by Nikolas Lee
Ion gripped his chest, heart drumming madly.
“You killed her,” the boy whispered through his smile. “You killed Vinya.”
“Stop it!” Ion screamed and a boom of thunder rolled through the hall. He dropped to his knees and pounded his fists to the floor, the tile cracking beneath his hands. The words of the little boy echoed once more through his head. “I didn’t kill her,” said Ion, face in his hands, tears in his eyes. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to. I promise I didn’t.”
A cool, wet sort of feeling washed over Ion’s shoulders, down his back and legs. Great, big hands fell upon Ion’s shoulders and he jumped, only to find Father standing before him.
“Ionikus, what’s going on here?” Father asked, his small eyes dark with concern. His long black hair and even longer beard were soaked. “Are you okay?”
It was then that Ion realized there was rain falling on his face and drenching his clothes. The floor was as wet as Father, and the flames of the floating torches nearby had been extinguished. Ion hesitantly looked up, and there, churning below the glass ceiling, was a mass of clouds so dark and ominous they gave Ion a chill.
“D-did I do this?” Ion asked.
Father looked at him, confused. “Yes, Ionikus. Now, would you mind turning it off?”
Ion closed his eyes, thought hard, and the rain slowed until it was no more. The clouds dissipated like smoke, and Father helped Ion to his feet. The floor was slick with water, pooled in areas where it was old and sunken in.
“Quite a storm you conjured,” said Father. “Though, next time I’d advise doing it outside.”
“That’s the thing,” said Ion, staring up at him. “I didn’t call for any storm. I don’t know what came over me, but there was this...this kid, and he”—he said it was your fault, that you killed Vinya—“he kept saying these horrible things. Next thing I knew, you were here...and so was the rain.”
“The Balance must finally be getting to you,” said Father, escorting Ion down the hall and out of the wet corridor. “Thankfully for you, the gods will have this all fixed very soon. The Skylord has invited me on your journey to Illyria tomorrow.”
“Really?” Ion asked.
“Indeed.” Father nodded, then stopped and knelt. “Now Ionikus, I expect you to be on your very best behavior when we arrive. No eye rolling or back-talking, understand?”
Ion sighed, drooping his shoulders so his displeasure could be clearly seen. “Yes, I understand.”
“The gods of Illyria are not to be tampered with,” Father said, stern now. “I think we as Callers know that more than most. Yes—it’s best we both keep a low profile from now on. I’ll have no more trouble falling upon this family.”
Father had returned from his enslavement in the Darklands a fragment of his former self. Perhaps it’d been the loss of Mother. Or perhaps powering the Shroud of the Darklands had sapped him of his vigor. But regardless, he no longer challenged the gods like he used to.
Ion understood, though, and so he nodded. “Yes, Father. I understand.”
“Very good,” he said. “Now, I’m going to go dry off and start packing. I suggest you do the same. Goodnight, my boy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Father tussled Ion’s hair and down the hall he went, his burly frame disappearing into the darkness of the distant corridor.
Ion breathed deep and willed himself to turn around. The end of the drenched hall was empty. There was no little boy with a big, creepy smile, and no sounds of blame echoing off the walls. There were only puddles, extinguished torches, and the blank void of the night sky above.
The next morning, Ion raced around his bedroom, hurriedly packing his last tunic into the already over-stuffed contents of his old, leather bag. The light of dawn flooded Ion’s bedroom, casting golden bars over his bed, mirror, as Othum’s voice sang from the courtyard outside Ion’s window. Quickly, he slipped on his mother’s necklace, slid the Omnus Staff into the holder on his back and raced down to join the Illyrian.
Ion entered the morning light, greeted by an unusual chill for a summer day on Eldanar. Frantically, he patted his hair down with one hand, then twisted his tunic straight and made sure his belt was tight around his waist. But once his eyes had met with the blue, two-storied carriage stationed in the middle of the courtyard, he stopped everything he was doing.
Bags of old, leather luggage were huddled around the back of the carriage, while Amora, the Sentinel gatekeeper, tried her best to tie all the cases to the back of the vehicle. Her heavy purple armor clanked and creaked with each bag she loaded. Othum popped his head out the two doors of the carriage then, and grinned.
