by Lee, Nikolas
“No, y-you’re wrong!”
“I wish I was,” said Mother. “But the truth is: the Shroud couldn’t take losing even a single Caller, and the armies in the Outerworld are too pressed to let a female Caller take the place of a male in the Darklands. And that’s straight from Othum’s mouth. Listening in on conversations is much easier when you’re a ghost.”
Ion felt his sadness pulling him down to the sand. He dropped to his knees, and looked up at his mother. She was right. Othum was a liar. And he wasn’t going to free Father.
“W-what’d I do now?” he whimpered.
She looked at him dead in the eyes, and said, “You must free Father yourself.”
Ion had half-expected that response, but it still hit him like a strike from Spike’s stone fists.
“A Guardian has two purposes, Ion,” she said. “To protect the Illyrians and fight for the Balance.”
“Yes, but—”
“So what happens when an Illyrian fights against the Balance? Like they’re doing now in using our race as fuel? What side will the Guardians pick then?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Because a god can die, Ion,” she went on. “And when they die, they’re replaced. But the Balance?” She shook her head. “The Balance cannot be replaced.”
The words sunk in, and Ion stood. “How? How do we free Father?”
She smiled. “We must travel to the Darklands. If we do it right, no one will know you left. It’s a night’s trip, at the most, and I’ll be guiding you the entire way. Once we’re in, the remaining steps will go smoothly. It’s getting into the Darklands that will be the most difficult part.”
Ion cocked an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”
“Only one of the four Elder gods like Othum and Nepia can enter and leave the Darklands,” she said. “You’re a god, but definitely not an Elder one. But I have just the solution for such a problem. There’s a staff hidden away in the fortress—one forged by the blood of a long-dead almighty god like the Elders. They call it the Omnus Staff. Simply holding it could trick the Darklands into thinking you’re an Elder. Now, I’ve found the staff, but these cursed spirit fingers won’t let me touch anything. You must retrieve it. That and one other item—a key—and only then will the entrance to the Darklands be ours to summon.”
“And the gods?” said Ion. “They’ll never know?”
Mother leaned in, so close now he could feel the chill of her misty aura. She placed her hands beneath Ion’s jaw and said, “Follow my orders and no one will know. There’s too many Callers for the Darklands to notice your father’s absence. I promise.”
He stared hard at her, reeling over the consequences of being caught. What would Vinya think about this? “I...I’m not sure I’m ready for this...n-not yet.”
“Ion, don’t you want to know what this metal is?” she asked, eyeing his jaw. “Why your father attached it? How he attached it? These questions don’t weigh on your mind?”
Ion pushed away from her—the words stinging at his skin. His jaw felt as cold as the dreadful winter above the hall. “They do weigh on my mind,” he said. “Every day and every night.”
Mother came in close once more, and she whispered in his ear, “Your father knows the answers to those questions. But you’ll only get them, if you do as I say...”
Ion stood there, remembering the day of the Detainment. He remembered what the gods had done to his family. He remembered how it felt to be a slave, and how hope had been forgotten. He remembered it all.
Ion turned to his mother. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll help free Father.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE CONNECTION SEAL
By 11 a.m. the following Tuesday, Ion was sure he was going to die.
It was going to be bloody and gruesome, and Othum was going to be the one to do it. But Ion couldn’t just sit around and let Father rot in the Darklands. Father deserved freedom, just like anyone else! Problem was, Ion wouldn’t just be freeing Father, he’d be stealing Father—from the Shroud, from the Illyrians.
Ion recalled the night he’d eavesdropped on the gods, how the Skylord had reacted to Nepia’s words with a raging storm. Othum was as dangerous as he was ridiculous. The more he thought about freeing Father on his own, the more he wanted to puke, and the more he wanted to puke, the more he felt like telling Mother he just couldn’t go through with it. My jaw isn’t so bad, he’d think. It kind of looks nice. Yeah. And it matches most of my outfits...sort of.
