The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon

  “M-my apologies, Bright One,” Oceanus said. “We’ve been watching over the city every night since—”

  “Vinya was murdered,” said Vasheer, so plain and harsh it was like a punch to Ion’s stomach. “She has been sorely missed. But there’s no one—or no thing, I should say—that misses her more than the Balance, which is the reason I’m here. As if I’d come to Eldanar for any other reason but obligation.”

  “Do you mean to say the Illyrians have found a replacement for the Moon Throne?” Oceanus asked, hope in her eyes.

  Vasheer gave her a vicious look. “It just so happens that it’s none of your business, Guardian. It’s a matter between the Illyrians and the Illyrians only. I’ve already said too much. Now, I demand you escort your Sun God to the Acropolis so that I might finish my business here. Or are you incapable of handling that as well?”

  “We’d be honored to escort the Bright One to the Acropolis,” said Oceanus, bowing once more.

  Oceanus looked at Ion with an expression that clearly said “you better do what I say, or I’m going to pound your face in” so Ion obliged, and while Oceanus took to Vasheer’s right, Ion took to his left. By this time, the rain had relented to a sprinkle, but Ion was still soaked from head to toe.

  They started down the street, walking at Vasheer’s side, their backs straight and their heads high—proper Guardian stance, just as Othum had taught them. Not that they’d learned through experience, though. Othum had never asked to be escorted anywhere, or guarded in any way. He barely used the Guardians to begin with. It was a formality of Illyria I was desperate to escape, he’d explained. In fact, the patrolling of Protea’s districts had been the first Guardian task they’d ever been given.

  Halfway to the Acropolis, after enduring an uncomfortable and long silence, Oceanus asked, “How is Illyria this summer? Is it really as perfect as they say?”

  The Isle of Illyria was the massive, glittering island home of the gods. They said it floated across the earth, an ethereal paradise never attached to one place and always heavily guarded. Ion’s mother had seen it when she was a little girl. It was as golden as the Sun and as large as a mountain, she’d said, her voice so full of awe.

  Vasheer cleared his throat as he continued walking. “I take it my father hasn’t taught you the proper etiquette of escorting an Illyrian, has he?”

  “N-no, Bright One,” said Oceanus. “This is actually our first time.”

  “Clearly. Now, let me educate you,” said Vasheer, eyes straight ahead. “When escorting an Illyrian, a Guardian only speaks when asked to, understand...Guardian?”

  Oceanus placed a hand over her mouth, and Ion couldn’t help but feel bad for her. She loved the gods more than anyone he knew. Probably more than the gods loved themselves.

  “While escorting an Illyrian, it is your task to remain alert and at-the-ready,” Vasheer continued. “When the Guardians were created two hundred years ago, the Outerworld humans were a constant threat. After all, they could kill gods with the technology they stole from us. And as Guardians, it was and is your duty to protect us at all costs. Ah—here we are.”

  Finally, they’d reached the road that wound up the plateau of the Acropolis, and soon the shiny, black obsidian walls of the fortress appeared before them. The Acropolis sat in the middle of Protea, and from the road that wound up to its gates, Ion could see the city in all of its entirety—a beautiful sight of meandering streets, flickering torches, and buildings of every size and shape.

  They reached the Acropolis walls, where out of the shadows clanked a woman—eight feet tall and clad in chunky, purple armor. Her eyes were dead, as lifeless as the non-existent beat of her heart and the absent inhale and exhale of her lungs. She was a Sentinel, a long-dead nymph hired by Othum to secure the walls of the Acropolis. This one’s name was Amora, and Ion could still remember the first time he’d met her, after Oceanus had taken him from the clutches of the warty Sir Dread to meet Othum, here. Ion didn’t like Amora then, and he was fairly certain that feeling hadn’t changed, especially now as she clanked forward and knelt before Vasheer.

  “Bright One,” she said, her voice as dead as everything else about her.

  “Stand, Sentinel,” said Vasheer, refusing to look at her, “and open the gates.”

