The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles) (6 page)

But before Esereez could open his mouth to respond, Eos piped in and said, “Brothers, brothers—as much as we’ve all enjoyed your mindless bantering for the past few minutes, I dare say it’s wearing quite thin on my nerves. Can we not get to the inevitable solution already?”

“And what might that be?” Vasheer asked coldly.

“A contest,” Eos said simply. “A godly tournament unlike any other. To find the next
true
Hand of the Moon.”

OF TIME AND DEATH

The three brothers considered one another as they sat back down in their thrones.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” said Esereez.

“It could work,” said Vasheer.

“A battle for the Throne?” said Thoman, three of his lenses magnifying upon the Unseparated Ones. “But...it wouldn’t be very Illyrian of us. We aren’t the Old Gods—no disrespect, Lady Borea.”

“None taken,” said Lady Borea. “There wasn’t a single law we passed back in the day that hadn’t been
literally
fought for.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be just a battle,” said Soldune, bits of cake hanging from his pouty lips. “There could be other events...three, let’s say. Where the competitors are tested on a multitude of levels.”

“Yes!” Ezra cried, eyes bright with ideas. Ion stood there, marveling at the concept of how complex and quick the mind of a goddess of knowledge could possibly be. “A fight...a
retrieval
...and a...a
race
!”

“A
retrieval
?” Vasheer asked, narrowing his eyes upon his sisters. “And what would entail a retrieval, exactly?”

Eos and Ezra thought for a moment as they scanned the flaming leaves of the tree above, a finger to each of their chins. “The competitors will need to find an item—an item of Lady Vinya’s,” they said together.

“Interesting,” said Vasheer, pausing to think. “And what of this
race
, you spoke of?”

“Well, that would just be a race,” they replied, shrugging.

“How would the winner be chosen?” asked Esereez. “You better not be trying to pull a fast one on us, ladies—we all know you want another Throne to add to your already full pot.”

“Hah!” Eos and Ezra threw their heads back with a laugh. They smiled at Esereez and said, “Oh, brother, always so cynical. If we wanted another Throne, we’d wait for the right moment to seize yours—we always liked the idea of being called the Inventors.”

Esereez looked appalled by this confession and angrily readjusted himself in his throne.

“
But
,” the Unseperated Ones continued, “it’s our personal belief that the High Illyrians should be the judges.” They directed their attention to Othum and the three goddesses on his left and right.

Othum gauged the faces of the females at his side. “We would be honored to judge,” he replied, the other High Illyrians nodding in agreement—Onyxia, messily so. “But first, I think a vote should be held. Gods of Illyria, all in favor of a tournament being held to decide the successor of the Moon Throne, raise your hand.”

The air quickly became cluttered with the raised hands of all the Illyrian gods.

“Very well then,” said Othum, sounding impressed. “A tournament it is!”

“Further fleshing out of the competition details will be done this afternoon,” said Lady Borea, “after brunch. I’m starving, honestly, and a feast in the Sanctum of the Deep is calling my name.”

Othum rose from his throne, arms out and goofy smile wide. “You heard the woman! Let’s all transition to the Sanctum of the Deep. When we reconvene tomorrow, the guidelines will be set, competitors formally announced, and the tournament will begin. I can sense the Balance being on its way to restoration already.”

The Illyrians applauded, and the crowd of elves, dwarves, and giants in the balcony above did the same.

“Guardians,” Othum continued, the applause dying, “might you be so kind as to open the doors and take your place beside one of the Illyrians for your very first Procession?”

At the far end of the hall, Oceanus, Lillian and Theo heaved open the hundred-foot doors behind them.

The sound of crystal grinding on stone filled the hall, and the circle of thrones opened once more. The Illyrians rose and started toward the gates, while Othum looked over at an elf standing in a far corner of the Hall and said, “The Procession Bell, Markus!”

The elf nodded, wrapped his hands around a rope beside him that hung from the ceiling, and pulled. The Procession Bell rang, again and again, loud and mighty and beautiful. Othum raised his hand over his eyes like a shield from the Sun, and scanned the Hall.

“Ion?” he called. “Mr. Reaves, where are you?”

“R-right here, Skylord,” said Ion, standing not but a few inches from Othum’s throne.

“Oh, there you are!” said Othum. His eyes grew to take in the tray of sweets Ion held in his hand. “
And you have cakes
? Why didn’t you tell me?” He grabbed a single sweet and stuffed it into his mouth. “De
licious
!”

