The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles) (4 page)

While Ion and Theo placed the bags by Amora, who was now quietly returning to packing, Father and Oceanus entered the courtyard from yet another hall of the fortress.

“Quite a bit of luggage you have here,” Father told Othum, hands on his hips, wearing his best leather jerkin and skirt.

“Yes, well, you can never be too sure, Atrius,” said Othum, giving Father a good slap on the back, which hurt by the look on Father’s face. “All right, it looks like that’s it. I do believe there’s some tea in the carriage, if you’d all join me for a cup?”

“Most certainly, Skylord,” Father said.

Everyone filed in, but before Ion could, Othum slunk in front of him, his face suddenly heavy. “Ion, might I have a quick word with you before we get to the tea?”

“Um...sure, Skylord.”

Othum walked him a few feet away from the entrance to the carriage, and looked at the Omnus Staff on Ions’ back. “Ion, I think you should leave the Staff behind for this trip. None of the other gods but one knows of its part as one half of your Connection Seal. If they were to find out, I feel the Illyrians would ask questions we aren’t ready to answer. And trust me, that’s the last thing you want with this group.”

Ion grabbed the iron of the Omnus Staff and pulled it free of its holder. He looked down at it, rolling the staff over in his hand. It warmed his jaw and he knew the pyramid of eyes had appeared on his chin. He thought for a bit, chewing on his lip.
But it helps with my control
. Without it in his hand, his Connection Seal wouldn’t be complete, wouldn’t offer the security of control he needed.

But Othum’s expression was hard.

“I understand, Skylord,” said Ion.

“Thank you, Ion. I knew you would.”

Ion placed the Staff in Othum’s open hand and handed over the leather holder as well. The Skylord then handed the staff to Amora, who took it with a bow.

Othum turned to Ion once more. “It’s also important to note that while the whole of Illyria is very well aware of your
different
birthing circumstances, I’m not so certain they’ll give you the warmest of welcomes for it. The Illyrian gods are a high-strung lot, Ion, and a family member born the way you were will need some time to be fully accepted. Does that make sense?”

Ion nodded, but kept his thoughts to himself.
We aren’t even there yet, yet we’re already whispering, already keeping secrets from Illyria
.

“Very good,” said Othum, adjusting the collar of his tunic. “Now, into the carriage we go.”

Othum ushered Ion into the carriage, where he found a place upon the U-shaped bench beside the others. He sat, still chewing on his lip.
What am I walking into
? he wondered.

The inside of the carriage was as immaculate as Ion expected. Seats with beautiful flower designs lined three of the inside walls, which were painted a
robin’s egg blue
, Othum pointed out. In the middle rose a table of pure gold, on top of which sat a porcelain tray with porcelain saucers holding porcelain teacups.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Othum asked, taking a seat beside Father, which made the whole carriage shift.

“Quite,” Father returned.

It was interesting. Ion never imagined his father could look anything but huge and intimidating—him and his wide chest, long black beard, and small, piercing eyes. A former gladiator and Air Caller that could conjure winds to match a hurricane’s. But next to Othum, he couldn’t have looked more like an ordinary man. Older even.

“It’s. So
. Fancy
, ” Theo whispered, running his hand excitedly along the surface of the gold table.

Dwarves loved gold. It was a thing.

“Everyone is in for quite a treat,” said Othum, pouring a cup of tea for each. “This tea comes from the Jasmine Fields of the Eastern Realm—the largest and arguably the most beautiful continent of the Outerworld.”

Everyone sipped at their tea, trading delighted glances. It was so sweet, Othum must have poured an entire cup of sugar into the pot.

“I am so excited about this!” Oceanus said.

“Indeed!” said Othum. “I must admit, I wish I was visiting for a happier reason, but I’m quite excited to see my Guardians take their first step onto Illyria. It is a grand fortress if there ever was one. I must warn you, however: life on Illyria is...
different
for a Guardian than here on the Acropolis.”

