A Jet of Pure Water

The man looked puzzled for a moment before inclining his head in a gesture of deference. "Yes," he rumbled in a deep baritone. "I believe that is the name you know me by."

"Wells," Alexa whispered beside him, her voice barely a breath. "Who is that?"

"A friend of my uncle's," Wells murmured back, then raised his voice. "Mister C, what are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you the same." Mister C’s gaze fell upon the ring on Wells's hand as the sapphire gave a faint glimmer. His face instantly darkened with a profound sorrow. His head bowed. "So, it's true," he whispered, his tone defeated. "Jonas Barlow is dead."

Wells flinched, startled that this stranger already knew. "Yes," he confirmed. "He passed away a few days ago."

Mister C shook his head, his expression one of deep grief. "I heard the tidings the day after he passed," he said, speaking more to himself than to the teenagers. "It was foolish to hope otherwise, but still—" He shuddered, drawing a long breath, and looked up, his eyes scanning the group. "I have already mourned your uncle. That sorrow is not for this moment."

"I'm sorry—" Wells began, but Mister C cut him off.

"How did you come to be here?" he asked, his voice sharp with earnest curiosity. "The Ring of Resolve responds only to its owner. Did Jonas bequeath it to you in his will?"

Wells blinked, taken aback by the bluntness of the question. "Yeah," he answered. "It was the only thing he left me."

A flicker of admiration crossed Mister C’s face. "I see. Then Jonas made it a magical contract."

"A—what?"

"A magical contract," Mister C repeated patiently. "It is quite simple, he merely—wait. Did he tell you nothing?"

"Nothing about what?" Wells asked, his confusion mounting.

Mister C sighed again, a wry, sad smile touching his lips. "Of course, he wouldn't have. No one would have believed him." Lost in thought for a moment, he refocused on the six teenagers staring at him. "You wear the Ring of Resolve. Have you tried to remove it?"

Wells nodded. "I have. It's stuck."

"I thought as much," Mister C said. "That is because the ring has bound you to the Greatwood. You have become a wizard."

The word hung in the stunned silence. Wells glanced at his friends; their mouths were agape. After a long moment, Wells broke the spell. "You're joking, right?" A slow smile spread across his face. He had to be.

"No," Mister C stated, his expression grimly serious. Wells's smile vanished. "I am not. You were willed a magical ring and you were born of a Sirunai line. A powerful one, at that. You are a wizard."

"Right," Wells said flatly. "I have a magic ring, my family is made of siru-whatsits, and I'm a wizard. Mister C, did you by any chance just escape from a psychiatric hospital?"

"I can assure you, Wells—that is your name, is it not?"

"It is."

"Very well," Mister C said, a hint of amusement on his face. "I assure you, I am perfectly sane. You have, without question, inherited the magical legacy of your Uncle Jonas."

"No," Wells said, shaking his head. "I haven't."

"Yes," Mister C insisted, "you have. How else could you have gotten here?"

"Mister C, what are you talking about?" Nikolai spoke up for the first time. "Magic isn't real. And what do you mean, 'gotten here'? We're in Harrow Haven Woods. We walked here from school." He gestured over Mister C’s shoulder. "The road is right there."

"So many questions," Mister C mused, a nostalgic look on his face. "Just like Jonas. Firstly, my name is not Mister C. It is Cirus Crewe. You may call me Cirus. As for your assertion, Mr.—"

"Volkov. Nikolai Volkov."

"Mr. Volkov. Regarding your assertion, magic does, in fact, exist." Cirus pushed back the sleeve of his robe, revealing a ring on his left hand. It was strikingly similar to Wells’s, but with a silver band and a deep purple stone. "Watch."

He held his hand palm-up. The amethyst pulsed with a soft, inner light, and a jet of pure water erupted from the stone, drenching Nikolai squarely in the chest. Stunned, Nikolai stared down at his soaked shirt. Cirus smiled slyly, waved his hand again, and a cloud of steam hissed from Nikolai's shirt, leaving it perfectly dry.

Wells felt dizzy, as if he’d been struck. He stumbled back onto the log, shaking his head to clear it. There was no rational explanation for what he had just witnessed.

"Okay, magic is real," Nikolai said in a strained voice, pulling Wells from his stupor. "But that doesn't explain what you mean by 'how we got here,' when here is Harrow—"

"I am afraid you are not in Harrow Haven Woods," Cirus interrupted calmly. "You are in Remira. More specifically, the Delanor Forest, within the Kingdom of Anolin."

The name struck a chord with Wells. Remira? Where have I heard that before?

"Yeah?" Aidan challenged. "And where the hell is all of that?"

