In the corner of his eye, he caught Oceanus scaling a ladder to the Acropolis walls. Her icy shield twinkled as lightning flashed above. She fought her way to the top, flinging Sentinel after Sentinel from the ladder. Oceanus reached the final step, and a Sentinel she hadn’t anticipated appeared overhead with a Hill Guster in hand. There was a shriek, a blast of wind, and Oceanus was sprawled out on the grassy fields beside Ion, looking seconds away from crying. The horn sounded in the background, and Oceanus was dragged out of sight.
A third sound of the horn came quickly after the second, and Ion turned to see a group of Sentinels in the distance rolling a massive boulder off of a dazed Spike. Betrayed by his own rocks, Ion laughed inside, before launching a Sentinel into the Acropolis gates with yet another twister.
A spear pierced the air beside Ion’s ear—he turned, roared, and out of his pointer finger exploded a jade-colored bolt of lightning that cracked against the Sentinel, chucking her across the fields. He heard a click—the click of a trigger—and when he turned to his left, a blast of deafening sound exploded out the mouth of a Barking Cannon. But before the wave of noise could even leave the barrel of the gun, and Ion could be dragged back to the professors’ stage, Lillian leapt in front of Ion and was struck in the chest by the explosion.
Ion fell to his knees beside Lillian, who was dazed, lying on the ground.
“Lillian?” he asked, shaking her by the shoulders. “Lillian?”
The horn sounded, and a Sentinel walked out of the crowd, heaved Lillian over her shoulders, and disappeared back into the ranks of the other Sentinels.
She saved me, Ion thought in wonder. Lillian actually saved me. Now he really had to apologize.
The air filled with an ominous hissing, a hissing Ion was all too familiar with, and when he rose to his feet and turned to face the noise, a wall of locusts barreled into him. They smacked against his face, pelted his arms and legs and clung to his hair.
“Solara!” he screamed, no longer able to see a foot in front of him.
The pelting continued and anger clenched at Ion’s muscles.
Locusts glued themselves to his eyebrows, his forehead, his cheeks, and lips. His face felt heavier and heavier, and breathing became more difficult by the second. He had to do something. Any longer and he’d suffocate.
Ion tightened his jaw, took a step back, and brought his arms to one side—just as Vinya had taught him. A whirlwind snaked into the hoop he had formed with his arms, and before long, Ion was twisting his arms around the column of wind, wrestling with it as though it were a thrashing alligator, while rain, dirt, and locusts were sucked inside and spat out the other end, splattering against the Acropolis gates. Left to right Ion heaved the howling winds, until the storm of locusts was no more and Solara was standing before him, looking at the one bug who defied her order.
“My….locusts!”
Ion pulled the funnel toward her, but her red hair was the only part of her body that flicked and flittered, pulled by the wind.
“Here you are again,” said Solara, “standing in my way, using your pathetic winds for protection. But a fatal flaw has been made, Ionikus Reaves, for you underestimate the daughter of an Illyrian. And more so, her ability to make friends.”
Two Sentinels stepped out from behind Solara, their hands occupied by the silvery, pointed Flame Spitters, their eyes glinting with madness. Ion swallowed, Solara smiled, and fire streamed out of the Flame Spitters’ mouths, spinning into Ion’s whirlwind. He yelped in pain as the flames seared his hands and arms, and dropped to his knees in pain, the winds settling almost instantly.
The horn sounded from the professors’ stage. The rain lightened.
“On your knees,” Solara said, “exactly where a Caller should be.”
She threw her head back with a cackle, and as she did, her skin melted away into yet another swarm of insects. But these weren’t locusts. No—their bodies were thin, and subtly red, flying gracefully through the air with long, transparent wings. They fluttered almost like butterflies toward the Acropolis walls, and Ion, with his hands still burning, watched as the termites clung to the wooden catapults and devoured them in minutes.
When Solara had finished reducing the catapults to saw dust, Ion and the other Guardians formed a line before the professors’ stage. Othum, Illindria, Esereez, and Hispoticus all stood from their thrones, wearing bright, proud smiles.