“Good morning, Mr. Reaves!” he said, stepping down onto the courtyard. He wore a shimmering white tunic with a high collar, buttons down the middle and a hole fashioned around his diamond, which glittered even in the foggy light of the morning. The copper wires bowing out from it looked especially fancy and polished.
“Morning, Skylord. Is this what we’re traveling in?” Ion asked, looking wide-eyed at the carriage.
“Of course!” said Othum. “This carriage was a gift from the Sea Queen a number of years ago after I voted in favor of her raising the sea level a foot or two. Never got around to using this grand beauty, though. This’ll be its first trip.”
Othum looked down at Ion’s bag. “Here, let me take that. Better get it tied up good or the winds will take it right off mid-flight!”
Winds? Mid-flight?
In the background, Amora tried hoisting a few too many cases of luggage onto the back of the carriage and fell backward, two of the bags popping open and spraying tunics and robes all over the place. Judging by the amount of bags and clothes, Othum must’ve been planning to stay on Illyria longer than a few days.
“Oh my,” said Othum, rushing to Amora’s side. “These silks were a gift from the Gray Elves! They mustn’t touch the ground!”
While Othum did his quickest to pluck the garments from the floor they weren’t supposed to be on, a familiar voice came from behind Ion and he turned.
“I told you to leave it there and make a second trip!” a tall, elven girl hissed at the boy behind her as she walked out of the shadows of the corridor. Her name was Lillian Monroe, and she was the Blood Guardian—a goddess whose powers were an extension of anything the human mind could do. Her head was completely bald, her skin a faded pink, ears as long as ever, bouncing as she walked. Five cases of luggage floated behind her, held aloft by only the power of her mind.
Her long, thin eyes pierced Ion like an arrow as she approached. “Nice to see you could join us,” she said, her voice flat as usual. “We’ve been carrying down Othum’s bags for the past thirty minutes. Apparently it’s a must to have twenty back-up outfits.”
Lillian looked to the carriage, and the cases of luggage that had been floating behind her, hovered past them and landed beside Amora and Othum, who were just about finished cleaning up the mess of clothes.
“Thank you, Lillian!” Othum said without looking up.
“Not a problem, Skylord,” she replied, still flat, still uninterested.
“You mean all of this is his?” Ion asked, eyeing the mountain of luggage that had accumulated on the back of the carriage.
She pursed her lips and nodded. Then, Theodore Price with his big blue eyes, raggedy blond hair, and squat dwarven legs, appeared in the corridor doorway. He held two bags of luggage in each hand, all four nearly as tall as he was.
“It’s all his!” Theo said. “All of it!”
Ion laughed and took two cases off Theo’s hands.
“I wish I had Lillian’s telekinesis,” Theo said. “All I could do with these bags is set them on fire.” He leaned over to Ion and whispered, “And yes, I did think about doing it.”
While Ion and Theo placed the bags by Amora, who was now quietly returning to packing, Father and Oceanus entered the courtyard from yet another hall of the fortress.
“Quite a bit of luggage you have here,” Father told
Othum, hands on his hips, wearing his best leather jerkin and skirt.
“Yes, well, you can never be too sure, Atrius,” said Othum, giving Father a good slap on the back, which hurt by the look on Father’s face. “All right, it looks like that’s it. I do believe there’s some tea in the carriage, if you’d all join me for a cup?”
“Most certainly, Skylord,” Father said.
Everyone filed in, but before Ion could, Othum slunk in front of him, his face suddenly heavy. “Ion, might I have a quick word with you before we get to the tea?”
“Um...sure, Skylord.”
Othum walked him a few feet away from the entrance to the carriage, and looked at the Omnus Staff on Ions’ back. “Ion, I think you should leave the Staff behind for this trip. None of the other gods but one knows of its part as one half of your Connection Seal. If they were to find out, I feel the Illyrians would ask questions we aren’t ready to answer. And trust me, that’s the last thing you want with this group.”