“I’ve been standing here the whole time, Skylord. You told me to pass out the sweets. Remember?”

“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that,” said Othum, swallowing the last of his cake. “I am, however, sure that you should be the one to lead the Procession to the Sanctum.”

“
Me
?” Ion asked. “But, Skylord, I-I don’t even know what a Procession
is
.”

“Well, for information’s sake, it’s an ancient tradition where the Guardians escort a line of Illyrians from the Hall to breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or in this case, brunch. It’s simple—go to the front of the line, stand by the first Illyrian there, and introduce yourself. Then, lead the Procession to the Sanctum of the Deep.”

“Okay, but where
is
the Sanctum of the Deep?”

“Take a right out the gates, then take a right down the first road you can,” Othum explained. “There’ll be a pair of gates at the end of that road—golden gates encrusted with sapphires.
 
That’s where you’ll stop, open the doors for the Illyrians, and wait until we’re all inside. Oh, and I’ll take this.”

Othum grabbed the tray of sweets from Ion, and gave him a nudge toward the line of gods. “Go on, Mr. Reaves. Sky gods are bound to be leaders, and this is where you’ll start.”

With the bell ringing through the Hall, Ion looked over at the line of Illyrians—standing single file, though spaced widely apart—and gathered his confidence. He walked toward the gods, each step accompanied by a ring of the bell. He passed Onyxia and her critical stare, then Nepia and Oceanus who stood beside her, passed Esereez, Thoman, Theo, Vasheer, Lillian and then a god with dark, caramel-colored skin and a mouth sewn shut by way of a thick strand of thread.

Ion hesitated before coming into the field of vision of the goddess at the head of the line. She had to have been at least two heads taller than Othum—the tallest of all the Illyrians. She wore a mask of
twisting, arcing bands of gold with large holes reserved only for her eyes
. Robes darker than a Moonless night hung from her shoulders and draped the floor, folding over the stone at her feet in rolling waves of black smoke. Only her hands could be seen, hands with fingers as long as Ion’s forearm, veiled by the same golden weavings of metal upon her head.

Ion took a step forward and cleared his throat. The goddess, who’d been looking forward with her masked hands clasped over one another, looked down at Ion. Her white, pupil-less eyes struck him like a bolt of his own lightning.

“H-hello, Lady Helia,” said Ion, offering out his hand for her to shake before realizing how dumb it was. “M-my name’s Ionikus Reaves, and I’m—”

“The Sky Guardian—I know,” said the goddess, voice deep yet ghostly. “But I doubt you’d want to touch my hand, Mr. Reaves. For it might very well be the last thing you touch.”

She looked ahead and Ion slowly retracted his hand. He caught her scent—one of roses.
Of sadness
.

“Of course,” he said, feeling foolish. “I forgot about the stories—”

“Stories about me?” she asked curiously.

“Oh,
um
—not stories,” he said, scrambling. “Just...rumors.
Er
—not
rumors
—but words of caution, I...I guess. You
are
the goddess of death and all.”

“And
time
,” she added. “Everyone forgets that part. It’s insulting.”

Lady Helia, the Illyrian of time and death. She had no temples on Eldanar. No shrines. No statues. No cults that worshipped her as they did the others. She was the Bringer of Death, and no Eldanarian dared speak her name because of it.

“S-sorry, Lady Helia,” Ion said, looking to the floor.

“Yes, well, all is forgiven, Mr. Reaves. May we start the Procession now?”

He looked to the turquoise streets outside the Hall and marched out of the building, head held high but palms sweaty. He passed the monstrous feet of the chained cyclops, and walked down the stairs of the Hall, taking a right on the street where Othum had indicated.

He kept close to Helia’s side to make sure he wasn’t walking too fast or slow. Glancing back, he saw the other Guardians marching as nervously as he was—even Lillian, whose hands were balled into fists at her side as she walked beside Onyxia. The Queen didn’t look pleased, occasionally hissing at Lillian when the elf would draw too near.

 
They walked past countless shops, with apartments situated above those, some squat, some tall—all of them constructed of sandstone, their windows and doorframes banded in gold. With the Procession Bell still ringing through the city, Ion took a right on the next road, and when the golden gates studded with sapphires came into view, Helia spoke up.

“The first Procession is always the most nerve-racking,” she said, eyes kept straight ahead. “But it’ll get better. Thornikus was just as nervous his first time.”