  Amora stood, nodded, and walked to the Acropolis gates, which looked to be just another section of the extensive walls. Amora ran her long, bony finger down the middle of the wall, the stone separating in the wake of her touch. As the two sections of marble disappeared into the turrets on either side, Vasheer entered the Acropolis grounds, head held high. The Jovian Fields, which took up half the land of the Acropolis, were alive with color. The leaves of the trees here were enchanted, glowing purple, or blue, or pink, each as bright and smoldering as the stars above.

  But as entrancing and beautiful as the Jovian Fields were, Vasheer paid them no mind, and in no time at all, he’d led the Guardians past the Fields and into the giant fortress that rose out of the other half of the Acropolis. It was the Achaean Academy: a grand structure of glassy, black obsidian walls with roofs of copper, windows numbering in the thousands, and spires that twisted toward the skies in the most menacing of ways.

  They marched in silence through the echoing entrance hall, passing the floating lanterns that blazed a ghostly blue, until they reached the rectangular courtyard in the middle of the fortress. Memories played with Ion’s head as Vasheer continued across the glass tiles of the courtyard. A month ago, there was a hole instead of this floor—a hole K’thas the Fearful had made, where he’d sucked in his first breath of fresh air since the Illyrians had imprisoned him below, in the Tomb of Forgotten Heroes. It’d since been filled with sand, but that had not filled the hole K’thas had carved into Ion’s heart, his life.

  Vasheer stopped at the mighty golden doors on the opposite side of the courtyard, where Ion and Oceanus pulled them open with a great heave. The gates moaned as if they hadn’t been opened in years, and the light from within the Creator’s Sanctum poured out into the courtyard.

  “My son!” boomed a voice as ancient as it was loud.

  Vasheer entered the Sanctum, the two Guardians at his side, and bowed to the Skylord. “Evening, Father.”

  Skylord Othum rose from his throne of gold with a big, goofy smile, the lines of his face being lifted and pulled like some wrinkly dog’s. All eight feet of Othum bounded across the black tiles of the room to greet his son, the turquoise rings around the long dreadlocks of his white beard and hair clanking about like bells. He wrapped his mighty arms around Vasheer and squeezed him tight, lifting him off the floor.

  “Father,” Vasheer grunted, “your diamond’s hurting me...”

  “Oh, yes,” said Othum, quickly pulling away.

  The massive diamond growing out the center of Othum’s chest gave a sparkly wink, and Ion took a second to trace his eyes over the four copper wires that sprung out of the diamond and met with the other side of the gem protruding out his back. Together, they created the Skylord’s Connection Seal—like Ion’s jaw and staff did his.

  “It’s such a special occasion having you visit,” said Othum, his hands around Vasheer’s shoulders. “I can’t even remember the last time you were here!”

  “Well, to be fair, Father, you don’t remember much.”

  Othum laughed. “Ah, how unfortunately right you are!”

  “I can’t stay long, Father,” said Vasheer, “so I think it best we get right to business. I have some urgent matters to discuss.” Vasheer eyed Oceanus and then Ion. “Private, urgent matters.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure it’s nothing our Guardians can’t hear,” said Othum, wrapping one arm around the top of Vasheer’s back, escorting him toward the golden throne at the back of the room. “We’re in mysterious times, my son—mysterious times, indeed. It’s now my belief that what the Illyrians know, the Guardians should, too.” Othum turned and sat mightily upon his throne. “I learned that one the hard way.”

&nb
sp; “That’s all very well,” said Vasheer. “But...they’re not just Guardians. Surely I don’t have to remind you of their Caller blood?”

  Othum waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll hear none of that nonsense in this hall,” he said. “Oceanus and Ion are Guardians first. Isn’t that right, my children?”

  Oceanus and Ion nodded.

  “Guardians first,” said Oceanus.

  “But Father,” Vasheer whispered urgently, “their brothers and sisters still power the Shroud in the Darklands, still fight in the war in the Outerworld. Don’t you worry they could be scheming against you?”

  “Vasheer,” Othum snapped, suddenly serious. “I said I will not hear of that nonsense in this hall.”

  Vasheer closed his lips shut, though his eyes burned with rage.

  “Now,” Othum went on, “how was your patrol tonight, my Guardians?” he asked, now with a smile.