“Guardians of the Achaean Academy,” said Othum, his arms stretched wide. “I couldn’t tell you how very pleased I am with the mighty gods who stand before me. Theodore Price,” he looked at Theo, whose ankle was wound up in bandages, “your courage, vigor, and eagerness to prove your worth is endearing, especially with only a few months of training under your belt. You, my fine sir, are a Class Four.”
Theo excitedly punched the air like only Theo could do.
Othum turned his attention to Lillian, paused, then stared suspiciously at the girl. “Do you shave that head of yours or is it naturally hairless like a naked mole rat?”
“It’s natural,” Lillian said through tight lips.
“Ah,” said Othum, nodding. “Lucky you—I hear bald is coming back into style. You’re both naturally fashionable and brave, for you understand a part of battle the other Guardians do not: looking out for your teammate. Rescuing Ion from the nasty bark of that Barking Cannon has earned you a Class Six leveling.”
Lillian bowed.
Othum’s eyes fell upon Oceanus, who was stiff as ice, waiting for her judgment. “Oceanus Reaves, your attempt to strike the Sentinels upon the wall, where they sought safety, was impressive and daring. It reminded me of a younger Nepia; brave and willing to take a risk for the cause. You, my dear, are also Class Seven.”
Oceanus allowed a smile, and Othum continued on. “Spike, my valiant nephew, you are a Class Seven as well. Your passion on the battlefield was most inspiring, and the way that boulder flattened you—why, I’ve never witnessed such a graceful fall!”
Spike bowed. Othum turned to Solara, who was standing tall, with her arms locked behind her back and her face solid and stoic.
“Now, onto my niece, Solara,” said Othum. “The way you used your cunning and wit to convince those Sentinels to fight for you was hands-down the finest moment of the test. Often times, your enemies can become your allies, and your battle tactics today proved just that. Congratulations, Solara, you are a Class Nine.”
And then it was Ion’s turn.
“Young Ionikus Reaves, today you showed the offense and defense that we sky gods are known for.” Ion’s hands suddenly felt less hot. “It was like...like watching a younger, much shorter, less-bearded me out there. You were vicious, you were mighty...and you fought like a Class Eight Guardian.”
Class Eight? Ion welled with excitement and warmth, and the words sprang from his mouth before he could stop them. “I did it! I passed the CVEs! I-I...I freed Father!”
“What’s that, my boy?” Othum asked.
“Y-you promised to f-free my father if I passed the CVEs, Skylord.”
Othum looked Ion up and down, and then sighed as though the words had aged him a hundred years. “It’s a difficult task: freeing a Caller in these troubling times. I’m sure you understand, Mr. Reaves.”
“But y-you said you’d free him...”
“Ion, let’s talk about this some other time, okay?”
Ion went white. He was certain he’d never been struck by anything harder than what Othum had just said. He looked over at Oceanus for something, anything, but there she stood, straight and emotionless.
He couldn’t believe it. He felt so stupid. So embarrassed. All he wanted to do was go cry in his bed.
Mother was right. Oceanus was wrong. Othum had lied, and Ion had stayed in this stupid school with these stupid people for no reason at all. Father would never be freed.
Unless Ion did it himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE HAND OF FEAR
By nightfall, the Jovian
Fields had been abandoned for a feast in the Mirrored Hall—a feast Ion refused to attend.
There’s nothing to celebrate, he thought, sitting on his bed, thinking of how the Mirrored Hall probably sang with the high, happy hymns of nymph songs and the gleeful humming of sprite wings. How towers of silver plates would be stacked upon the tables, each brimming with godly sweets no one had ever seen before. The Dwarves would be toasting with mugs filled with coconut-honey milk and the floors would be thundering from the giants dancing through the aisles. Why, even the elves would have allowed the slightest of smiles, in pride of their higher-than-Class-Four ratings.
But then, Ion drew his hands into fists, and thought about how Othum had lied. The gods only care for themselves. He closed his eyes tight, and went over Mother’s plan again and again
And then he heard a boom of godly laughter.
