“I wish I could tell you what the Sickness is,” said Othum. “But Lady Borea has refused to speak of it to any of the Illyrians, and being that she’s the only god who survived it, the details of the Sickness remain a secret.”
The electrical steeds brought the carriage around the floating island, past the waterfall and a much smaller island attached to the mainland by only a long, narrow bridge.
“I can’t believe this is happening!” Oceanus whispered. “We actually get to touch the home of the gods.”
Ion thought for a bit, his stomach fluttering. Was it a nervous flutter? A foreboding one, perhaps? Or was he, dare he even think it...excited? Though it made sense. He touched the emerald of his necklace, that precious heirloom he’d gotten from Lady Vinya. This was her home. His mother’s home.
Well, one of them, at least.
The carriage heaved to the right, and the steeds descended toward the southern part of the island, landing with a clatter of hooves on a plot of stone on the edge of the isle.
Othum hopped off the driver’s bench of the carriage and opened the door with his usual goofy grin, which always seemed inappropriate. “Come, my Guardians, the Isle of Illyria awaits.”
One by one, they shuffled out of the carriage.
Oceanus took a great breath of fresh, godly air and sighed wistfully. “Feels like...home.”
Before them stretched a field of flat sand, raked in intricate patterns, a marble road running through it to reach the city huddled together on the northern part of the island. Trees lined the path, ones that instead of having leaves, grew long threads of silk dotted by drops of dew, which sparkled in the dawn’s light.
“Our first stop is the Hall of Thrones,” said Othum. “We’ll probably have dinner afterwards, stay a night or two, and split once the opportunity presents itself. Guardians, it’s important we make a good first impression on the other Illyrians. We’ll start by having two of you march in front of me, and two march in back—just as proud, protective Guardians would. Atrius, you stay behind me. Goodbye, my dazzling steeds!” Othum waved to his electrical horses and they disappeared in a flash. “Now—to the Hall of Thrones!”
Ion and Oceanus took to the front of Othum, Theo and Lillian marching behind him. They walked down the path, a sweet ocean breeze drifting through the threads of silk from the trees, the dew shimmering like a sea of diamonds above. Ion looked out over the sand, mesmerized by the perfect lines raked into the fields.
“This is the Silken Vale,” Othum explained, his arms out to the sprawling sandy landscape. “This half of the island once played host to the many glorious temples, shrines, and living quarters of the Old Gods, but was razed in memory of them after they’d passed. And these”—he walked the Guardians up a massive flight of obsidian stairs that separated the Vale from the city—“these are the Obsidian Steps.”
They climbed the fifty stairs, the black, glossy stone slippery beneath their sandals, until the city of Illyria had come into full view.
It smelled so alive. So clean. Buildings soared in every direction, bands of sunlight stretching out over their bricks of sandstone, twinkling upon their roofs of gold and the statues of armored nymphs lining the ledges. Ion recognized the statues as soon as he saw them. There had been rumors on Eldanar that the grand statues on Illyria were simply shells—shells that hid once honorable and mighty, but long-dead nymphs.
“Where’s everyone at?” Theo asked as they strode along the empty streets of turquoise.
“Yeah,” said Oceanus, “Illyria is supposed to be brimming with life. Filled with the elves, nymphs, and giants invited to live here after proving their loyalty to the gods.”
Othum pointed to the monstrously tall and wide building past the fountain in front of them. “They’re inside. When the Grand Council is in session, the whole of Illyria must also be in attendance.”
Othum breathed deep, swallowed, and marched toward the building of golden stone. It rose at least two hundred feet in the air, taller than any wall of the Achaean Academy, its roof held up by towering columns engraved with leaping fish, soaring birds, and stampeding horses. But it was the two main columns standing before the building’s doors that caught Ion’s attention. They were sculptures of two kneeling cyclops—giant ones with bodies bound in layers upon layers of muscle, eyes so small Ion could hardly even make them out. Each had four arms they used to hold the roof on their shoulders, thick chains coiled around their wrists and ankles.