Ion grabbed the iron of the Omnus Staff and pulled it free of its holder. He looked down at it, rolling the staff over in his hand. It warmed his jaw and he knew the pyramid of eyes had appeared on his chin. He thought for a bit, chewing on his lip. But it helps with my control. Without it in his hand, his Connection Seal wouldn’t be complete, wouldn’t offer the security of control he needed.
But Othum’s expression was hard.
“I understand, Skylord,” said Ion.
“Thank you, Ion. I knew you would.”
Ion placed the Staff in Othum’s open hand and handed over the leather holder as well. The Skylord then handed the staff to Amora, who took it with a bow.
Othum turned to Ion once more. “It’s also important to note that while the whole of Illyria is very well aware of your different birthing circumstances, I’m not so certain they’ll give you the warmest of welcomes for it. The Illyrian gods are a high-strung lot, Ion, and a family member born the way you were will need some time to be fully accepted. Does that make sense?”
Ion nodded, but kept his thoughts to himself. We aren’t even there yet, yet we’re already whispering, already keeping secrets from Illyria.
“Very good,” said Othum, adjusting the collar of his tunic. “Now, into the carriage we go.”
Othum ushered Ion into the carriage, where he found a place upon the U-shaped bench beside the others. He sat, still chewing on his lip. What am I walking into? he wondered.
The inside of the carriage was as immaculate as Ion expected. Seats with beautiful flower designs lined three of the inside walls, which were painted a robin’s egg blue, Othum pointed out. In the middle rose a table of pure gold, on top of which sat a porcelain tray with porcelain saucers holding porcelain teacups.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Othum asked, taking a seat beside Father, which made the whole carriage shift.
“Quite,” Father returned.
It was interesting. Ion never imagined his father could look anything but huge and intimidating—him and his wide chest, long black beard, and small, piercing eyes. A former gladiator and Air Caller that could conjure winds to match a hurricane’s. But next to Othum, he couldn’t have looked more like an ordinary man. Older even.
“It’s. So. Fancy, ” Theo whispered, running his hand excitedly along the surface of the gold table.
Dwarves loved gold. It was a thing.
“Everyone is in for quite a treat,” said Othum, pouring a cup of tea for each. “This tea comes from the Jasmine Fields of the Eastern Realm—the largest and arguably the most beautiful continent of the Outerworld.”
Everyone sipped at their tea, trading delighted glances. It was so sweet, Othum must have poured an entire cup of sugar into the pot.
“I am so excited about this!” Oceanus said.
“Indeed!” said Othum. “I must admit, I wish I was visiting for a happier reason, but I’m quite excited to see my Guardians take their first step onto Illyria. It is a grand fortress if there ever was one. I must warn you, however: life on Illyria is...different for a Guardian than here on the Acropolis.”
“And that means what?” Lillian asked.
Othum cleared his throat. Everyone stopped drinking their tea. “Well, I’m a bit more relaxed than the other members of my family. That’s why I moved here, you see—to escape the formalities of Illyria.”
Ion traded glances with Lillian. “And what are these formalities?” he asked.
“Well, do you recall how Vasheer asked to be escorted to the Acropolis?”
Ion clenched his jaw. “How could I forget?”
“Well, that’s how it is on Illyria...all the time.”
“Ugh,” Ion grunted. “But—”
“Ion, my boy, Guardians are the servants and protectors of Illyria,” Othum explained. “A Guardian’s duties include but are not limited to: battling our enemies, protecting Illyria and all other lands owned by the pantheon, escorting us safely from one destination to the next, combing our hair, and—”
“Combing your hair?” Ion cried. “Comb your own hair!”
“I agree wholeheartedly with you, Mr. Reaves!” said Othum. “I’d never trust anyone but myself with these luscious locks. But it won’t be that bad. Despite it being a very curious time—a very curious time, indeed—the other Illyrians will only ask for an escort from time to time, like Vasheer did. They understand you’re young, and not yet versed in the ways of Illyria...I think.”
