The Centaur in the Castle

The contemplative silence shattered when Anvel reemerged, towing a sullen-looking Aidan, Vance, and Nikolai. Their identical, slightly absurd outfits—cream-colored hose sagging at the ankles, brown knee-breeches, and garish peach doublets—explained both their expressions and the delay. Wells fought back a laugh.

"Yes, Anvel, that will suffice," Cirus said, his tone betraying a complete lack of conviction. "Now, if you would be so good as to outfit my apprentice."

"This way," Anvel grunted.

As Wells followed him into the storeroom, a single thought echoed in his mind: Anything but the peach doublet. The room was a chaotic treasure trove of apparel, with sleeves and pant legs spilling from cubbies and three towering shelves packed to the rafters, each with a wheeled ladder at its base.

Anvel, with one foot already on a rung, turned. "Your ring. What color is it?"

"My... what?"

"Your ring, boy," Anvel repeated with a flash of irritation. "The robes must match the ring."

"Oh. Right," Wells said, trying for a casual air. "It's blue."

"Blue, then." With surprising agility, Anvel scrambled up the ladder. He wrestled a stack of blue-hued fabric from the top shelf, then nearly leaped down the final rungs, thrusting the bundle at Wells. "Here you are. Need some privacy to change?"

"Yes, that would be good," Wells said, chuckling as he looked at the mound of cloth in his arms.

Anvel gestured to a second door. "Use this room. Call if you need me."

Wells managed the undershirt, hose, and tight-fitting tunic with little trouble, but the cloak Anvel had provided was a mystery. He could not figure out how to fasten it. A knock came at the door.

Anvel poked his head in, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Trouble?"

"This cloak," Wells admitted, holding the garment helplessly.

"Of course," Anvel murmured, stepping inside. His practiced fingers made quick work of the fastenings. "Lord Cirus can demonstrate the proper method later. Now... what's left? Ah, yes. Boots." He rummaged along the lowest shelf and produced a pair of soft, brown leather boots. "Sit. Foot."

Wells obeyed, perching on the ladder's edge. To his surprise, the boots were a perfect fit.

"Right, then," Anvel said, ushering him back into the main room.

Aidan's frown deepened as Wells approached. "How come you get an outfit that doesn't make you look like a fool?" he muttered.

"I'm sure you'll get something different later," Wells murmured back. "I assume this is a uniform. You three won't be sitting idle while I'm training."

After Cirus paid Anvel with a handful of strangely shaped gold and silver coins, they stepped back out onto the bustling street. It was clearly the busiest time of day; women in ornate gowns swept past, some laden with parcels from the nearby shops.

"Follow me," Cirus commanded, setting a brisk pace toward the city's heart. "The castle is only ten minutes from here."

"Cirus, what about our other clothes?" Nikolai asked.

Cirus paused, taking in the clumsy bundles they all carried, which were drawing curious stares. "Right. Give them here. You can keep them in my pack for now." He efficiently gathered their modern attire and stowed it away.

The crowds thinned as they approached the castle, replaced by a growing number of guards. Soon they stood before the castle gates—identical to the city's but slightly smaller and flanked by eight sentries.

"Halt," one of them boomed in a deep baritone. "State your names and your business at the Royal Castle of Anolin."

Cirus rolled his eyes. "I am Lord Cirus Crewe, Third Wizard of the Order of Sorcerers, last scion of the House of Crewe," he announced, his own voice ringing with authority. "These are my guests, visitors from a distant land under my protection. They speak no language known to us."

The guard gave a curt nod. "Very well. Your business at the Royal Castle?"

Wells could hear Cirus mutter, "Protocols," under his breath. He sighed. "I am here at the summons of His Majesty, King Haelen, who has convened a council on matters concerning the Empire and Neron."

"Proceed," the guard replied, and the eight men stepped aside.

They found themselves on a stone path that meandered through a magnificent garden, a riot of colorful flowers and diverse trees. Wells, ever allergic, let out a sneeze. Ahead, a set of ornate, cherry-red double doors was watched by six more guards. These, however, recognized Cirus and silently pulled the doors open.

The foyer was less opulent than Wells had expected. It was a vast, plain room of stone walls and floors, its only features being three archways, each easily three times his height.

"Tor Alian is older than Anolin itself," Cirus explained as he led them toward the central arch, anticipating Wells's unspoken question. "It was built as a military outpost long before the Auran Empire was an empire. The city grew around it when this was made the capital."

Just then, a voice boomed from the far end of the new corridor. "Cirus Crewe, you young fool! What brings you back to Tor Alian?" The voice was wild, untamed. Before Wells could process the accompanying sound of hoofbeats, a figure leaped toward them and swept Cirus into a joyous embrace.

It was a centaur. The realization struck Wells like a physical blow. The creature's lower body was that of a powerful horse, its thick chestnut coat gleaming under the corridor's light, a black tail swishing restlessly. From the horse's back rose the tanned torso of a man. He had long, wild hair the same color as his coat and a handsome, sharp-featured face. But it was his eyes that were truly arresting: a captivating mismatch of dark, fertile earth and piercing sky-blue. He wore a crimson tunic similar to Wells's, though his had shorter sleeves, revealing powerful, hairy arms.

"Galano!" Cirus said, surprised. "What are you doing in Tor Alian?"

"I am here as a representative of Elara for the Council," Galano declared, his voice still booming with energy. "Erebos is here as well."

"How long have you been here?" Cirus asked.

"A week or so—by Astalor's hoof, Cirus, who are these people?" Galano murmured, finally noticing Wells and his companions.