“Thornikus White?” Ion asked, daring to look at the goddess, then deciding it was best not to.

“Your first life, yes,” she replied. “There wasn’t a soul on Illyria who wasn’t familiar with the first Sky Guardian. Stormy days, those were. You had a bit of a brush with him, I understand?”

Suddenly, Ion couldn’t have wished for those golden gates to be upon them sooner. He remembered the anger that had coursed through his body that day he had first heard the voice of Thornikus in the Acropolis coliseum. The voice that urged him to do it—urged him to strike Spike down with a vicious bolt of lightning.

“I guess you could call it a brush, yeah.”

“It’s all right, Guardian,” she said. “There isn’t a past life of yours who hasn’t had to deal with the voice of Thornikus White. His voice, his anger—it comes with the soul you’ve inherited. You simply can’t have one without the other.”

“Othum told me my second life had issues, too. Atticus Clearwater.”

“Ah, Atticus—yes, I remember him well, too. But that was not the only life of yours who battled Thornikus. There was Aurelius, Sorn, Lauria—ten in total.”

Ion knitted his brows at Helia’s words, suddenly so confused. He reached the golden gates, pulled them open, and stood at their side.

“Ten?” he asked Lady Helia. “But the Guardians are all third generations. I’ve only had
two
lives before me.”

Helia stopped beneath the gates and finally looked at Ion with those glowing white eyes. “Yes. That’s what we’re supposed to tell you.”

THE ONE WITH THE GRAY EYES

The ring of the bell came loud yet again. Lady Helia proceeded through the gates, the ends of her smoky robes crawling across the floor in her wake, taking the smell of sadness with her. Ion’s mind was reeling. Stomach turning.
Yes, that’s what we’re supposed to tell you
, Helia had said, the words replaying again and again in Ion’s head. But why? What did the gods have to hide?
What happened to my past lives that I’d have so many?

The god with the sewn-shut mouth—Adalantis, Illyrian of the desert—entered the Sanctum behind Helia, and Theo stopped beside Ion.

“I’m so nervous my hands feel like they’ve been licked by dogs for at least an hour,” Theo whispered, turning to watch the other gods file in.

Vasheer entered, and then Lillian joined the line of Guardians outside. Ion tried his best to contain his troubled thoughts, knowing all too well Lillian would be there to catch them when they fell from his head.
Yet another power of the Blood Guardian
. He watched one god after the other enter the Sanctum, counting them to avoid thinking about what he didn’t want Lillian to hear.

When everyone had entered, Othum approached. “Fantastic job, Guardians! Now, proceed into the hall after me and stand by the doors until you’re given further orders.”

Inside, a small flight of stairs led down to an oval-shaped room, where the name “Sanctum of the Deep” suddenly made sense. The room was so spectacular it pulled Ion out of his confusion and into a room that looked to be set at the bottom of the ocean. Beyond the domed glass walls of the Sanctum stretched a sprawling sea above plains of water-swept sand. A small plot of coral rose beyond the table in the center of the room, sunlight breaking through the water’s surface and painting the ocean floor in silver and white.

The gods all took their seats at the table in the center, while the Guardians flanked the stairwell.

“I can’t even remember the last time I ate in the Sanctum,” said Othum, unrolling his napkin and tucking it into the high collar of his white tunic.

A monstrous shadow cast over Ion and the other Guardians, and before anyone could react, a shriek as high-pitched as it was powerful filled the Sanctum. Ion turned quicker than lightning, only to find a massive fifty-foot whale leaping through the air and landing with a
kra-koom
!
on the surface of the water behind the Guardians. Theo screamed, of course. At least until he realized no one else was screaming.

He turned to the weight of all those godly eyes and blushed. “Sorry.”

“Good Triplets, child, you could kill with that scream,” said Lady Borea, hand to her wrinkled neck.

“Some would call it a
screech
, Grandmother,” said Vasheer.

Esereez, Ezra, and Onyxia all chuckled, while Theo withered beside Ion.

“Say what you wish, I think it’s nice to know one of our Guardians can speak whale,” said Onyxia, before cackling madly.

“My Queen, that’s enough,” Othum said quietly.

Onyxia angrily slammed her goblet down, mead splashing out onto the table. “
Enough
? Don’t you tell
me
what’s enough,
husband
. I’m a perfectly good judge of that!”