“I don’t know,” said Ion. “Escorting is one thing, but—”
Oceanus grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and pressed her nose against his. Her eyes were big and bright, and Ion was sure he could see an angry, crashing ocean wave churning around in the blue of her eyes. “Listen here, oinker! You are not going to ruin this trip for me, understand? If those beautiful Illyrian gods want their beautiful Illyrian selves escorted from place to place, you better be that escort and you better smile while you’re doing it. If they want their gorgeous, godly hair combed, you better comb their gorgeous, godly hair like only a Guardian hair-comber could! If they tell a joke, you better laugh. If they sneeze, you better bless them, and by the fires of the Darklands, if I hear you haven’t been doing all of those things you’re going to drown in the biggest, most violent, most floodiest-flood you’ve ever seen! Do. You. Understand?”
Ion swallowed and nodded.
“Good then,” she said, releasing his tunic and pushing him against the back of his seat.
The carriage was silent. Everyone’s eyes were wide, teacups perfectly still. Father seemed afraid that if he moved he, too, would be placed on Oceanus’s flood list.
Then came Amora’s voice from outside. “Everything is secure, Skylord! You’re ready for takeoff!”
She appeared in the doorway and Othum shot up from his seat, teacup and saucer in hand. “Fantastic! I’m leaving the Acropolis in your hands, Amora. I expect its security to be properly overseen, and its borders under heavy guard.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Skylord,” she said with a bow.
“Very well. I shall send for you upon my return.” He winked and shut the door. The Skylord went through a door at the front of the carriage and sat down on the driver’s bench, teacup at his side.
“Keep seated and anchored, my children,” he called to them. “At the moment, Illyria hovers over the middle of the Green Sea, waiting for our arrival. It won’t be a long ride, but it’ll surely be a bumpy one.”
Othum raised his hand in the air, and in a flash, a whip of sizzling lightning materialized in his palm. He lashed the air only once, thunder rocking the courtyard. Another blinding flash ripped through the space in front the carriage, and five black steeds appeared before the Skylord. Steeds that in place of normal horse hair and hooves had arcing, hissing bolts of blue electricity.
“To Illyria!” Othum cried.
He cracked his whip, and the carriage was swept off the floor of the courtyard, the electrical steeds ascending into the light of the dawn. They climbed, faster a
nd faster, high and higher, until the Isle of Eldanar was merely a distant rock beneath them. Ion’s one and only home now as small as an anthill.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FLOATING ISLE
While Ion and Oceanus tried desperately to keep the tea in their cups, Father plastered himself against his seat, eyes wider than Ion knew they could get. Theo just screamed. Really loud. And not entirely unlike a four-year-old girl. And all the while, Lillian sat perfectly still and unaffected in her spot, sipping at her tea, keeping her area neat and grounded with only her thoughts.
The ride continued for what seemed like an hour, Othum shouting to his steeds at the front, the occasional lash of his lightning whip igniting thunder in the air. Then suddenly, the carriage slowed.
“Look, my Guardians!” Othum cried. “The Isle of Illyria is upon us!”
Everyone clambered to the only window of the carriage. It was amazing. Incredible. Unlike anything Ion had seen. As golden as Mother said.
The Isle of Illyria floated in the distance, an immense body of rock that looked like an upturned mountain, its peak skimming the surface of the ocean while the island slowly moved west, eclipsing the light of the Sun. A waterfall fell off the northern side of the floating isle, the waters dissipating into a mist before it could reach the seas. Othum drew the carriage upward along this northern half of the island, and Ion watched as Illyria unfolded before him. The city stood proud and mighty on this half of the island. Sunlight bathed the sandstone palaces and temples, its colossal statues and towers. Its windows and doors were made of pure gold, its streets of turquoise tiles.
“Many years ago, the Old Gods raised the Isle of Illyria from the highest mountain of the Eastern Realm,” Othum shouted over the winds. “Soon after, a disease we call the Sickness swept through all but one of the Old Gods, leaving Lady Borea to raise us, the Illyrians, as the new pantheon. I was taught how to wield the skies atop Illyria. Nepia, the oceans. Vasheer, the Sun. It is sacred ground, and no being, alive or dead is permitted to set foot upon it unless officially invited by an Illyrian god.”
