by Nikolas Lee
He ran his hand through them. They weren’t soft. They were cold, nearly freezing. Did Atticus ever play with clouds like this? Did Thornikus? What about all the other lives? The ten other lives he wasn’t supposed to know about. Ion scrunched his opened hand into a tight fist, and sparks of green electricity leapt, raced, and arced through the clouds.
Ten lives in only two hundred years, he thought. Lives that had been severely cut short. But for what reason?
But as he watched the electricity play through the clouds, it dawned on him. If Lady Helia was willing to tell him what she wasn’t supposed to tell him, why wouldn’t she be willing to answer questions she wasn’t supposed to answer?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SHAKE-UP
“Quickly now, hurry up,” said Father, speeding the Guardians along the turquoise roads, sounds of a cheering crowd growing louder and louder. “Mustn’t be late, Guardians! The Hall of Thrones is only a street away.”
The day was hot. Miserably so. Though Ion suspected this wasn’t so much the fault of the Sun, as it was the doing of his tight, red button-up tunic and its thick cotton fabric.
“It’s so hot,” Theo grumbled as he pulled at the collar of his red tunic. “Why do we have to wear these things anyway?”
“The Illyrians provided them for us,” snapped Oceanus. “It’s out of duty and honor that we wear them.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Theo, eyeing Oceanus’s long, flowing blue dress. “Yours doesn’t have a collar.”
“This is true,” said Oceanus, running her fingers delicately over her exposed collarbones. “Finally, a piece of clothing to show off my excellent bone structure.”
Ion confined his reaction to a quietly executed eye roll, deciding that another wave of watery steeds was just what he didn’t need this morning.
The cheers had grown to a crescendo, and when the group turned the corner, they nearly collided with a crowd of elves, giants, and nymphs. The sea of magical creatures stretched across a massive courtyard, all the way to the stairs of the Hall of Thrones. The Illyrians—save the Higher ones—stood in a line at the top of the stairs, looking quietly, patiently, over their subjects, the great chained cyclops lumbering to their left and right.
“All right, Guardians,” Father said. “You have a little time left before the announcements are made—go stand by your Illyrians, proud and mighty.”
“I’ll take Helia,” Ion said, almost to himself.
“Great initiative, Ion!” Father said, patting him on the back.
Ion feigned a smile and swept around the crowd with the other Guardians in tow. They slunk up the stairs to the Hall of Thrones and filed, one by one, behind the Illyrian gods.
Ion took his place behind Lady Helia. Morning light twinkled brightly off the golden weavings of the mask that wrapped around her head. The smell of sadness and roses still clung heavily to her robes.
The massive doors of the Hall on the left gave a rusty shriek and slowly opened, the four High Illyrians marching out. The blue-skinned Lady Nepia was bright in a dress of white, while Lady Onyxia wore her signature dress of blinking-eye bird feathers, as Othum took to the front with a gleaming smile. Lady Borea stood at Nepia’s side and rapped the butt of her staff to the floor three times, each knock quieting the crowd until it sounded as though there was no crowd at all.
“Citizens of Illyria!” the Skylord began, his voice echoing over the courtyard. “It is with great honor that today, we, the Illyrians, the Last Pantheon of Earth, begin the Tournament of the Moon!”
The silence ended with a deafening cheer from the audience, which Lady Borea quickly ended with another impatient rap of her staff.
While Othum continued his speech, Ion edged closer to Helia until funeral was all he could smell.
He cleared his throat. “Pssst.”
Ion could’ve sworn he saw Helia’s lips purse through that gold mask of hers. “Word of advice, Mr. Reaves,” she whispered, eyes kept on the crowd, “never pssst a god.”
“Well...we...we have stuff to talk about, Helia,” said Ion, trying not to sound as indignant as he felt. “I have questions.”
“What I said yesterday intrigued you, did it?” she asked. “Go ahead, then—what questions do you have?”
Ion looked around to make sure no one was looking or listening—most importantly Lillian. “Well, for one, why? Why did I have ten past lives over two hundred years? It doesn’t make any sense. They must’ve died so early.”