The group walked up the small flight of stairs to the Hall’s main gates, past the gnarled feet of the cyclops. They were huge. And nasty. But who would’ve carved calluses into their feet? And their skin...it looked so leathery. Then Ion looked up and saw the chests of the cyclops heaving in and out.
These sculptures weren’t sculptures at all.
Before Ion could say anything, Theo screamed, which was quickly followed by a cry of, “They’re breathing!” and immediately his fists lit with fire. Everyone jumped back—except Lillian, of course.
“No need to be alarmed, Guardians,” said Othum. He walked over to one of the cyclops and patted the beast on its leg, dust and sand coming off its skin in clouds. “These old boys have been holding up the roof of the Hall of Thrones for so many years I’ve lost count.”
Ion again noticed the chains wound around the cyclops’ wrists and ankles, and how they linked around the creatures’ necks. The cyclops looked down, eyes so tired, so defeated. They weren’t intimidating now. They were sad.
“Why are they holding up the roof?” Ion asked.
“Every crime deserves its punishment, Mr. Reaves,” said Othum. “Cyclops are known for their rebellious nature, and after the Old Gods had died, these two led a group of their brothers and sisters onto Illyria to claim it for themselves. The revolt, as you could predict, was squashed. As punishment, they were sentenced to forever support the roof of the Hall where their enemies rule.”
Ion swallowed. “Forever?”
Othum nodded. “Forever. Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Reaves, I might kindly ask you and your sister to open the gates—as the Guardians should do for an Illyrian.”
He smiled, but Ion found himself unable to do the same.
Ion and his sister opened the golden doors with a great heave. As Lillian and Theo marched Othum inward, and Father trailed after, Ion took one last look at those sad cyclops, their bodies so heavy with defeat. Every crime deserves its punishment, Ion thought. But an eternity of punishment? The pit in Ion’s stomach made him not so sure.
Ion and Oceanus entered, closing the doors shut behind them. The Hall somehow seemed even bigger inside than it had from the outside. It was a long, rectangular hall with columns lining its walls. A balcony ran around its circumference, where scores of elves, nymphs, and giants all sat, filling the grand hall with curious whispers of the Guardians. From out of the ceiling grew a colossal, upside-down oak tree, each of its golden leaves set afire yet never burning away. Below sat a half-circle of crystal thrones, each occupied by a god of Illyria. Though, Ion knew these weren’t the famous capital “T” Thrones like Vinya’s—those were more coveted, protected in special temples.
While Ion’s mouth was busy drying up at the sight of so many gods, a petulant voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Father,” said Vasheer, approaching from the thrones.
The rays of diamond spikes beaming out of his head looked as dangerous today as they did yesterday, eyes as brilliant a gold. His white tunic was laced in whirling silver designs, the strings of his sandals wrapped all the way up to his knees.
He bowed before Othum. “I’m glad to see you could make it.”
Othum placed a hand on Vasheer’s shoulder. “Anything for my son.”
“Of course,” said Vasheer, looking suspiciously at his father. Then the Bright One spotted Ion and curled his lip just enough for everyone to notice. “How nice to see the Guardians finally back home.”
“It’s only temporary,” said Othum. “But yes,
I agree. Illyria will serve as a great experience for them, I’m certain of it.”
Vasheer scoffed. “One could only hope. Some of them seem a bit beyond help.”
“If I recall correctly, Vasheer,” came a dignified voice from behind him, “I think I said the exact same thing about you when you were a child.”
Vasheer turned and when he realized who’d spoken, quickly bowed out of the way. “Lady Borea,” he said through gritted teeth.
The woman stepped forward, leaning on her massive, white, quartz-tipped staff. She was small by godly standards, but with canyons of wrinkles carving their way through every inch of her face and small, bony hands. Her hair was white as snow and long, tied into a great tower on her head with many tendrils flowing down her back and shoulders.
Othum dropped to his knees and looked to the floor reverently. So, too, did the Guardians and Father. “Lady Borea,” said Othum, “we are honored to be in your presence.”
“Stand, Othum. I’ll have no son of mine kneeling on this cold floor.”
As Othum stood, the Guardians and Father followed.