Lady Borea rolled her eyes and pressed her finger to the table. From underneath it crept a strip of frost that crackled and hissed as it slithered its way over to Onyxia’s goblet, climbing up the side of the cup, and freezing the mead within.

“The majority of your company thinks you should slow down, My Queen,” said Lady Borea flatly, tossing one of the white tendrils of her hair of her shoulder. “At least until you get back to your room. Then, you have my permission to drink yourself to death.”

Onyxia leaned forward, and batted her eyelashes once, the many feathered eyes of her dress following suit. “That’s just silly. Everyone here knows if someone’s going to die, it’ll be
you
. How old are we now? Ten thousand? Or ten thousand and one? You
were
born around the same year as pottery, yes?”

“Oh, my dear,” said Lady Borea sweetly, “I was the one who
invented
it.”

Onyxia scoffed. She placed her hand over her frozen goblet of mead, burning away the frost with a bit of black energy emanating from her palm.

“
Mmm
...warm drink.”

She toasted Lady Borea, who remained solemn, then gulped down her mead.
 

There came a
ding!
and the floor at Ion’s feet trembled and shook. He quickly stepped to the side, watching as the blue tiles receded beneath one another, until a hole had formed in their absence. A grand cart, brimming with tiers of trays and bowls—each bright with beautifully colored cakes and cookies and puddings—rose from the gap in the floor.

“Oh, thank the Triplets,” said Lord Soldune. “I’m
starving
.”

“Of course you are, brother,” said Vasheer.

“Guardians,” said Othum, “would you please serve your Illyrians their food?”

The Guardians traded glances and immediately took to the table of trays. Ion grabbed a plate heavy with bowls of weird, golden pudding and approached the table of Illyrians. He lowered the tray to Lady Borea, who urged him—with very pushy eyes—to place the bowl on her tray. But when he did, she smacked him on the wrist and whispered, “Serve from the left, boy.” Nervously, he did as he was told, before walking to the next god, Adalantis. He smelled of earth, and while Ion served him his bowl—
from the left
, of course—he saw the tiny, nearly unnoticeable grains of dark sand that made up his skin.

While Theo and Lillian went around the table filling everyone’s goblets with a slushed, coffee-colored sort of drink—except Onyxia, she was good with mead—Oceanus made her rounds with a tray of cakes spewing a steaming red lava, gleefully placing one on each god’s plate with a pair of tongs.

“Thoman, my child,” said Lady Borea, “what of the war efforts in the Outerworld? There are whispers in the garden that speak of slowed progress?”

“Mother, I think that topic could be saved for another
less sensitive
time?” said Othum, gesturing toward Ion, who was placing a bowl of pudding on his plate.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” said Oceanus. “We’re fine with it, really.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ion murmured, immediately realizing he’d said it too loud.

Lady Borea eyed him disapprovingly and slipped a spoonful of pudding past her thin lips. “Your tone is noted, Sky Guardian,” she said. “But sacrifices must be made in a time of war, military drafts included. I’m sure the Achaean Academy has at least taught you that.”

“Yes, Lady Borea,” Ion said through his teeth.

“Very well then,” she continued. “Thoman, what news do you have for us?”

The hovering lenses around Thoman’s head slowed as he dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Progress has slowed, yes. Ten human citadels remain, the last conquered four months ago. But with their numbers concentrated now, they’ve been able to better defend against our invasions. The destruction of their Wonders has surely made a dent in their morale, however. We’re just waiting to see the results.”

“Their Wonders?” Oceanus asked quietly, pouring a cup of the coffee-colored liquid into Eos’s goblet.

“Yes, their
Wonders
,” said Vasheer. “Grandmother, here, brought to our attention the pride the humans share over the great structures they’ve built in the past: the Parthenon, the Great Pyramids, so on and so forth. And then suggested we destroy them.”

What Vasheer said must have sounded just as harsh as Ion had imagined, because the look on Oceanus’s face was just as horrified as his.

“Just to wipe those rotting mounds of brick and sand off this earth was enough to make me happy,” said Lady Borea. “
Great Pyramids
, my godly behind.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, where everyone flicked their attention to Onyxia. “Apologies, My Queen. Did I offend? Let it be known, Guardians, that the Queen here is a long-lost descendant of the
mighty
Old Gods of Egypt—the last one of their bloodline. Of course, I’m sure you could tell that by her gaudy choice of dress.”