“The competing future Hands shall line up before the High Illyrians when their name is called,” Ion heard Othum say. “Vasheer the Bright One!”
The crowd erupted with more cheers.
“It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Helia told Ion. “But the answer might not be something you’re prepared to hear. You are but a child, after all.”
“Esereez the Inventor!” Othum shouted.
More cheers from the crowd as Esereez took his place beside Vasheer, the two glaring at one another.
“Yet I’m fit to be your Guardian?” Ion asked.
“The Guardians were not my idea,” she replied. “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.”
“Thoman the Overseer!” Othum boomed. And as the crowd continued to roar, Othum shouted over them, “And lastly, I’d like to announce a bit of a shake-up.”
“Fine,” Ion told the goddess. “Can you at least tell me how it happened? W-was there a disease, or-or an accident—”
“You were murdered,” said Helia. Then she looked down at him, white eyes so eerie. “And it was I who’d been tasked with your murdering. Every. Single. Time.”
Ion stepped back, his jaw heavy, stomach tied into one big knot. He couldn’t breathe. The world spun wildly around him. He heard the crowd let out another cheer, one so loud his ears began to ring, and a great shadow fell over him.
It was Othum, his hulking body eclipsing the Sun.
He wore a smile—a more excited one than usual—and grabbed Ion by the arm, leading him down the steps of the Hall. He placed him in line beside Vasheer, Esereez, and Thoman—beside the competing Future Hands, each glaring at him. Then Othum returned to the line one last time with Lillian, placing her beside Ion.
“W-what’s going on?” he shouted to her over the cries of the crowd and the shock of Helia’s words.
To which she replied: “We’re competing for the Throne of the Moon.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE FIGHT
Ion stood there, stunned and confused, his jaw growing colder and heavier by the second. It was bad enough hearing all of his past lives had been murdered by an Illyrian he was meant to serve, but to then be thrust into the front of a crazy, screaming crowd because apparently you’re in the running for a Throne you didn’t even want?
Ion fought the sick desperately trying to escape his system.
“There you have it!” Othum shouted, arms stretched wide, his diamond twinkling in the sunlight. “The five gods contending for the Throne of the Moon!”
Ion looked back at the other gods, and all but the High Illyrians—and, of course, Helia—were whispering amongst each other behind their hands, looking upon he and Lillian with judgment. They’re as shocked as I am. And Oceanus. Ion only caught a glimpse of her mouth hung open and her fists tight at her side before he quickly turned away. He couldn’t imagine how angry she was. If anyone wanted a chance to be seated amongst the Illyrians, it was her.
“Now,” Othum continued, “if everyone will please head over to the Falls, we will conduct our first part of the Tournament. The Fight!”
Ion swallowed and looked to Lillian. Her hands, though locked together in front of her, were trembling, and her eyes were darting about like those of a scared rabbit. He couldn’t decide which was more surprising: being thrown into a competition he wanted no part of, or Lillian being nervous.
“Onward!” Othum shouted.
The crowd shifted, and the mass of giants, elves, and nymphs started to the north, mi
grating through the streets, the air alive with their excited whispers. Ion and Lillian, both still shaken, had yet to move. Vasheer walked by, piercing Ion with the most scornful glare he’d probably ever mustered.
Esereez was no kinder as he walked past, but Thoman, instead of giving them a scornful look, bowed and said, “If the Guardians are responsible enough to protect and serve the Illyrians, then they’re responsible enough to sit upon a Throne. I look forward to meeting you upon the battlefield.”
Then he walked away, his black armor clanking about as he disappeared into the flock of Illyrian citizens.
“Why is this happening?” Ion asked Lillian incredulously.
“I’m not sure, but I’m positive I don’t like it.”
A gaggle of elves bowed reverently to her as they passed.
“W-well, can’t you read Othum’s mind or something?” Ion asked.
“It doesn’t work like that,” she said. “Illyrian minds are too old to read—too many memories mingling with thoughts for me to discern them.”