Lady Borea’s eyes fell sternly upon Ion and the others. “I do believe I asked my son to stand, not the Guardians. Teenagers these days—no respect for the Gods of Old. I blame that heinous Outerworld culture seeping into their brains. Eldanar should’ve never allowed it!”
Ion traded uncertain glances with Oceanus, then Lillian, and they all slowly dropped back down to their knees. There was never much talk of Lady Borea on Eldanar. Only that she was as prickly as the blizzards she could summon. And at this point, that didn’t seem terribly inaccurate.
“Honestly, Mother,” Othum said, “can’t you give them a break? They’re new to this.”
She stared into Othum’s gray eyes with her blue ones. “Very well. You may stand.”
“Guardians,” said Othum, “this is Lady Borea, our Lady of the Frost—the only Old God alive today. She abdicated her Throne to me long ago, but has agreed to serve as a High Illyrian in Illindria’s stead.”
Ion clasped the emerald of his necklace, Illindria’s prison. Even hearing her name made his jaw burn.
Lady Borea studied each and every Guardian until she reached Father. “He looks awfully old to be a Guardian, does he not?”
“That’s because he’s not a Guardian,” said Othum. The Skylord patted Father proudly on the back and continued, “He’s the father of two of our Guardians: Oceanus and Ion, here.”
Lady Borea pursed her lips in a very displeased sort of way. “Ah...the Caller.”
She looked down at Ion, her gaze piercing, and grabbed hold of his jaw. She twisted his head left, right, then tilted it back.
“You must be the son of Vinya I’ve heard so much about,” she said, releasing her grip.
“I-I am,” Ion replied. Well, one-third son.
“Such an intriguing piece of metal you have there,” she said. “But another topic for another time, I think.”
She looked back up at Father. “Listen here. I have nothing against Callers such as yourself, especially ones who birth our Guardians. But after the draft, your kind now has a reason to scheme against us, so I’m afraid you cannot stay in the Hall, listening in on our plans. Your children are only exempt because of their Guardian status.”
Othum was quick to take hold of the conversation, turning to Father and saying, “Atrius, there should be a few elves—ones in armor—waiting outside by now. Tell them the Skylord has ordered they deliver our luggage to the appropriate places. Could you be so kind and oversee them?”
Father nodded, and after hugging Ion and Oceanus goodbye, departed. The golden gates slammed shut, and Lady Borea turned to Othum.
“No more dilly-dallying then,” she said, hooking her arm through her son’s. “Let the meeting begin. Guardians”—her eyes briefly strayed to Ion’s jaw—“you wait here and tend the door. No one enters or leaves until this meeting is adjourned.”
CHAPTER FIVE
WAY OF THE OLD GODS
Lady Borea walked the Skylord into the half-circle of thrones.. He nodded at each Illyrian he passed, receiving nods and smiles in return. The thrones closed in behind them, the crystal grinding across the stone floor to make the semi-circle into a full one. Othum found his throne at the back, where five stood taller than the rest—reserved for the High Illyrians, the five gods of Illyria who were considered the most important.
There were fifteen thrones, but only thirteen were filled—an empty one for the god of the Moon, another for K’thas the Fearful, god of the Darklands.
After everyone settled, Lady Borea rose. “Council is officially in session. We have come here today, June 30th of the year 2301, to find a replacement for the Hand of the Moon and, in turn, restore the Balance.” Lady Borea sat back down and after folding her bony hands over her lap, asked, “Now, which one of you entitled little godlings thinks you could fill the Throne of Lady Vinya?”
When two Illyrians shot up from their seats, Ion wasn’t surprised to see Vasheer was one of them. He glared vicious holes into the god across the way—Esereez the Inventor. Esereez had been an Elemental Essentials teacher at the Achaean Academy, alongside Vinya. Ion wasn’t too fond of him or his perpetual brooding, but he wasn’t nearly as bad as Vasheer seemed. Esereez was only about as tall as Ion, skin made of charcoal, with a strong jaw, and shards of diamonds growing out the tops of his shoulders. He didn’t look too dissimilar from something the dwarves of Eldanar would uncover from one of their precious mines.