“No offense taken, Lady Borea,” said the Queen, eyes half open. “You know—” Othum placed his hand on Onyxia’s wrist and she tore her arm away. “Don’t touch me, you oaf!
Ugh
! And now you’ve made me forget what I was going to say!”

Ion looked over at the other Guardians—everyone was shocked at Onyxia’s words. She seemed to...
to hate him
. While Ion placed a bowl of pudding in front of Esereez, it now made sense to him why Othum had chosen to live on Eldanar instead of Illyria.

“Tell me, Thoman,” Queen Onyxia continued, “what of the situation with the Unspeakables?”

There was silence.

The lenses all but stopped around Thoman’s head. “K’thas’s whereabouts are completely unknown. We suspect he’s hiding underground, knowing all too well we’d be able to detect his presence were he to surface. He has no access to the Darklands, however, as every entrance is heavily guarded and armed with powerful spells.”

“And of the Twins—Solara and Spike?” Onyxia asked, lips pursed.

Solara
. Ion clenched his jaw—that green-eyed, red-haired goddess who’d taken Vinya from the world flashing before his eyes. All those locusts of hers, hissing as they stormed all around.
And Spike
. That stupid, thick-necked, thick-headed brother of hers. A shiver rushed down Ion’s spine at the thought of them.

“Our spies report the Twins seeking shelter in the streets of Sol, the human citadel of the Southernlands,” said Thoman.

A frustrated growl came from Othum, a fist to the table from Esereez.

“As we all know,” said Thoman, “Sol is the home of the Scepter of First Light—the relic of the Old Gods the humans stole right from underneath us. They’ve used its power to infuse their weapons with god-killing magic, and have been the primary distributor of said weapons to the other citadels since the War of 2100. They’ve channeled the Scepter’s power into creating an impenetrable force field, manipulated its technology into giving them longer lives, and—”

“So you’re trying to say the Twins are unreachable?” said Lady Borea.

Thoman swallowed. “I am. Though my spies are keeping good track of them.”

“How comforting,” said Vasheer.

It was then that Ion came upon the last Illyrian at the table he had to serve—Lady Helia. Her fingers sat folded in her lap, gold bands of armor sweeping over them. She sat there, quiet and refusing to look at him, as though she’d never said anything to him at all. The iron of his jaw burned, the metal reacting to his emotion as it always had.

But as Ion reached for the last bowl of gold pudding to place in front of Helia, Ion saw him. The gray-eyed, bald-headed boy he’d seen in the halls of the Academy was now half-hidden behind Soldune’s chair. His arms were straight at his side, eyes bright and smile creepy. Ion looked around.
Is no one seeing this?
But Oceanus passed right by him to serve Soldune, and Ion knew he was alone.

Then, the boy placed a finger to his mouth, twisted in place, and with a sweeping kick, sent a gale of howling wind around the table before striking Ion in the back...and sending the bowl of pudding into Helia’s lap.

Ion gasped, frozen in place, staring at the goddess who was sitting there shocked all the same. He flicked his eyes over to where the boy had been standing, but was no longer. An illusion of the Balance, like Father had said?
Or something much worse?

“I-I-I’m so sorry, Lady Helia!” Ion said, looking around for a napkin as though it’d do him any good.

Ion plucked one from the table, and when he went to wipe the pudding off her dress, she stopped with a “No! I’m fine, Guardian.” She took a deep, calming breath and rose from her chair, a puddle of pudding falling to the floor with a sickening
plop
. “I think it’s time for me to return to my chambers, Illyrians. Father—it’s a pleasure to have you here on Illyria again. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow as well.”

Now more than ever, Helia refused to look at Ion. She nodded to her fellow Illyrians and walked stately out of the Sanctum.

“Well, I don’t know about everyone else,” said Lady Eos, “but that was probably the most exciting thing to happen on Illyria in months. Helia needs a good pudding bath every now and again. Always so
glum
that one.”

“Here, here!” said Soldune, raising his goblet, the slabs of extra skin from his arm hanging down to the table.

While the gods chuckled amongst each other, Ion did his best to ignore the sudden burning of Oceanus’s glare. He was ruining her visit to Illyria. Already.
First impressions are everything
, is what she’d say now. Before, of course, unleashing a torrent of water upon him. But she didn’t see the boy. She didn’t know that it wasn’t Ion’s fault.

After the gods had finished with their pudding and cake, Lady Borea raised her goblet and tapped it thrice with her spoon. Silence fell among the gossiping Illyrians.