A Room in the Royal Castle

"Surely the Council wasn't that dull, Wells," Aidan countered. "You did vote to declare war, after all. How often does an opportunity like that come along?"

"It's not nearly as exhilarating as you imagine," Wells remarked.

The four boys were gathered in a chamber Cirus had secured for them within the castle. It wasn't opulent, but it was theirs. The room contained four plain beds, each draped with a thick, dark blue blanket embroidered with the crest of Anolin—the same ancient tree Wells now recognized from the balcony floor and the carving above the Council chamber entrance. All the beds faced a stone hearth where a fire roared, yet its warmth failed to penetrate the room's cold corners. Their traveling clothes were stowed in a recess against one wall that they could only describe as a closet. The stone walls were interrupted by two doors: one leading to the third-floor corridor, the other to a private bathroom.

"Well, it's more action than we saw," Vance said, shrugging out of his doublet. "But we've already told you that story."

"You did," Wells replied. Already in bed, he pulled the quilt closer to his bare chest. They would need to find some proper sleeping clothes soon. The persistent chill, which the fire did little to combat, made Wells wish for something more substantial than his boxer shorts.

Nikolai emerged from his inspection of their bathroom. "We have a chamber pot," he announced, "a stone bathtub that looks like it's been dry for a century, and a basin for washing our hands."

Aidan grimaced. "I'm going to miss indoor plumbing," he declared, still fully dressed as he stretched out on his bed. "I feel like I'll need a shower any day now."

Vance grinned, neatly folding his doublet, pants, and hose before placing them in their makeshift closet. "Yes, enduring your particular aroma is a curse upon us all," he commented, then cast a disapproving glance at Wells's crumpled clothes on the floor. "Aren't you going to put those away, Wells?"

"No," Wells said, trying to burrow into a comfortable position. Whatever filled his mattress and pillows was incredibly firm. "I'd rather not parade around in my underwear across this cold floor tomorrow morning."

Vance shook his head with a laugh. "Wimp. You never would have survived the Scouts."

"You're one to talk," Aidan retorted, shedding his clothes and climbing under his own blankets. "Didn't you quit in the eighth grade?"

"I did," Vance conceded, "but that's beside the point."

"He has you there, Vance," Nikolai put in.

Wells chuckled. "You're outnumbered."

"Shut up," Vance grumbled. After a moment's pause, he added, "Shut up, Willy."

Wells shot him a glare and hurled one of his pillows at Vance's head. "You shut up!"

Vance caught it effortlessly and flung it back, smacking Wells in the jaw. In retaliation, Wells grabbed his remaining two pillows and threw them in quick succession. One hit Vance in the chest, while the other sailed wide and knocked the glasses from Nikolai's nose.

Nikolai calmly picked up his spectacles and settled them back in place. A frighteningly intense smile spread across his face. "I'm afraid," he said, "it's on now."

For fifteen frenzied minutes, pillows flew in a chaotic release of the day's strange tensions. When the battle finally ceased, they collapsed onto their beds in a state of shared exhaustion.

What felt like a moment later, a hand was shaking Wells awake. "Come on, Wells, we have an audience with the king in an hour," Cirus urged.

Wells opened his eyes blearily. Cirus was already fully dressed, with Alexa and Juliana hovering behind him. As Cirus moved on to rouse the other three, Wells pushed his covers away, prompting the girls to burst into laughter.

"What?" Wells asked, yawning as he stared at them.

"Nice underwear," Juliana giggled.

Glancing down, Wells remembered his state of undress. A hot flush he could only imagine was ruby-red crept up his face as he frantically pulled the covers back over himself. His embarrassment flared into anger, jolting him fully awake. "Get out, both of you!"

Alexa just smiled. "Why?"

"Because!" Wells snapped, his patience gone. "I'm not wearing anything!"

"Yes, you are," Juliana pointed out, her laughter increasing. "And they're covered in—what are those, tennis balls?"

"Out!" he roared, and they finally retreated, their laughter echoing down the corridor.

In a subdued silence, Wells, Aidan, Vance, and Nikolai all tugged on their clothes, still trying to suppress their yawns as Cirus hurried them along. Wells fumbled with his cloak until Cirus had to help him fasten it, and the moment his boots were on, they were whisked from the room.

"What's the rush?" Wells queried as Cirus led them down a long corridor similar to the one on the first floor. "You said we have an hour."

Without breaking stride, Cirus opened a door to reveal a long, spiraling stone staircase. "One must observe certain precautions before an audience with King Haelen."

Wells paused, confused. "Like what? You people in Remira don't even have metal detectors."

"No," Cirus said, grabbing Wells's arm to pull him along. "No, we don't. However, the king's personal guard must search each of you individually, and that can take time. Now, please hurry."