Father pushed through the crowd, smiling brightly before pulling Ion into a tight hug. “What a fantastic surprise!” he said. “I can’t believe my boy’s in the running for the Throne of the Moon! Look at you, following in your old man’s footsteps, competing in tournaments and such. It warms my heart!”
“Yeah, uh, mine too,” Ion lied.
This was just the sort of event Father lived for: one more reason to brag about his children. Ion couldn’t imagine there being a superior thing to gush about at the local tavern than telling everyone your son’s a god of Illyria, or at least competed to be one. It’d get him a few drinks on the house, that much was certain.
“You’re going to do great, Ion,” Father said, pulling away. “You and Lillian both. Just remember all those important things you were taught at the Academy. And more importantly, that the thirst for competition is in your blood. You are the son of a gladiator, after all.” He winked and Ion’s smile became even more forced. “Must be off now—got to get good seats!”
With that, Father was off, vanishing into the crowd.
A hand landed on Ion’s shoulder then, and he turned to find Oceanus. “I don’t know how this happened, oinker, and I don’t know if I’m happy about it. But I’ve done some thinking...and I’m willing to support you regardless.”
Ion’s jaw warmed just a tad. This was a big moment for her, to be crying inside for the roles to be reversed, but to support Ion regardless. Don’t worry, he thought. I’m crying with you.
“Thank you, Oceanus,” said Ion. “We’re not sure how it happened, either.”
“Yeah, well, I heard the gods whispering and they’re not too pleased with this,” she said. “Guardians aren’t supposed to sit upon Illyrian Thrones. Most especially not an elf, and most especially not a Caller.”
“But it’s so exciting!” came Theo’s voice, who appeared beside Ion. “You have a shot at a Throne! Oooh, I bet it’s warm! They always look so warm.”
A shadow cast over the four Guardians, and they turned to find Othum standing there in all his smiley glory.
“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” Ion asked, as the last of the Illyrian citizens strolled up north.
“Of course it was,” he said. “Who else would be unequivocally mad and delusional enough to bring such an idea to the other High Illyrians?” He surveyed the unimpressed looks staring up at him, and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, relax!”
“With all due respect, Skylord,” said Ion, “this is nothing to relax about!”
“Okay, fine—you’re right,” said Othum. “Which is why we must hustle along to the Falls. There are important matters to discuss before the match begins. Oceanus, Theo—might I ask that you go ahead of us so that I could discuss said matters with Ion and Lillian in a more...private setting?”
Oceanus and Theo agreed, and after giving an assured nod to their fellow Guardians, they ran ahead.
Othum placed one hand behind Lillian’s back and the other behind Ion’s, and gently pushed them through the streets.
“Skylord, we don’t want to be in the Tournament,” said Lillian.
“Yes, I thought you wouldn’t,” said Othum. “But a flip of a coin decided that for you last night. You should be proud! And I assure you it’s for a good cause.”
“Othum, neither of us are fit to be an Illyrian, or hold a Throne,” said Lillian.
“And I agree with you.”
“Then why did you volunteer us?” Ion asked.
“I know neither of you are yet fit to be the Hand of the Moon,” said Othum. “But the other Illyrians don’t need to know that, do they? You see, finding a god to fill Vinya’s vacant position is going to be one of the most difficult decisions we High Illyrians will make. So in order for me to feel confident we’re doing the right thing, I’ll need to know the competing Hands were met with as much competition as possible.”
“So...you don’t want us to win?” Lillian asked.
“I don’t expect you to win,” Othum replied. “And neither do the other High Illyrians. We simply wish for Esereez, Vasheer, and Thoman to have a proper competition. See, we need you two to help weed out the unworthy gods, thus helping us find the true Hand of the Moon.”
Ion thought of Lillian on the battlefield, all those times he’d seen the Blood Guardian and her mind powers subdue her opponents in training. Her abilities were amplifications of a human’s. Her speed, strength, intellect—they were all multiplied by a hundred, sometimes a thousand. She’d fare perfectly well out there on the battlefield. Something he wasn’t so sure he could say for himself.