He imagined how hot Othum’s lightning could get—five times hotter than the surface of the sun, he’d always heard. A seething, hissing bolt of electricity aimed right for Ion’s head to strike him down for crimes against the gods. Yep—that was his fate. It played on a loop in his head until the back of a well-placed hand struck his face with a kwa-pow! and he was in Relics class, standing at his anvil, with Oceanus glaring coldly at him.
“Finally!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes!”
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his face. “And ow! Did you have to do that?”
She crossed her arms and said, “You deserved it. You’ve been staring off into Oinker Land since before I arrived.”
Ion looked around the class, still rubbing his cheek, and when his gaze landed on Solara standing at her own anvil, her face lit up. Not because she was excited to see him—she wasn’t even looking in his direction. But because Illindria had just walked into class. Tree-branch-shoulders and all.
She stood beneath the invisible arbor of the classroom, rolling hills of snow twinkling behind her, stretching over the Jovian Fields, her mass of springing, red locks looking like fire in the middle of it all.
She beamed at the class. “Good afternoon, students!”
“Good afternoon, Lady Illindria,” returned the class.
“Hi, Momma!” Solara called from her anvil.
“Hello, sweetie,” Illindria winked. Ion wanted to barf.
As Illindria waddled up to the front of the class and stood behind her podium, the class seemed to warm. Ion realized he’d been sweating underneath the pile of wool blankets he’d worn in anticipation of class being extra cold, but even if he’d dropped them all it would have still felt like summertime. He gauged the rest of the class—no one seemed to feel the same. And then he realized this was a different kind of warm—a nervous warm.
Today he would be hatching the first part of the plan—the one Mother and he had been concocting since he agreed to free Father.
“As some of you already know,” Illindria began, stately as ever, “the Class Verification Exams are fast-approaching. On the ninth of May, each student will participate in testing alongside other students of the same race, where each will be graded on an individual basis to decide if he or she is eligible to study here next year. It’s a way of gauging whether or not any of you have bothered to learn anything. And if you haven’t,” she smiled sweetly, “you’ll be expelled for all eternity.”
The class did a collective swallow. Ion couldn’t decide if he should feel worried like everyone around him, or just not care at all. If Othum wasn’t going to keep up with his end of the deal, why should Ion care about keeping up his?
“But no need to be nervous,” said Illindria, her mess of hair bouncing about as she shook her head. “All you have to do is score above a Class Four and you’ll be fine!”
“What’s going to happen in the exams?” Gertrude Stoneheaver blurted. “I heard there’s always lots of fire…”
“Perhaps,” said Illindria.
“What about giant snakes?” shouted Stryker.
“Well, I’m not so sure—”
“How about earthquakes? Will there be earthquakes?”
“What about a tsunami?”
“Enough!” Illindria boomed, and Ion saw a glimpse of Solara in the bulging vein on the Illyrian’s forehead. Illindria adjusted herself in her tightly fitted blue dress (looking like a mo
untain of pillows that decided to wear something fancy that day) and readdressed the class with a kinder tone: “While I’m not at liberty to tell you what’s going to happen in the CVEs, I am most certainly allowed to tell you what to bring to the CVEs.”
Illindria stepped down from her podium, and walked down the rows of anvils, handing each student a scroll she’d grabbed out of thin air. “These hold all the information you’ll need,” she said, winking as she gave one to Solara.
Ion’s heart began to race, and he knew this was the moment Mother had told him to wait for. He rummaged through his satchel on the floor, digging past the books, quills, papers, and a stale Frostling that had lost its frost, until he came upon the small wooden chest at the bottom. The mission was simple: “The staff we need hides deep within the bowels of a book,” Mother had said, “a book trapped behind the four walls of Illindria’s office.” Ion needed a way into Illindria’s office, and Mother had the perfect idea how...
It happened in almost slow motion for Ion: nervously pulling the box from his backpack and placing it on the anvil for all the class to see. It was a simple box—just a block of wood with a golden latch. But simple as it was, it was vital to the success of this mission.