He rushed to his window and pulled the curtains open so only one eye could poke out to see. There was Othum, strolling through the courtyard on his way to the coliseum, no doubt to prepare for the graduation ceremony. And by the looks of his wobbling stride, he’d consumed a healthy portion of nymph’s wine at the feast.
Othum stumbled out of the moonlight of the courtyard, down a dark corridor of the fortress that would lead to the coliseum, and Ion breathed deep. This was it. This was the chance he’d been waiting for.
The halls of the fortress were annoyingly busy. They trembled with the footsteps of nearby giants, and whispered with the gossip of passing nymphs. Ion just hoped and prayed he wouldn’t see Lillian—she made stealing seem so dark and wrong—the nerve! Caspian Strange walked by with his head hung low, probably still ashamed of his Class Five grading, but once he was out of sight, Ion turned the corner and was exactly where he needed to be.
The corridor before him was narrower than he’d thought it would be. Blue-flamed candles floated beside the walls, giving the tiled floors and ceiling an extra shine, with two enormous oak doors waiting at the end of the hall.
Ion pushed just slightly enough, and without so much of a creak from the doors, he was safe inside. His eyes widened as he tried taking in what lay before him. He stood at the bottom of a marble shaft, looking up as if he had fallen down a well. But right before him waited a platform, and attached to it, a lever. With nervous steps, Ion climbed aboard, and when he heaved the lever to the left, the platform shot upward. He’d read about these things in his Outerworld history books—elevators, the Outerworld humans had called them.
Up the tunnel he rose, with the wind in his hair and a pit growing in his stomach. He recalled Mother’s words: “When you arrive at the top, never mind the distractions. You are there for one thing and one thing only.” The elevator stopped with a sudden screech, and Ion found himself in the center of a room that could’ve only belonged to a King—the King of the Illyrians, to be exact.
A golden chandelier hung over Ion’s head, showering the black tiles of the room’s walls and floor in generous light, illuminating the shelves of Blister Bites and Frostling to the left, the three-tiered display of fog-bleeding macaroons to the right, and the small fountain of a satyr spitting fruit punch out its mouth and into a bowl beside Othum’s bed. But it was what the chandelier hung out of that so intrigued Ion. For where the ceiling should have been, was a layer of rolling clouds. Thunder rumbled in one corner of the bedroom, where the clouds were a nasty black, showering the floors with rain. In the opposite corner, the clouds hung a dull gray, lightly covering the floor with snow.
Ion swallowed. Never mind the distractions, he repeated, taking his first step off the elevator platform, ignoring the thunder in the east and the delicious macaroons waiting in the west. He scanned the room, looking for...there! A narrow golden gate stood in the distance, the walls within oozing fog.
He approached, and through the golden bars, saw a key—a treasured key, one with a handle of wispy metal flames, hovering above a pedestal in the center of the tiny, fog-filled room. Ion chewed on his lip and drew his eyes up and down the bars that separated him from his completed mission. And at that moment, a woman’s voice crept through the bedroom and whispered into his ear, “Your greatest possession, my Lord?”
Ion answered, “The heart of Onyxia.”
The room jolted, and the golden gates ascended into the ceiling of clouds—gone as though they’d never existed. Ion entered the chamber, and when his hands fell upon the key, a spark raced up his fingers, through his arms, and into his chest. He smiled, but for only a second.
The elevator shrieked like it hadn’t been oiled in years, and when Ion turned to see what was the matter, the platform sunk beneath Othum’s chamber in a troubling flash. His heart nearly stopped.
There was only one reason the elevator would leave the room…to pick up another guest.
“Othum, this is ridiculous,” Illindria’s voice echoed up from the tunnel below. “It’s summertime! There’s no need for a scarf!”
The floor at Ion’s feet shuddered as the elevator grew near. He swiftly stuffed the key into the pocket of his tunic and searched the room for safety...not there...no...definitely not there...the closet! Ion dashed across the room, took to the shadows behind a ridiculously fat coat, and waited.
The elevator arrived with a murderous screech and Othum and Illindria stepped off. Othum speedily took to the closet, rifling through the tunics, robes, and battle skirts.