“And that means what?” Lillian asked.

Othum cleared his throat. Everyone stopped drinking their tea. “Well, I’m a bit more relaxed than the other members of my family. That’s why I moved here, you see—to escape the formalities of Illyria.”

Ion traded glances with Lillian. “And what are these formalities?” he asked.

“Well, do you recall how Vasheer asked to be escorted to the Acropolis?”

Ion clenched his jaw. “How could I forget?”

“Well, that’s how it is on Illyria...all the time.”

“Ugh,” Ion grunted. “But—”

“Ion, my boy, Guardians are the
servants
and
protectors
of Illyria,” Othum explained. “A Guardian’s duties include but are not limited to: battling our enemies, protecting Illyria and all other lands owned by the pantheon, escorting us safely from one destination to the next, combing our hair, and—”

“Combing your
hair
?” Ion cried. “Comb your own hair!”

“I agree wholeheartedly with you, Mr. Reaves!” said Othum. “I’d never trust anyone but myself with these luscious locks. But it won’t be that bad. Despite it being a very curious time—a very curious time, indeed—the other Illyrians will only ask for an escort from time to time, like Vasheer did. They understand you’re young, and not yet versed in the ways of Illyria...I think.”

“I don’t know,” said Ion. “Escorting is one thing, but—”

Oceanus grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and pressed her nose against his. Her eyes were big and bright, and Ion was sure he could see an angry, crashing ocean wave churning around in the blue of her eyes. “Listen here, oinker! You are
not
going to ruin this trip for me, understand? If those beautiful Illyrian gods want their beautiful Illyrian selves escorted from place to place, you better be that escort and you better smile while you’re doing it. If they want their gorgeous, godly hair combed, you better comb their gorgeous, godly hair like only a Guardian hair-comber could! If they tell a joke, you better laugh. If they sneeze, you better bless them, and by the
fires
of the Darklands, if I hear you haven’t been doing all of those things you’re going to drown in the biggest, most violent, most
floodiest
-flood you’ve ever seen! Do. You. Understand?”

Ion swallowed and nodded.

“Good then,” she said, releasing his tunic and pushing him against the back of his seat.

The carriage was silent. Everyone’s eyes were wide, teacups perfectly still. Father seemed afraid that if he moved he, too, would be placed on Oceanus’s flood list.

Then came Amora’s voice from outside. “Everything is secure, Skylord! You’re ready for takeoff!”

She appeared in the doorway and Othum shot up from his seat, teacup and saucer in hand. “Fantastic! I’m leaving the Acropolis in your hands, Amora. I expect its security to be properly overseen, and its borders under heavy guard.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Skylord,” she said with a bow.

“Very well. I shall send for you upon my return.” He winked and shut the door. The Skylord went through a door at the front of the carriage and sat down on the driver’s bench, teacup at his side.

“Keep seated and anchored, my children,” he called to them. “At the moment, Illyria hovers over the middle of the Green Sea, waiting for our arrival. It won’t be a long ride, but it’ll surely be a bumpy one.”

Othum raised his hand in the air, and in a flash, a whip of sizzling lightning materialized in his palm. He lashed the air only once, thunder rocking the courtyard. Another blinding flash ripped through the space in front the carriage, and five black steeds appeared before the Skylord. Steeds that in place of normal horse hair and hooves had arcing, hissing bolts of blue electricity.

“To Illyria!” Othum cried.

He cracked his whip, and the carriage was swept off the floor of the courtyard, the electrical steeds ascending into the light of the dawn. They climbed, faster and faster, high and higher, until the Isle of Eldanar was merely a distant rock beneath them. Ion’s one and only home now as small as an anthill.

THE FLOATING ISLE

While Ion and Oceanus tried desperately to keep the tea in their cups, Father plastered himself against his seat, eyes wider than Ion knew they could get. Theo just screamed. Really loud. And not entirely unlike a four-year-old girl. And all the while, Lillian sat perfectly still and unaffected in her spot, sipping at her tea, keeping her area neat and grounded with only her thoughts.

