The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles) (5 page)

She looked back up at Father. “Listen here. I have nothing against Callers such as yourself, especially ones who birth our Guardians. But after the draft, your kind now has a reason to scheme against us, so I’m afraid you cannot stay in the Hall, listening in on our plans. Your children are only exempt because of their Guardian status.”

Othum was quick to take hold of the conversation, turning to Father and saying, “Atrius, there should be a few elves—ones in armor—waiting outside by now. Tell them the Skylord has ordered they deliver our luggage to the appropriate places. Could you be so kind and oversee them?”

Father nodded, and after hugging Ion and Oceanus goodbye, departed. The golden gates slammed shut, and Lady Borea turned to Othum.

“No more dilly-dallying then,” she said, hooking her arm through her son’s. “Let the meeting begin. Guardians”—her eyes briefly strayed to Ion’s jaw—“you wait here and tend the door. No one enters or leaves until this meeting is adjourned.”

WAY OF THE OLD GODS

Lady Borea walked the Skylord into the half-circle of thrones.. He nodded at each Illyrian he passed, receiving nods and smiles in return. The thrones closed in behind them, the crystal grinding across the stone floor to make the semi-circle into a full one. Othum found his throne at the back, where five stood taller than the rest—reserved for the High Illyrians, the five gods of Illyria who were considered the most important.

There were fifteen thrones, but only thirteen were filled—an empty one for the god of the Moon, another for K’thas the Fearful, god of the Darklands.

After everyone settled, Lady Borea rose. “Council is officially in session. We have come here today, June 30
^th
of the year 2301, to find a replacement for the Hand of the Moon and, in turn, restore the Balance.” Lady Borea sat back down and after folding her bony hands over her lap, asked, “Now, which one of you entitled little godlings thinks you could fill the Throne of Lady Vinya?”

When two Illyrians shot up from their seats, Ion wasn’t surprised to see Vasheer was one of them. He glared vicious holes into the god across the way—Esereez the Inventor. Esereez had been an Elemental Essentials teacher at the Achaean Academy, alongside Vinya. Ion wasn’t too fond of him or his perpetual brooding, but he wasn’t nearly as bad as Vasheer seemed. Esereez was only about as tall as Ion, skin made of charcoal, with a strong jaw, and shards of diamonds growing out the tops of his shoulders. He didn’t look too dissimilar from something the dwarves of Eldanar would uncover from one of their precious mines.

 
Vasheer was the first to speak. “I, Vasheer the Bright One, Brother of the Sun, am the only deity of the Grand Council fit to summon the Moon. I alone empower the Sun, I alone tend to its temperatures and light. My power over the celestial bodies of this world has already been proven. Overseeing the demands of the Moon will be no foreign matter for me, like it would Esereez, here.” He curled his lip at the tiny god. “You’re only an inventor, brother. You couldn’t possibly begin to understand the responsibility of controlling the Moon.”

There was a smattering of whispers from the crowd of dwarves, elves, and giants on the second floor.

Esereez’s fists went tight at his side. “It seems you’ve made my case for me, Bright One. A god of the Sun should not also be a god of the Moon. Your responsibilities are already too great. Me, on the other hand? I simply have to
exist
and those of this world will be inspired to invent. Assuming the responsibilities of the Moon God will not affect my present duties like it would yours.”

Vasheer scoffed at the comment, then smirked. “Responsibilities aside, how will you ever reach the Throne of the Moon, Inventor? Shall you craft a stool to help you up?”

The smattering of whispers from above turned to snickering, until a cold glare from Esereez silenced them.

A third god rose, slow but mighty. He stood tall, with incredibly long, thin limbs clad in black armor, not excluding his neck. Around his head rotated a carousel of fifty magically hovering lenses—one for each of his tiny eyes. The lenses were either big and thick, or small and thin, each moving slowly from one eye to the next.

“I, Thoman the Overseer,” the god spoke, his voice hard and unsettling, “seek the Throne of the Moon to regain the dishonor that has fallen upon me. I shall proudly take Lady Vinya’s place to restore life to her memory and mine, and erase that of my
wretched
son.”

K’thas
, Ion realized. This was the Overseer—the Illyrian god of war.
So he was the one who brought K’thas into this world
. Ion couldn’t imagine the shame he felt, though he could clearly see it weighing heavily upon the cheeks that sat below his collection of eyes.