Illindria got to Ion and Oceanus’s anvil, and she stopped, staring curiously down at the box before Ion with her lips pursed. “What is this, Mr. Reaves?” she asked, placing the last two scrolls on the anvil.
“It’s”—don’t do it, Ion—“It’s a”—don’t do it—“It’s a gift”—you did it—“for you.” He swallowed and slid the chest toward Illindria.
Her face lit up, and she excitedly grabbed the chest. “Oh, how sweet of you!” she beamed. “Class!” She held the chest up for all the students to see. “I think all of you could learn a thing or three from Mr. Reaves here. As a sign of appreciation for his new Construct, he’s given me this nice”—she scanned the chest—“box.”
Solara glared at Ion. Oceanus glared, too. Ions nerves were strangling his muscles, and his hands were nearly dripping with sweat. I’m just doing as Mother asked, he thought, so why does this feel so wrong?
“It’s...it’s not just a box,” said Ion. “There’s something”—he swallowed—“something inside.”
“Well aren’t you just the most precious thing on earth right now,” said Illindria, pinching Ion’s cheek, which hurt.
Illindria sat the box on the anvil and raised the golden latch. Ion felt his lungs working double-time. She smiled once more at Ion, and when she peeled open the lid, the deed was done. There was a shriek like a banshee’s, and the tiny, bouncing balls of jade-colored electricity that had been tucked away in the box for a day and a half, bounded out of their cage. Illindria screamed, the rest of the class screamed. Ion could only watch in horror as the spheres tore across the room, ricocheting off the walls and ceilings, zapping anyone unfortunate enough to be in their way. Stryker dove in front of Ion’s anvil—a giant named George dove on top of him, unknowing. Gertrude bulldozed her way out of the arbor, wailing at the top of her lungs. When Ion’s eyes couldn’t have gotten any bigger, the spheres started to lose their energy, and the bouncing and zapping came to a halt.
Illindria rose from her spot on the grassy floor, just at Ion’s right. Her spring-coiled hair was lopped to one side, her dress was dotted with scorch marks, and her lips were drawn back just tight enough so her grinding teeth could show Ion how truly displeased she was.
“Mr. Reaves!” She boomed louder than Ion thought she could. “I want you in my office. Now!”
Contrary to what Oceanus would have Ion believe, being thrown into detention wasn’t going to ruin his life and lead him down a never-ending path of complete and utter destruction, where he would ultimately end up a sad, homeless boy addicted to Glow Cakes. Or at least, he hoped it wouldn’t; he did like Glow Cakes an awful lot, though.
But as Ion sat in Illindria’s office, in an uncomfortable, wooden chair, separated from the goddess by only a desk, Ion could easily see himself becoming homeless. Just one look at her unblinking eyes and flared nose, and Ion wished he’d never agreed to any of this.
Illindria scooted her leather, bat-winged chair up a bit, and folded her hands on the desk. “Quite an interesting show you put on in class today, Mr. Reaves,” she said. “Electrical charges hidden in a box just waiting for some unfortunate soul to release them...so they can do this to said unfortunate soul’s dress.” She looked down at her blue gown, and the myriad of black scars that ruined it.
Ion swallowed. “I-I th-think they add a little s-something to the fabric?”
Illindria’s nose holes grew twice their original size. “Do you? Perhaps I should add a little something to your wardrobe? Or perhaps, to your skin, like you did my son’s?”
Ion suddenly couldn’t find words.
Illindria sat back in her chair and gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, relax,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Spike’s no smarter than an infant. He would have done it to himself with a box of matches. But I must say, Mr. Reaves, for someone who dares disrupt a class of mine, I’m surprised to see you so nervous afterward. Which leads me to my next question: who made you do this?”
Ion wanted to swallow again, but his spit had dried up in an instant. “I-I’m not sure w-what you mean.”