The ride continued for what seemed like an hour, Othum shouting to his steeds at the front, the occasional lash of his lightning whip igniting thunder in the air. Then suddenly, the carriage slowed.

“Look, my Guardians!” Othum cried. “The Isle of Illyria is upon us!”

Everyone clambered to the only window of the carriage. It was amazing. Incredible. Unlike anything Ion had seen.
As golden as Mother said
.

The Isle of Illyria floated in the distance, an immense body of rock that looked like an upturned mountain, its peak skimming the surface of the ocean while the island slowly moved west, eclipsing the light of the Sun. A waterfall fell off the northern side of the floating isle, the waters dissipating into a mist before it could reach the seas. Othum drew the carriage upward along this northern half of the island, and Ion watched as Illyria unfolded before him. The city stood proud and mighty on this half of the island. Sunlight bathed the sandstone palaces and temples, its colossal statues and towers. Its windows and doors were made of pure gold, its streets of turquoise tiles.

“Many years ago, the Old Gods raised the Isle of Illyria from the highest mountain of the Eastern Realm,” Othum shouted over the winds. “Soon after, a disease we call the Sickness swept through all but one of the Old Gods, leaving Lady Borea to raise us, the Illyrians, as the new pantheon. I was taught how to wield the skies atop Illyria. Nepia, the oceans. Vasheer, the Sun. It is sacred ground, and no being, alive or dead is permitted to set foot upon it unless officially invited by an Illyrian god.”

“I thought the Old Gods just died off,” said Oceanus. “What’s the Sickness?”

“I wish I could tell you what the Sickness is,” said Othum. “But Lady Borea has refused to speak of it to any of the Illyrians, and being that she’s the only god who survived it, the details of the Sickness remain a secret.”

The electrical steeds brought the carriage around the floating island, past the waterfall and a much smaller island attached to the mainland by only a long, narrow bridge.

“I can’t believe this is happening!” Oceanus whispered. “We actually get to
touch
the home of the gods.”
 

Ion thought for a bit, his stomach fluttering. Was it a nervous flutter? A foreboding one, perhaps? Or was he, dare he even think it...
excited
? Though it made sense. He touched the emerald of his necklace, that precious heirloom he’d gotten from Lady Vinya.
This was her home
. His mother’s home.

Well, one of them, at least.

The carriage heaved to the right, and the steeds descended toward the southern part of the island, landing with a clatter of hooves on a plot of stone on the edge of the isle.

Othum hopped off the driver’s bench of the carriage and opened the door with his usual goofy grin, which always seemed inappropriate. “Come, my Guardians, the Isle of Illyria awaits.”

One by one, they shuffled out of the carriage.

Oceanus took a great breath of fresh, godly air and sighed wistfully. “Feels like...
home
.”

Before them stretched a field of flat sand, raked in intricate patterns, a marble road running through it to reach the city huddled together on the northern part of the island. Trees lined the path, ones that instead of having leaves, grew long threads of silk dotted by drops of dew, which sparkled in the dawn’s light.

“Our first stop is the Hall of Thrones,” said Othum. “We’ll probably have dinner afterwards, stay a night or two, and split once the opportunity presents itself. Guardians, it’s important we make a good first impression on the other Illyrians. We’ll start by having two of you march in front of me, and two march in back—just as proud,
protective
Guardians would. Atrius, you stay behind me. Goodbye, my dazzling steeds!” Othum waved to his electrical horses and they disappeared in a flash. “Now—
to the Hall of Thrones
!”

Ion and Oceanus took to the front of Othum, Theo and Lillian marching behind him. They walked down the path, a sweet ocean breeze drifting through the threads of silk from the trees, the dew shimmering like a sea of diamonds above. Ion looked out over the sand, mesmerized by the perfect lines raked into the fields.

