by Nikolas Lee
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.”
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.”
CHAPTER SIX
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 h
adn’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. “Delicious!”
“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.”