They descended the spiral staircase into another lengthy hallway lined with identical mahogany-like doors fitted with polished gold handles. Through the occasional open doorway, Wells glimpsed chambers that looked strikingly like his own. He spotted servants twice—a man in a simple doublet and trousers, and a woman in a frock and flour-dusted apron.

"Is this where the servants live?" Juliana asked Cirus.

"Yes," he confirmed. "And where we house foreign guests of lower station. Dignitaries are lodged in another wing entirely."

At the end of the hall, he opened another door onto yet another spiral staircase. They traversed two more wide hallways and a narrower one before a left turn brought them into the familiar, brightly lit corridor from the previous day. Guarding the closed, great double doors was a bald man of such immense stature he made Uncle Trenton seem like a kitten. His arms were as thick as tree limbs, and he wore a profoundly irritated expression.

Cirus offered him a polite nod. "Greetings, Sir Halron," he said with a smile.

Sir Halron's grim face split into a massive grin. "Cirus Crewe!" he boomed, gripping Cirus’s hand in a handshake that was more a test of strength than a hostile gesture. "It has been too long!"

Cirus seemed not to notice the pressure Sir Halron was applying. "So everyone keeps telling me since my return to Tor Alian."

"How long has it been?" Sir Halron asked.

"Just over fifteen years," Cirus replied. "I see you've earned a promotion to the king's personal guard."

"I have," Sir Halron said, chuckling. "It's quite the thrill. My children are endlessly fascinated that their father now gets to speak with the monarch daily." His gaze then fell upon Wells and his friends. "Are these the children I'm to inspect?"

"Children?" Aidan repeated indignantly. "We're not children, I'm—" He broke off with a sharp intake of breath as Juliana stomped hard on his foot.

"Yes," Cirus said, ignoring Aidan. "I have arranged an audience with King Haelen, and I wish for my apprentice and his friends to attend."

"Very well." Sir Halron surveyed the group for a long moment before taking Nikolai firmly by the shoulders. "You first. With me." He guided Nikolai through a door on the right, and Wells caught a brief glimpse of a cluttered, dim space before the door shut behind them.

"What's he going to do to him?" Vance asked Cirus.

"The procedure is quite standard. Sir Halron will check him for weapons, screen for various poisons, and ensure he isn't under the control of a rogue warlock."

"Warlock?"

"It is what we in the Order of Sorcerers call wizards who engage in open hostility," Cirus explained. "I believe they have an equivalent to our Order, though they are secretive about it."

An anxious silence fell over them as the minutes crawled by. Ten minutes stretched to fifteen, then twenty. Finally, Sir Halron reemerged, his face unreadable. He was alone.

"Where's Nikolai?" Wells demanded immediately.

"He is waiting in the throne room," Sir Halron said evenly. "I'll take you next. You're the sorcerer's apprentice?"

"Yes," Wells answered, a strange flutter in his stomach. I have magic. The thought was undeniably thrilling, no matter how bizarre it seemed. He followed Sir Halron into the dimly lit room. The air grew thick and damp, and the temperature plummeted.

The space was large and incredibly disorganized. Two desks were buried under piles of leather-bound books and parchment scrolls, surrounded by spilled inkwells and broken quills. A massive bookshelf was crammed with more books and assorted trinkets. On one wall hung a map of Remira, much like Cirus's but in far better condition. Flickering torches in wall sconces did little to warm the room's damp chill.

"Where are we?" Wells asked.

"These were the old dungeons," Sir Halron explained. "An Elfanil king converted them into the office for the King's Guard. Please, stand over there," he said, gesturing to a clear patch of floor away from the clutter. Feeling faintly ridiculous, Wells complied.

"First, I must verify that you are not being controlled by a warlock," Halron announced. "Please mirror my movements."

He raised his left arm; Wells raised his. He lifted his right arm, then lowered it; Wells followed suit. For the next two minutes, Wells dutifully mimicked every motion Sir Halron made—standing on one leg, jumping in place, turning his head from side to side. Finally, Sir Halron told him to stop.

He moved to his desk, rummaged in a drawer, and produced a fresh quill and a bottle of ink. "I need to fill out a form for you," he said, gently tearing a page from an open book on his desk. "What is your name?"

"Wells."

"Your full name, please," Sir Halron said without looking up.

"Sorry—Wells Arthur Barlow."

After another minute spent scribbling on the top portion of the form, Sir Halron set the quill down. "Alright, now I must check you for weapons."

"Raise your arms above your head, please," he instructed. Wells obeyed, bewildered, as Sir Halron checked his armpits for anything concealed. Then, his large hands briskly patted down Wells’s arms, chest, and legs until he seemed satisfied.

"If you would remove your cloak and boots, I must inspect them for hidden items," Sir Halron said.

Wells untied his cloak and pulled off his boots, the stone floor shockingly cold against his socks. He stood by as Sir Halron examined the heels of his boots, peered inside them, and felt through the folds of his cloak for weapons or secret pockets.

"Here," Sir Halron said, returning his belongings. "You may go."