“This is the Silken Vale,” Othum explained, his arms out to the sprawling sandy landscape. “This half of the island once played host to the many glorious temples, shrines, and living quarters of the Old Gods, but was razed in memory of them after they’d passed. And these”—he walked the Guardians up a massive flight of obsidian stairs that separated the Vale from the city—“these are the Obsidian Steps.”

They climbed the fifty stairs, the black, glossy stone slippery beneath their sandals, until the city of Illyria had come into full view.

It smelled so alive. So clean. Buildings soared in every direction, bands of sunlight stretching out over their bricks of sandstone, twinkling upon their roofs of gold and the statues of armored nymphs lining the ledges. Ion recognized the statues as soon as he saw them. There had been rumors on Eldanar that the grand statues on Illyria were simply shells—shells that hid once honorable and mighty, but long-dead nymphs.

“Where’s everyone at?” Theo asked as they strode along the empty streets of turquoise.

“Yeah,” said Oceanus, “Illyria is supposed to be
brimming
with life. Filled with the elves, nymphs, and giants invited to live here after proving their loyalty to the gods.”

Othum pointed to the monstrously tall and wide building past the fountain in front of them. “They’re inside. When the Grand Council is in session, the whole of Illyria must also be in attendance.”

Othum breathed deep, swallowed, and marched toward the building of golden stone. It rose at least two hundred feet in the air, taller than any wall of the Achaean Academy, its roof held up by towering columns engraved with leaping fish, soaring birds, and stampeding horses. But it was the two main columns standing before the building’s doors that caught Ion’s attention. They were sculptures of two kneeling cyclops—giant ones with bodies bound in layers upon layers of muscle, eyes so small Ion could hardly even make them out. Each had four arms they used to hold the roof on their shoulders, thick chains coiled around their wrists and ankles.

The group walked up the small flight of stairs to the Hall’s main gates, past the gnarled feet of the cyclops. They were huge. And nasty. But who would’ve carved calluses into their feet? And their skin...it looked so leathery. Then Ion looked up and saw the chests of the cyclops
heaving
in and out.

These sculptures weren’t sculptures at all.

Before Ion could say anything, Theo screamed, which was quickly followed by a cry of, “They’re breathing!” and immediately his fists lit with fire. Everyone jumped back—except Lillian, of course.

“No need to be alarmed, Guardians,” said Othum. He walked over to one of the cyclops and patted the beast on its leg, dust and sand coming off its skin in clouds. “These old boys have been holding up the roof of the Hall of Thrones for so many years I’ve lost count.”

Ion again noticed the chains wound around the cyclops’ wrists and ankles, and how they linked around the creatures’ necks. The cyclops looked down, eyes so tired, so defeated. They weren’t intimidating now. They were sad.

“Why are they holding up the roof?” Ion asked.

“Every crime deserves its punishment, Mr. Reaves,” said Othum. “Cyclops are known for their rebellious nature, and after the Old Gods had died, these two led a group of their brothers and sisters onto Illyria to claim it for themselves. The revolt, as you could predict, was squashed. As punishment, they were sentenced to forever support the roof of the Hall where their enemies rule.”

Ion swallowed. “
Forever
?”

Othum nodded. “Forever. Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Reaves, I might kindly ask you and your sister to open the gates—as the Guardians should do for an Illyrian.”

He smiled, but Ion found himself unable to do the same.

Ion and his sister opened the golden doors with a great heave. As Lillian and Theo marched Othum inward, and Father trailed after, Ion took one last look at those sad cyclops, their bodies so heavy with defeat.
Every crime deserves its punishment
, Ion thought. But an
eternity
of punishment? The pit in Ion’s stomach made him not so sure.