"Ah, yes," Cirus said, lowering his voice despite the empty corridor. "Well, the one with the ring is Jonas's great-nephew, and—"

"The—the Ring?" Galano interrupted, his expression stunned. "The Ring of Resolve?"

"Yes," Cirus confirmed.

"Then Jonas is dead!" Galano cried.

Cirus bowed his head. "Unfortunately, yes."

Wells watched as Galano raised a six-fingered hand to his heart. "That is a great tragedy," he said gravely. "We have lost a good man and a powerful wizard. Had I known him better, my grief would be greater still."

An awkward silence fell. Wells glanced at his friends; they looked as lost as he felt.

"And your young friends' names are?" Galano asked, breaking the tension. Cirus made the introductions, saving Wells for last.

"...and as I said, this is Jonas's great-nephew, Wells Barlow," Cirus finished.

Galano extended his hand, something he hadn't done for the others. Wells shook it hesitantly, surprised by the centaur's gentle grip.

"You have a strong resemblance to your great-uncle," Galano observed, his gaze fixed on Wells. He gently turned Wells's hand over, exposing the ring. "And the Ring of Resolve is unchanged." He released his grip, and Wells cautiously drew his hand back.

Cirus glanced around, then swore under his breath. "Damn it. I should have gone directly to King Haelen. Galano, can you watch them for a moment while I announce my arrival?"

"Of course, Cirus," Galano replied. "I would be glad to."

"A thousand thanks, my friend!" Cirus called over his shoulder as he hurried down the hall and disappeared through another door.

The six friends stood awkwardly, a mixture of awe and fear swirling between them and the centaur. Galano folded his arms behind his back, his mismatched eyes sweeping over each of them with polite curiosity before settling on Wells.

"You will be a great wizard one day," he said, his tone friendly.

"Uh, thanks?" Wells replied, feeling his discomfort grow. "How can you tell?"

"Wizards and centaurs can sense the myran that flows through all things," Galano explained. "Yours is exceptionally focused. One of the highest concentrations I have ever encountered. Much like your friend here—Nikolai, I believe."

Nikolai looked intrigued. "Really? I could be a wizard?"

"If you wished it." Galano then turned his eerie gaze on Juliana. "You, on the other hand, possess the strongest concentration of kalan I have ever sensed. A truly remarkable aura."

"What does that mean?" Juliana asked, looking far more shocked than either Wells or Nikolai had.

"It means you could become a very powerful prophetess, if you chose," Galano said.

"Are you a wizard?" Aidan asked abruptly.

"No," Galano replied, a hint of offense in his voice. "I descend from a long line of powerful wizards. Unfortunately, if I were to attempt to control myran, it would kill me."

"Oh," Aidan said, looking mortified. "I'm sorry."

"It is not your fault. It is a rare condition among my people, though I am the first in my family to have it. We call it Arthenos's Sorrow."

"Arthenos's Sorrow?" Wells repeated. "Who is Arthenos?"

Galano's expression softened into one of mild amusement. "Arthenos is the Creator, the Everlasting."

"What?" Aidan asked, confused.

Vance's voice was a low growl in his ear. "Arthenos is their god, you moron."

"God is perhaps the wrong word," Galano corrected gently. "But we worship Arthenos as most humans in these lands worship the Shaper."

"The Shaper?" Alexa asked. "Is that the human religion here?"

"Yes. The people of Remira follow the faith of Morgath. The Protex, who leads Morgath, also rules Neron. I trust you were told of Neron?"

"I saw it on the map," Alexa said. "The Kingdom of God. And the Auran Empire and Neron are going to war, aren't they?"

"The Auran Empire, yes," Galano corrected. "We fear war is imminent. Emperor Lyron has declared his intent to reclaim the 'lost territories' of his Empire, beginning with Neron."

"Oh," Alexa murmured, clearly out of her depth. Fortunately, Cirus returned at that moment, panting, the hem of his robe whipping around his ankles.

"His Majesty will convene the Council in five minutes," Cirus gasped, clutching a stitch in his side. "I had to run all the way to the throne room and back."

"By Astalor's hoof, so soon?" Galano asked, a note of irritation in his voice. "He must value your counsel highly, my friend."

"Clearly," Cirus wheezed. "Wells, you're with me."

"What? Why?"

"As my apprentice, your presence is required," Cirus explained. "The five of you—Alexa, Juliana, Vance, Nikolai, and Aidan—cannot attend. You may wait in the antechamber to the Council Room." He took a few more deep breaths, then straightened. "Follow me."

He led them through the same door he had just burst from into a long, bright hall. Galano followed, the clip-clop of his hooves an odd counterpoint to the soft tread of their boots. At the far end stood a grand set of mahogany doors, intricately carved with the image of a tree. A crowd of people, another centaur, and a menagerie of animals were gathered before it. Cirus guided them past this scene and into a longer, darker corridor that terminated in a single, plain door.

Cirus pushed on it, but it held firm. "Locked," he stated. He touched the wood with his ring. A flash of violet light erupted from the stone, and the lock gave way with a sharp crack, the door swinging inward.

They entered a low-ceilinged room bathed in a muted, purplish light. Three long wooden benches occupied the tiled floor. Another door stood on the opposite wall.

"This is the antechamber," Cirus announced. "My apologies that you cannot join us. Wells will inform you of anything we learn that is fit for discussion." Aidan snorted at the unintentional pun, but Cirus seemed not to notice. "Now, Wells, with me."

He pushed open the final door and stepped through. Wells followed, with Galano close behind. They were in a small, dim space made claustrophobic by the centaur's bulk. The room filled with Galano's musty, equine scent, and Wells fought the urge to cough. Cirus felt along the far wall, found a handle, and pushed. A hidden door swung open, revealing the room beyond.