“Where is that forsaken scarf!” he hissed under his breath, which smelled of chocolate and wine. “I know I put it right here, above my winter belts!”
Ion clung to the back wall of the closet and held his breath.
“This one looks seconds away from exploding,” Illindria said in the background as she poked an overly plump muffin. “Is it really necessary to keep all these sweets in here? I mean, it’s a bit overindulgent, don’t you think, brother?”
“Overindulgent?” Othum snapped, still busy searching through his closet. “Nepia sits in her chambers polishing her dearest Tempest almost hourly, and Omeer collected souls like vintage coins, yet I can’t have a few sweets lying around? Am I not allowed just one joy?”
“Well, I was simply—”
“Ah, here she is!” said Othum, much to Ion’s relief. Othum’s hand came an inch from Ion’s nose before it coiled around a golden scarf and plucked it from the depths of the closet. He threw it around his mighty neck and walked over to the elevator.
“Ready when you are,” he said, smiling at Illindria.
The Illyrians climbed aboard the elevator, and Othum yanked down on the lever. They were gone in a flash and a shriek. And once Ion heard the doors close below, he emerged from the darkness of the closet, checked his pocket to make sure the key hadn’t been dislodged, and smiled once more.
But something happened on the way back to the Hall of Forgotten Heroes—something Ion didn’t expect, and fully hated. It gripped his gut, squeezed his lungs, and made his jaw feel heavier than ever.
Guilt.
And as Ion walked across the courtyard, his jaw became so heavy with it, he could barely hold his head up. He knocked three times on the tiles, and in no time, he was back on the sands of the monstrous underground hall. He stood in the center, the eyes of the forgotten heroes falling upon him all at once. Mother came hovering out of the shadows.
She wouldn’t misguide me, Ion thought. She just wouldn’t. Yet his heart was telling him otherwise.
He wasn’t Orthys Smith, stealing the Scepter of the First Light to give his people independence from the fickle Illyrian gods. He was just a thief who desperately wanted his family back.
“My beautiful, beautiful boy,” said Mother, her hands crossed over her heart. “You recovered the key?”
Ion reached into his pocket, pulled out the key and its handle of metal flames, and said, “It went just as planned.” He hesitated as he recalled the CVE’s. “O-Othum lied. Like you said he would.”
“Oh, Ionikus,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear I was right, really I am. But he is an
Illyrian. You’ve done the right thing in taking his key. Your father is so close to being freed! And all because of you.”
Then why does my jaw feel like it weighs a hundred pounds?
“Now, grab the staff, dear,” she went on, “so we can finish what we’ve started. There’s only one step left.”
Ion walked over to the statue with the mirrored shield and grabbed the Omnus Staff leaning against it. His jaw felt warm—alive—as the triangle of eyes resurfaced. Mother ushered him over to another statue, one so badly decayed there was only a pair of meaty legs to indicate it was even a statue at all. She pointed to the base of the statue, where a chain about as thick as Spike’s neck coiled around it like a snake wrapped around its prey, fixed there by the might of a colossal padlock. Ion looked down at the other end of the chain and where it disappeared into the sand beneath his feet.
“W-what is this?” Ion asked.
“The chain links to the Darkland’s gate below,” said Mother.
“You mean...the entrance...it’s right beneath us?” Ion asked.
She nodded, then said, “As it has always been. Othum ordered its construction long ago.”
Ion looked down at the key and the staff: the items he’d stolen.
“Well, go on!” said Mother. “Only one key can forfeit the hold of this lock—the one in your hands. Free the chains, and let our journey into the Darklands begin.”
Ion bent down to the base of the statue, the grand lock so close he could see the fine, wispy engravings upon its metal. He swallowed, and thought about what he had done to get to this place. He’d stolen, lied, pushed people away.
He looked up from the lock and saw Mother smiling so brightly above him. But the gods had done worse than he could ever do, like sending Mother to war and getting her killed. And with a thrust of the key, and a turn that took all the strength Ion could muster, the chains lashed out from around the statue’s base, sped toward the center of the hall, and in a sickening flash, vanished beneath the sand.