Ion and Oceanus entered, closing the doors shut behind them. The Hall somehow seemed even bigger inside than it had from the outside. It was a long, rectangular hall with columns lining its walls. A balcony ran around its circumference, where scores of elves, nymphs, and giants all sat, filling the grand hall with curious whispers of the Guardians. From out of the ceiling grew a colossal, upside-down oak tree, each of its golden leaves set afire yet never burning away. Below sat a half-circle of crystal thrones, each occupied by a god of Illyria. Though, Ion knew these weren’t the famous capital “T” Thrones like Vinya’s—those were more coveted, protected in special temples.

While Ion’s mouth was busy drying up at the sight of so many gods, a petulant voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Father,” said Vasheer, approaching from the thrones.

The rays of diamond spikes beaming out of his head looked as dangerous today as they did yesterday, eyes as brilliant a gold. His white tunic was laced in whirling silver designs, the strings of his sandals wrapped all the way up to his knees.

He bowed before Othum. “I’m glad to see you could make it.”

Othum placed a hand on Vasheer’s shoulder. “Anything for my son.”

“Of course,” said Vasheer, looking suspiciously at his father. Then the Bright One spotted Ion and curled his lip just enough for everyone to notice. “How nice to see the Guardians finally back home.”

“It’s only temporary,” said Othum. “But yes, I agree. Illyria will serve as a great experience for them, I’m certain of it.”

Vasheer scoffed. “One could only hope. Some of them seem a bit beyond help.”

“If I recall correctly, Vasheer,” came a dignified voice from behind him, “I think I said the exact same thing about you when you were a child.”

Vasheer turned and when he realized who’d spoken, quickly bowed out of the way. “Lady Borea,” he said through gritted teeth.

The woman stepped forward, leaning on her massive, white, quartz-tipped staff. She was small by godly standards, but with canyons of wrinkles carving their way through every inch of her face and small, bony hands. Her hair was white as snow and long, tied into a great tower on her head with many tendrils flowing down her back and shoulders.

Othum dropped to his knees and looked to the floor reverently. So, too, did the Guardians and Father. “Lady Borea,” said Othum, “we are honored to be in your presence.”

“Stand, Othum. I’ll have no son of mine kneeling on this cold floor.”

As Othum stood, the Guardians and Father followed.

Lady Borea’s eyes fell sternly upon Ion and the others. “I do believe I asked my son to stand,
not
the Guardians. Teenagers these days—no respect for the Gods of Old. I blame that heinous Outerworld culture seeping into their brains. Eldanar should’ve never allowed it!”

Ion traded uncertain glances with Oceanus, then Lillian, and they all slowly dropped back down to their knees. There was never much talk of Lady Borea on Eldanar. Only that she was as prickly as the blizzards she could summon. And at this point, that didn’t seem terribly inaccurate.

“Honestly, Mother,” Othum said, “can’t you give them a break? They’re new to this.”

She stared into Othum’s gray eyes with her blue ones. “Very well. You may stand.”

“Guardians,” said Othum, “this is Lady Borea, our Lady of the Frost—the only Old God alive today. She abdicated her Throne to me long ago, but has agreed to serve as a High Illyrian in Illindria’s stead.”

Ion clasped the emerald of his necklace, Illindria’s prison. Even hearing her name made his jaw burn.

Lady Borea studied each and every Guardian until she reached Father. “He looks awfully old to be a Guardian, does he not?”

“That’s because he’s
not
a Guardian,” said Othum. The Skylord patted Father proudly on the back and continued, “He’s the father of two of our Guardians: Oceanus and Ion, here.”

Lady Borea pursed her lips in a very displeased sort of way. “
Ah
...the Caller.”

She looked down at Ion, her gaze piercing, and grabbed hold of his jaw. She twisted his head left, right, then tilted it back.

“You must be the son of Vinya I’ve heard so much about,” she said, releasing her grip.

“I-I am,” Ion replied.
Well, one-third son
.

“Such an intriguing piece of metal you have there,” she said. “But another topic for another time, I think.”