Vasheer was the first to speak. “I, Vasheer the Bright One, Brother of the Sun, am the only deity of the Grand Council fit to summon the Moon. I alone empower the Sun, I alone tend to its temperatures and light. My power over the celestial bodies of this world has already been proven. Overseeing the demands of the Moon will be no foreign matter for me, like it would Esereez, here.” He curled his lip at the tiny god. “You’re only an inventor, brother. You couldn’t possibly begin to understand the responsibility of controlling the Moon.”
There was a smattering of whispers from the crowd of dwarves, elves, and giants on the second floor.
Esereez’s fists went tight at his side. “It seems you’ve made my case for me, Bright One. A god of the Sun should not also be a god of the Moon. Your responsibilities are already too great. Me, on the other hand? I simply have to exist and those of this world will be inspired to invent. Assuming the responsibilities of the Moon God will not affect my present duties like it would yours.”
Vasheer scoffed at the comment, then smirked. “Responsibilities aside, how will you ever reach the Throne of the Moon, Inventor? Shall you craft a stool to help you up?”
The smattering of whispers from above turned to snickering, until a cold glare from Esereez silenced them.
A third god rose, slow but mighty. He stood tall, with incredibly long, thin limbs clad in black armor, not excluding his neck. Around his head rotated a carousel of fifty magically hovering lenses—one for each of his tiny eyes. The lenses were either big and thick, or small and thin, each moving slowly from one eye to the next.
“I, Thoman the Overseer,” the god spoke, his voice hard and unsettling, “seek the Throne of the Moon to regain the dishonor that has fallen upon me. I shall proudly take Lady Vinya’s place to restore life to her memory and mine, and erase that of my wretched son.”
K’thas, Ion realized. This was the Overseer—the Illyrian god of war. So he was the one who brought K’thas into this world. Ion couldn’t imagine the shame he felt, though he could clearly see it weighing heavily upon the cheeks that sat below his collection of eyes.
Esereez rolled his eyes. Vasheer rubbed one of his diamond head spikes, unimpressed.
“This is no time for you to be thinking of honor, Thoman,” said Vasheer. “The Moon is important, and most would argue your job is more demanding than any of ours. At least when I Empower the Sun I only have to do it once a month. You, however, must sit in your tower all day, overseeing the skirmishes o
f this world.”
“You speak of nothing I don’t already know,” Thoman returned. “I am aware of my limits, but they have not yet been reached. Overseeing the Moon will be no difficult task.”
“Hah!” Vasheer cackled. “You couldn’t even raise your own son, yet you think you can take care of the Moon?”
“Do not speak to me in that manner!” Thoman boomed, stomping the floor and rocking the Hall.
A barrage of words was fired from all three Illyrians, the other ten gods watching on in boredom. Something bumped into Ion’s arm, and he turned to find a tray of cakes topped by bubbling, red liquid floating in midair beside him. It bumped into him again, and when he looked about to see if anyone else was seeing this, he caught Othum’s eye.
“Serve them,” he mouthed.
Ion grabbed the plate, and looked to Oceanus for help as he left the doors of the Hall and approached the circle of thrones. She, however, couldn’t take her eyes off the gods, so he looked to Theo, who quickly and nervously looked away.
The crystal thrones were even bigger up close—besides Esereez’s—and the same went for the gods sitting in them. He swallowed as he came upon them, so aware of how unbearably thick his tongue felt. The sounds of godly arguing still echoed about the Hall.
Ion walked in between two thrones and offered the plate to the deity on his left. “Sweet?” he asked quietly.
He was a large god. In a monstrously round sort of way. There were folds upon folds of skin and fat hanging from his body, which drooped over the arms of his throne and bulged through his blue robes. He looked down at Ion with droopy eyes and bags underneath to match, but then leaned away. Soldune, god of gluttony. He was the only god of Illyria who oversaw what was considered to be a “vice”. On Eldanar, the rich thanked him before each evening meal, praying that they’d be able to eat the bounty of food before them and not get sick.
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.”