  “Quiet, My Lord,” said Oceanus.

  “Quiet,” Ion agreed.

  “The disruption of the Balance has driven some of the humans to the Darkness,” Othum said to Vasheer. “Crime rates have skyrocketed ever since Vinya’s passing. Burglaries, fires, fighting. If it weren’t for my trusted Guardians, and more particularly, these two—them with their Caller blood and all—the city would be in ruins.”

  “Yes,” said Vasheer. “I witnessed their skills earlier. I was hardly astonished.”

  Othum chuckled. “Ah, how surprised I am by this. But please, Vasheer, have a seat and let’s get to this urgent, private matter of yours.”

  Othum clapped his hands twice, and the tiny black tiles of the walls and floor shifted. Three columns of black tiles shuffled down from the walls and slinked and clinked across the floor, building a structure behind Vasheer. Up and up, the tiles climbed one another, until a throne had been constructed in the middle of the hall.

  Othum held his hand out to the new chair. “Please.”

  Vasheer sat, while Ion and Oceanus kept to either side of the Sanctum doors.

  “I’m here on behalf of Lady Borea,” said Vasheer, and Othum sighed.

  Lady Borea, Mother of the Illyrians. She was the only Old God still alive and the mother of the Illyrian pantheon.

  “What does she want?” Othum asked.

  “It’s not just her, Father, it’s the entire Grand Council. Lady Borea is simply heading it, since you’ve chosen to remain here on Eldanar.”

  “And what does the Grand Council want of me?”

  “Father, you’re a part of the Grand Council, too. The mourning period has passed, you know this. The time to decide on a new Hand of the Moon has come in its stead. Something we can’t do without you.”

  Ion saw Othum tighten his hands into fists on the arms of his throne.

  “It’s too soon,” said Othum, looking away.

  “Father, it’s nearly too late. Vinya’s Throne was and is one of the most important of the Illyrian pantheon. If we allow the Moon to be absent much longer, the Dark of the Balance could very well take a permanent hold on the minds of this world.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” said Othum. “I just...I feel like we’ll forget her if we move too quickly.”

  “Father, your sentiments are noted,” said Vasheer, “but the Throne of the Moon must be filled. We’re holding a meeting on the subject tomorrow morning, and it’s imperative you attend.”

  Othum thought for a moment in silence, his finger twiddling with the turquoise ring around one of the dreadlocks of his beard.

  “What of Lady Onyxia?” Othum asked. “What does your mother think of all this?”

  “Mother is dealing with this loss in her own way,” said Vasheer. “But I’m sure she misses you dearly and would love to see you.”

  Othum drew circles playfully upon the arm of his throne. “Did she say she misses me?”

  Vasheer hesitated before answering. “Not exactly, no. But you know how she is, Father.”

  Othum chewed on his lip, thinking some more. And then he crossed his arms and said, “I’m not going.”

  Vasheer stood, quick and angry. “It is not an option, Father. We must move on, and in order to do that, we’ll need your presence, your vote. Now, I’m leaving for Illyria in the hopes that I’ll make it in time for the evening feast. I trust I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

  Vasheer whipped around and stomped toward the doors, which Ion and Oceanus quickly opened. He stopped just before the Guardians, snatched his black robe from Oceanus’s hands, and looked them viciously up and down before storming out to the courtyard.

  Ion and Oceanus closed the doors to the Sanctum, and at once the doors had shut, Othum sighed. “Pack your bags, Guardians. It seems by this time tomorrow, you’ll have already taken your first steps on the Isle of Illyria.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE VOICE

  “This is huge!” Oceanus shouted, her voice carrying through the massive hall.

  Ion gripped the Omnus Staff tight and continued walking, doing his best to ignore the prying eyes of the golden elf statues lining the corridor, but more importantly, Oceanus’s happiness.

  “Don’t walk away from me, oinker!” she said, quickly catching up to him. “You obviously don’t get how important this visit is. This’ll be the first time we see Illyria, the home of the gods. I wonder if it’s as golden as Mother always said. If it’s as clean and the air smells as fresh.”