“When it comes to these matches,” said Othum, “you should and will bring everything you’ve got—all those lessons you’ve learned, all those mighty elements you’ve mastered—they’ve brought you to this moment.” He turned them both to him, knelt before them, and asked, “Is that understood?”
Ion took a breath, reeling over this...this madness. He looked at Lillian, and she looked at him, and they both nodded—albeit reluctantly.
“Remember: your powers are only limited by your willpower and creativity,” said Othum. “Keep that in mind and you’ll do great! Now, let’s get this Tournament started, shall we?”
Othum turned to a grand archway where the Illyrian citizens had disappeared into, leading the two Guardians through it. They were met by a stairwell that plunged into the depths of the island, water dripping from its rocky walls. They descended, damp air cooling Ion’s skin, floating lanterns lighting the way. A gentle roaring grew louder with each step they took, until the stairs had ended and its origin had become evident. Ion found himself standing in a massive cave built into the side of Illyria, coliseum-styled seats wrapping around the back wall, surrounding half of the circular arena to the right. Beyond the stone battlefield was a massive opening, outside of which streamed a colossal waterfall—the only thing separating the field from a fall to the ocean below.
“Everyone take your seats!” Othum said from the end of the stairwell. “Future Hands of the Moon, please assemble upon the battlefield in one straight line.” Othum whispered to Lillian and Ion, “That’s you two. Now, remember what I said and don’t be afraid to show these Illyrians how it’s done.”
How it’s done? Ion wondered. Vasheer knocked Oceanus and I out in less than a minute, but I’m supposed to show him how it’s done?
Othum ushered the two Guardians to a small staircase down to the battlefield, Vasheer, Esereez, and Thoman soon following.
There were too many people, too many gods, focused on Ion. He could feel the weight of their judgments, their suspicions. And it was unbearable. His knees were shaking and his hands were sweating. His stomach was raw, too, like he hadn’t eaten in days.
The Illyrians settled in their thrones of sandstone situated in the front row, Theo and Oceanus standing behind them. Othum turned from waving at the excited crowd, and smiled at the competitors. Ion had never loathed that smile so much.
; “Future Hands,” Othum began, “we gather here today, at the arena of The Falls, to take our first step toward finding a god capable of hailing the Moon back to this plane. The High Illyrians and I have decided that three events shall be held as part of the Tournament: a Fight, a Retrieval, and a Race, held in that order. The purpose of the Tournament is to find the best match for the Throne of the Moon, and in order to do that, you must compete at your most honest. Agree, competitors?”
Ion looked to Lillian, who looked to him. “We do,” said the Future Hands, almost in unison.
“Well, I do not agree,” Vasheer snapped, and an audible gasp swept through the crowd.
The cackle from Lady Borea echoed about the high ceilings of the arena. “And why, may I ask, is that, Lord Vasheer?”
“Guardians are not meant to hold Thrones,” he said. “They’re our protectors, not our colleagues. And let’s not forget how very mortal they are.” He eyed Ion and Lillian in disgust. “It’s just inappropriate.”
Othum opened his mouth to reply, but Lady Borea was quicker. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, Grandson, but you feel the decision the High Illyrians have made is, as you say, inappropriate?”
Ion could hear Vasheer swallow, and he tried not to laugh. This god made Ion miss having Solara and her stupid brother around.
“W-well, I—”
“Vasheer, listen to your dear old grandmother,” said Lady Borea. “Quiet confidence is and has always been successful confidence. Now, keep quiet and fight like the god you think you are.”
Vasheer tightened his jaw, and the air beside the Bright One grew so scolding hot Ion had to take a step toward Lillian.
“Thank you, Vasheer,” said Othum. “Now—”
But Lady Borea cleared her throat in interruption and patted Othum on the hand. “I think I’ll take it from here, Skylord,” she said. “One day you’ll learn how to hold a room.” She turned to the contestants, her thin lips drawn into a smile. “To clear up any confusion, the winner of this Tournament, should they be a Guardian, will not only be rewarded the Throne of the Moon, but will also receive the grandest gift an Illyrian could give—immortality.”