Cirus chuckled. "And you would be?"

"Aidan McDowell," he grumbled, stepping forward protectively.

"Ah, 'the abrasive youth,' if I recall Jonas's description correctly," Cirus said. Vance and Nikolai snickered until Aidan shot them a glare. "If you'll be patient, I would be happy to show you." He pulled a pack from his back that Wells hadn't noticed before and produced a folded, yellowed piece of parchment. "This should answer your questions."

The others crowded around as Aidan carefully unfolded the map. It depicted a single, massive continent. The western end was meticulously detailed with kingdoms and borders, but the drawings stopped abruptly at a great mountain range. A title was inscribed at the top in elegant, alien script.

"What's it say?" Juliana asked, her eyes wide at the strange, flowing letters.

"And you are?" Cirus asked.

"Juliana Ross."

"Well, Juliana, can you not read it?" Cirus asked with unexpected gravity.

"No," she said defensively. "I can read just fine."

"What?" Cirus peered over their shoulders at the map, and his face cleared with understanding. "Ah, yes. I forget. Your world uses a different script, does it not? I will need to correct that."

He held up his left hand again. An intrusive, tingling sensation prickled across Wells's eyes, ears, and neck, and then it was gone.

"What did you do?" Wells demanded.

"Look at the map again," Cirus said simply.

Wells gasped. Where there had been unintelligible characters, there was now clear, perfect English. The map was titled: MODERN DAY REMIRA, with the caption The Known World. The five western nations were labeled the Civilized Lands, comprising the Kingdom of Anolin, the Sacred Kingdom of Elara, the Sovereign Republic of Corala, the Holy Kingdom of Neron, and the Auran Empire. The vast, empty expanse to the east was marked simply as The Burning Plains.

"So this is where we are?" Vance asked.

"Yes—" Cirus trailed off, waiting.

"Vance Darrow."

"Yes, Mr. Darrow," Cirus confirmed, pointing to a patch of green in the northern part of Anolin. "We are in the Delanor Forest. The capital city, Tor Alian, is about a day's walk from here."

"Who might you be?" Cirus asked, turning to Alexa.

"Alexa Hale."

"Right, I believe that is everyone," Cirus said, taking the map from Aidan and folding it. "Wells Barlow, Aidan McDowell, Vance Darrow, Nikolai Volkov, Juliana Ross, and Alexa Hale."

"Cirus, what happened to your accent?" Wells asked.

"So you noticed," Cirus said with a slight grin. "I have granted you the ability to comprehend and speak Vaenyari, the common tongue of this part of the world. The script on that map was written by centaurs, but the human—"

"Wait," Wells cut him off. "Centaurs?"

"Indeed. Is that so difficult to believe?" Cirus asked politely. His grim seriousness was melting away, replaced by a bright-eyed cheerfulness that seemed to suit him far better.

"It's just…" Wells stammered, "centaurs don't exist!"

"The same way magic doesn't exist?" Cirus retorted, wiggling the fingers of his left hand. "Wells—if I may—we are in a world very different from the one you know."

"But how did we get here?" Wells demanded, his voice rising with exasperation. "One minute we're in Harrow Haven, the next we're in a forest in some country where they don't even use the same alphabet!"

Cirus sighed. "Sit down, all of you," he said, gesturing to the log. "I suppose you'll be wanting an explanation. Jonas certainly did when he first arrived."

"Uncle Jonas was here before?" Wells's eyes lit up with excitement. "But—wait, that story he told us, the night we met you! It was real! He was the wizard in the story? When did he—"

"Sit," Cirus commanded, his tone firm but gentle, "and I will explain." He stood before the six seated teenagers, looking magnificent in his medieval garb. He pulled a snuffbox and a long, carved pipe from his pack. Tapping some dark, aromatic powder into the bowl, he held his ring beneath it. A jet of purple fire ignited the contents with a soft fwoosh.

"Very well," Cirus said after a deep inhale, smoke curling from the pipe. "Where to begin? I suppose with the ring—its proper name is the Ring of Resolve—and how it came to be in your world." He began to pace. "Do you four boys remember the story Jonas was telling the night I came to your door?"

Wells, Aidan, Vance, and Nikolai nodded. The girls looked lost. Cirus gave them a brief summary. "Let us just say the tale was not entirely accurate. The ring is most certainly magical, and Jonas had no idea who its previous owner was."

"How the Ring of Resolve found its way to your world is a mystery to all in Remira," he continued. "We only know that it vanished two centuries ago, only to reappear sixty years ago, on the hand of Jonas Barlow."

"But how did he find it?" Wells pressed. "You don't just stumble across a magic ring in Michigan."