Illindria leaned forward so Ion could see the blazing green in her eyes. “Mr. Reaves, Solara and Spike are my children. If you think I don’t know a troublemaker when I see one, you’re wrong. But you, my friend, are no troublemaker. Kids who deliberately cause ruckus like you did today almost revel in the consequences that follow.” She smiled slyly and looked down at Ion’s hands, which hadn’t stopped trembling since he’d sat down. “Yet you’re shaking like a wet dog in winter. So, Mr. Reaves, I will ask you once more: who made you do this?”
“I…I...”—tell her the truth—“I acted alone.”
Illindria stared at him, and Ion, desperate to avoid any further eye contact, scanned the walls of bookshelves behind her—the bookshelves he needed access to. Distract her, Mother’s plans rang in his ear. Distract her and find the book.
“If what you’re telling me is true,” said Illindria, “and you really are the only one responsible for that atrocious show in class, then I am forced”—her smile changed from a sly one to a sweet one—“to let you go.”
“Let me go?” Ion squeaked. “But I made a fool of you in class! In front of students who are supposed to respect you!”
She cackled, her hair bouncing with her gut. “Today was a mistake on your part, yes, but I trust this little visit with me will set you on a more righteous path. You’re free to go.”
But Ion couldn’t go. Not yet. The mission wasn’t accomplished. He needed more time—time with those bookshelves. He looked about the room, desperate for an idea, any idea. There was a grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling; a skeleton of some ten-foot-long, winged snake to his right, and, there, to his left, where a glass greenhouse awaited on the other side of the room, sprang an idea.
Illindria looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I said you can go, Mr. Reaves.”
Ion opened his hands in his lap where she couldn’t see. He could feel his fingers numbing—taste the static thickening in the air. Illindria opened her mouth to shoo him away again, and he clamped his hands into fists. The room quaked with thunder, and sizzled with a flash of heat. Illindria went screaming toward the greenhouse door as flames engulfed her precious plants within.
Ion had no time to see the destruction his localized blast of lightning had done—this was his only chance. He raced over to the bookshelves and recalled Mother’s words. Top right. Close to the edge. It’s bound in black leather. You can’t miss it. Ion scanned the books on the right...there! He yanked the only black book from a shelf near the edge, and with a breath, he was out of the office, bolting down the fortress halls.
With a kick of wind powering his steps, Ion zipped through the snow in the courtyard. Three knocks later, he stood upon the san
dy floor of the forgotten hall.
Mother rushed out of the shadows. “Did you get it?”
Ion held the book out to her, panting. “I got it! I got the book.”
“Oh, Ion!” she beamed, her hands running along the edges of the book, desperate to touch what she couldn’t. “This is fantastic! It went smoothly, I hope? My plans weren’t too hard to follow?”
“The box, the charges, where the book was,” he said, trying to regain his breath. “It all went just as you said.”
She clasped her hands together, looking more excited than Ion had ever seen her, even when she was alive. “Accessing the Darklands is that much closer,” she said. “I couldn’t be more proud right now!”
Ion blushed and kicked a rock at his feet. “Thanks. Your plan was so perfect, though, I think I’d have to be stupid to not get it right. How you’d know the staff was in a book—this book?”
“You’d be surprised how much ghosts talk in the Darklands,” she said, winking. “But let’s see if they were actually right—put the book on the floor—yes, perfect.”
The book, entitled Love Stories for the Loveless Soul, lay on the floor like a black blot on the sand. Mother swept her hand over the cover, and the book spilled open, its pages fluttering by ten at a time. On page three-hundred-and-sixty-five, the maddening dash came to a stop. Ion stared, mouth agape. There, jutting right out of the page, was a blunt, iron knob like that of a door’s.
Ion looked up at his mother, and she nodded for him to proceed. His hands ran along what felt like iron—just like his jaw. His fingers dug beneath the knob, and with his feet firmly planted on either side of the book, he heaved with all the might in his arms. Inch by inch, a frigid silver rod attached to the knob grew out of the page, twinkling and filling the air with static. The end of the staff neared, and Ion gave a yank, falling back onto the sand, staff clutched in his hands.
Mother bent down, gazing upon the bright metal in awe. “It’s so...beautiful.”