Esereez rolled his eyes. Vasheer rubbed one of his diamond head spikes, unimpressed.

“This is no time for you to be thinking of honor, Thoman,” said Vasheer. “The Moon is important, and most would argue your job is more demanding than any of ours. At least when I Empower the Sun I only have to do it once a month. You, however, must sit in your tower all day, overseeing the skirmishes of this world.”

“You speak of nothing I don’t already know,” Thoman returned. “I am aware of my limits, but they have not yet been reached. Overseeing the Moon will be no difficult task.”

“Hah!” Vasheer cackled. “You couldn’t even raise your own son, yet you think you can take care of the Moon?”

“Do not speak to me in that manner!” Thoman boomed, stomping the floor and rocking the Hall.

A barrage of words was fired from all three Illyrians, the other ten gods watching on in boredom. Something bumped into Ion’s arm, and he turned to find a tray of cakes topped by bubbling, red liquid floating in midair beside him. It bumped into him again, and when he looked about to see if anyone else was seeing this, he caught Othum’s eye.

“Serve them,” he mouthed.

Ion grabbed the plate, and looked to Oceanus for help as he left the doors of the Hall and approached the circle of thrones. She, however, couldn’t take her eyes off the gods, so he looked to Theo, who quickly and nervously looked away.

The crystal thrones were even bigger up close—besides Esereez’s—and the same went for the gods sitting in them. He swallowed as he came upon them, so aware of how unbearably thick his tongue felt. The sounds of godly arguing still echoed about the Hall.

Ion walked in between two thrones and offered the plate to the deity on his left. “Sweet?” he asked quietly.

He was a large god. In a monstrously round sort of way. There were folds upon folds of skin and fat hanging from his body, which drooped over the arms of his throne and bulged through his blue robes. He looked down at Ion with droopy eyes and bags underneath to match, but then leaned away.
Soldune, god of gluttony
. He was the only god of Illyria who oversaw what was considered to be a “vice”. On Eldanar, the rich thanked him before each evening meal, praying that they’d be able to eat the bounty of food before them and not get sick.

Lord Soldune’s eyes narrowed upon Ion. “So you’re one of the new Guardians?” he asked in a lazy, muddled voice. “I do believe I’ve eaten cakes larger than you.”

Then came a sweet voice on Ion’s right. “I believe
most
things you’ve eaten have been larger than this boy, Lord Soldune.”

There sat Eos and Ezra, two goddesses that shared one waistline and pair of legs. Their torsos were slender and topped by heads with long scrolls of paper growing where hair should have been, each scroll bright with wispy, blue text.
The Unseparated Ones
. The goddesses of art and knowledge.

“While that is probably true,” Soldune replied, “that’s all in the past. You see, I’m on a new low-caloric diet—it used to be all the rage in Outerworld communities many years ago. I’ve since lost five-hundred pounds.” Soldune lifted up a slab of lifeless skin hanging from the back of his arm. “Lots of skin left over, though.”

He chuckled at himself and all ten of his chins jiggled. “Now then,” he said, suddenly serious as he turned his attention to the tray of cakes, “onto business.”

He shuffled at least ten off the side of the tray and onto a flap of skin he had stretched into a sort of plate. “Would you happen to have any whipped cream to go with these?” he asked.

“Um...no, My Lord. I don’t.”

Soldune twisted his mouth to the side. “Very well then. I guess I’ll make do.”

Ion turned to Eos and Ezra and presented the tray, trying his best to ignore the disgusting sounds that were now coming from Soldune. Eos plucked one carefully selected cake from the tray, while Ezra chose without even looking, instead watching as Esereez hurled an insult at Vasheer while Vasheer summoned a sphere of blue fire in his hand as a threat.

“Your jaw is quite beautiful,” said Eos, her voice curious.

“
Th
-thank you, Lady Eos,” Ion said. “I’m not so sure, though.”

Her small lips pursed together in a simple smile. “However beautiful or not it might be, it should fill you with pride to wear the Connection Seal of the Triplet Omnus.”

 
“I...I am proud, My Lady,” Ion lied, while Thoman the Overseer shouted about honor in the background.

Eos leaned over the side of her throne and studied Ion. “You’re not, but I understand. Pride suits no one, so I won’t pressure you. Now run along, Ionikus Reaves, there are other gods in this hall to serve.”

