother’s amulet there. She withdrew it from her Painter’s uniform, staring at the cracked, heart-shaped ruby. Her mother’s heart.

  She reached into her pants pocket then, finding a folded-up piece of paper there. It was Grandpa’s letter; she retrieved it, unfolding it and reading the final sentence:

  Remember that love is something you give, as I gave mine to you. Give it to your art and heal your heart.

  A friend awaits.

  Grandpa

  Her own heart skipped a beat, and she leapt to her feet, clutching the amulet. She turned, spotting one of the many sketches she’d made of her dragon…and her eyes went to the heart-shaped ruby embedded in its sternum.

  “My dragon,” she blurted out. She reached down excitedly to grab a pencil, then froze.

  I’m not ready.

  Bella hesitated, then grit her teeth, grabbing the pencil and turning to the canvas. If she was going to have any chance at saving Grandpa, she couldn’t wait any longer. Her dragon was the memory of her mother, a fierce, dark protector who would never leave her side. She had to paint its story – her story – with all of her heart. She had to be ready.