  She sighed wistfully. The idea was nice enough. Seeing the Isle of Illyria, much less setting foot on it, was certainly something to wonder at. But Ion couldn’t get Vasheer out of his head long enough to do said wondering.

  “I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you,” he said.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Surely you didn’t miss how horrible Vasheer was?” Ion asked. “What if the rest of the pantheon is exactly like him?”

  “He’s harmless, Ion,” Oceanus said. “A little king-like, but he is the god of the Sun.”

  “No Illyrian is harmless,” said Ion. “God of the Sun or not, I don’t think I like him.”

  “Well, that means nothing to me, because the only Illyrian you seem to like is Othum, which, by the way, was not the case a month ago.”

  “I owe Othum my life at this point,” said Ion, sliding his staff into a leather holder strapped around his back. “I don’t owe these other gods anything, Vasheer more than any of them.”

  “You owe the Illyrians everything. Othum wasn’t the only one who gave us life. Each of them contributed. And one day, when you finally accept that, you’ll appreciate all of them. Just as I do.” She gave him a look and took a right down another corridor, her dark hair flowing behind her. “I’ll see you tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp. Don’t forget!”

  The Isle of Illyria. Ion wasn’t so sure this was going to be as fun as Oceanus dreamed. The Illyrians were a fickle group of gods, and their wrath was well known to Ion and the world. Most of them wouldn’t be nice like Othum, like Vinya...

  He looked up through the glass ceiling. With the light pollution of the green, floating torches lining the corridor, he couldn’t even see the stars. It was simply a black void of space. Lifeless. Hopeless.

  And that’s when he heard it.

  A laugh. No...a giggle. A childish, innocent giggle. Ion turned to the sound, and caught the tail end of a child’s tunic and sandal as it rounded the corner and vanished down another hall.

  Theo? Ion wondered. But it couldn’t have been him. He’d still be patrolling Water’s Run at this hour.

  Ion ran down the hall, his footsteps echoing through the hall. He turned the corner, and at the end of the corridor, surrounded by the prying eyes of yet another hall of elf statues, was a boy staring back at him. He was bald and skinny and clothed in one of the finest blue tunics Ion had seen. He couldn’t have been but five summers old, either. As Ion approached, the boy smiled from big ear to big ear, his eyes gray and light.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” Ion said, his steps slow and cautious
, eyes narrowed on the boy. “What’s your name?”

  He didn’t answer. He just kept smiling.

  “These halls can be dangerous,” said Ion. “You shouldn’t be wandering them alone.”

  Still no reply. And still with the smile.

  Ion came within arm’s distance of the child and stopped, swallowing. The boy was still smiling, and at this point, it was nowhere near amusing. It was creepy.

  “I better not be imagining this.”

  Ion reached out, and with a nervous grit of his teeth, placed his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. He was real. Well, he was solid, which meant he wasn’t a ghost, so there was a fifty percent chance Ion wasn’t imagining him.

  “A-are you mute or something?”

  “You killed her,” the boy said through his smile.

  “W-w-what’d you say?”

  “You killed her,” the boy said, smiling still.

  Ion retracted his hand and took a step back. “What’re you talking about? I don’t—”

  “You killed her,” the boy repeated. “You killed Vinya.”

  Ion’s heart all but stopped. “N-n-no, I didn’t!”

  “You killed her. You killed Vinya.”

  “N-no!” Ion cried, breathless as he took a few more steps back. “I didn’t kill anybody! It wasn’t my fault!”

  “You killed her!” the boy shouted through his smile. “You killed Vinya!”

  “No, I didn’t! They said I didn’t! They said it wasn’t my fault!”

  “You killed her!” The boy screamed, his voice mightier than Othum at his loudest. “You. Killed. Vinya!”

  Unable to hear it any longer, Ion clamped his hands over his ears and bolted down the hall, though still able to hear the screams of the boy now echoing through the corridor. “You killed her! You killed her! It was all your fault!”

  Ion looked back and saw the boy standing there, wearing that stupid smile. But when he looked forward, he stopped dead in his tracks. For there was the boy. Now standing in front of him.

  Ion gripped his chest, heart drumming madly.

  “You killed her,” the boy whispered through his smile. “You killed Vinya.”