Ion retreated from Eos and Ezra’s throne, slunk safely past Thoman and Vasheer, and wound up at the section of thrones seated by the High Illyrians. He proceeded to a goddess who sat in her throne of crystal wearing a look of complete and utter boredom. Onyxia the Benevolent, she was called—the High Illyrian of night and shadow, and not to mention, the wife of Othum. Her scalp was shiny and smooth.
Strange
. All of her statues on Eldanar depicted a goddess with hair flowing down to her feet. Though her dress was the most impressive of all the clothes in the Hall, a grand masterpiece of bird feathers, all bright with blues, greens, and purples—an eye of gold at the end of each. The goddess blinked, and so too did the golden eyes.

Onyxia turned to him and smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, or a crazy smile, or even a smirk. One look at the goblet full of mead in Onyxia’s right hand and Ion knew this smile to be a disheveled one. Like the one Grandpa Virgil would wear when he’d come home from the tavern in town.

“Refreshments!” she said. “How nice of you...is it...
Ronikus
?
Ronikus
Weaves?”

Ion tried hard to ignore the sour smell of mead on her breath. “Ionikus Reaves, My Queen.”

“You know, I’ve heard a number of things about you, Mr. Weaves.” She leaned in and whispered, “Mostly that you have a knack for causing trouble.”

“What can I say,” Ion replied, forcing a smile, “it follows me wherever I go.”

In a snap, her smile turned to a frown, her eyes sharp as daggers. “Well, you better have lost it before you got here. Illyria needs no more trouble, boy.” She leaned back, studying him critically. But before Ion could run for the doors, race down the Silken Vale, and jump off the side of Illyria to escape the Queen, she broke out in a small fit of laughter, her mead splashing on the floor. “I’d almost forgotten how much fun it is to tease Guardians your age! Now, Mr. Weaves, I must ask, what do you think of my new look?” she asked as she ran a hand over her bald head.

Ion hesitated before answering, and in doing so, realized how horrible hesitating was, and then quickly replied, “Yes,” which, of course, didn’t answer the question at all.

She leaned in once again to whisper, “I had to shave it, you see. It’s a rule here on Illyria. In order to properly mourn a lost child, the mother must keep her head shaved for fifty years. It’s okay—you can be honest. It looks horrible, I know.”

“No, My Queen,” Ion said. “It looks great! Really.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “You lie almost as well as she did—Vinya, that is.”

“
Th
-thanks?”

“I suppose her arguably foolish decision to carry you makes us family now,” said Onyxia. “Yes, I believe I can call you my...
grandson
, is it?”

Ugh
. Ion had tried so hard to not think about how he now shared blood with these gods. Ignoring it, after all, made talking with Othum a lot easier. The possibility of inheriting the Skylord’s insanity wasn’t the most comforting thought.

Onyxia took a single cake from the tray. “Well, my new Grandson, I think I’ve had my fun for the day. You may serve the others now.”

Ion slunk behind Onyxia’s throne, decided she was the worst one-thirds grandma he’d ever had, and took to the space in between Othum and his sister, Lady Nepia, the sole ruler of the seas. Her skin was a light, peaceful ocean of a blue, and the monstrous, webbed fin running from her forehead down her back was laid flat on her flesh—all very different from the last time Ion had seen her. Her skin had been a deep, horribly angry sort of blue then, her now flattened fin a flared sail. She’d nearly summoned the weight of the seas upon Othum that night in the Creator’s Sanctum a year ago. Othum had extended K’thas’s prison term without consent of the other Illyrians and Nepia refused to have any of it.

 
Ion propped the tray up to Lady Nepia and slowly her head turned. Her bright blue eyes quickly noted Ion’s jaw, but then lingered on his necklace, where Illindria, her sister, was locked within.

She looked up from the emerald, said, “No sweets for me, Guardian,” and returned to watching the gods squabble.

Ion retracted the tray, ignored the sweat on his brow, and turned to Othum. The Skylord was entranced with the argument before him. He was leaning forward in his throne of crystal, fiddling with the turquoise rings around the dreads of his beard. Ion presented the tray, and without even looking, Othum said, “Just a moment, Mr. Reaves.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a brain of coal to match that ridiculous skin?” Vasheer laughed at Esereez. “The relationship between the Hand and the Moon is like a caring parent to its child—it requires a tenderness that you do not have.”