by Nikolas Lee
Ion got to the top of the hill and approached the gigantic gold doors the elf girl had spoken of. He grabbed hold of the ring attached to the gates, knocking three times.
There came an ancient creak! and when the doors slowly opened, Ion’s stomach lurched. He walked down a black hall a hundred feet tall, the green light of the nearby floating torches casting emerald hues across the walls. At the end of the corridor, Ion stopped before a room bathed in deep, bloody reds. Unusual music sang from within. Music played to the warbling, mighty notes of a woman’s voice—so different from the soft ones he’d always heard from performers in the streets of Protea, or from his mother while she cooked.
“Come in, Grandson,” said the Queen, her words noticeably not slurred.
I’m not your grandson, Ion thought, entering the room. It seemed as though he’d walked through a fog of perfume, sweet but with a hint of danger.
Queen Onyxia waited to the right, seated on a small red stool in front of an old vanity. Her flowing white gown was relatively demure compared to her usual dress of blinking bird feathers. Ion saw, in the reflection of the mirror, that her head was lathered in white cream, while the same elf girl who’d told Ion to meet the Queen was standing behind her, running the blade of a shaving knife down the side of the goddess’s head.
“Good evening, My Queen,” said Ion, bowing.
The elf girl ran the knife gently down the side of Onyxia’s head, refusing (or not allowed) to acknowledge Ion’s presence. The voice of the singing woman came to a near-screaming crescendo in the background, accompanied by a strumming of stringed instruments and the smashing of what sounded like a gong. But no matter what direction Ion looked, he could see no woman, or stringed instruments, and most certainly no gongs. Then the music faded and Onyxia shrieked in pain, flashing around to the elf girl, looking her viciously up and down.
“I think your time here has come to a close for the night,” the Queen hissed.
The girl bowed and left the room to obey, though, unfortunately, she didn’t take the tension with her.
The Queen picked the knife up from the table where her servant had left it, and held it in Ion’s direction. “Here, Grandson,” she said. “It’s your turn.”
“B-but, My Queen, I’ve never—”
“I don’t care,” she replied dryly. “If you’re going to be in my chambers, you’re going to do something. Now, remember to go against the grain—I don’t like stubble.”
Ion sighed, walked to Onyxia, and took the knife in his hand. It was slippery with sweat. The girl had been just as nervous as he was now. Biting his lip, Ion placed the blade to Onyxia’s skin and dragged it cautiously down to her ear, feeling the blade pass through the hairs.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here, to the Twisting Keep,” Onyxia said.
“I am, My Queen.”
“Enough with the My Queen nonsense,” said Onyxia, pursing her lips. “We’re family, Ion. Call me Grandmother.”
Ion’s ground his teeth together. “Yes...Grandmother.”
“Very good,” said Onyxia, her sharpened smile reflected through the mirror. “Now, as family, there’s a certain amount of...trust that’s to be shared amongst us. Yes?”
“Yes,” Ion replied, knowing no good conversation ever started this way.
“And since you seem responsible enough, Grandson,” Onyxia continued, “I trust you’re able to handle certain information? Related to our family, that is?”
Ion nodded hesitantly.
“Good,” said Onyxia, “because I need your help to ensure the victory of your brother in the Tournament. Well, half-brother, I should say.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, I suppose he’d be your one-third brother. Nevertheless...Vasheer is family.”
Ion stopped midway through a shaving swipe. “But...am I allowed to do that, My—er—Grandmother?”
“If I’m asking you to do it, it’s most certainly allowed,” she snapped, and Ion returned to shaving to avoid any further eye contact through the mirror. “The only reason I voted in favor of Othum’s ridiculous idea to have Guardians compete was for this very purpose. Vasheer needs a helping hand and my Sky Guardian will be doing the helping. This would be a major victory for your brother, Ion. Despite being the Sun God, the others in this forsaken pantheon refuse to respect him. It’s his age, I suspect, and undoubtedly his temper.
“But you could help change all of that. And let’s be honest, Ion, the sooner this Tournament is won, the sooner you and your little friends go back home...taking Othum with you.”
Ion thought for a moment. Was she really asking him to do this? And for Vasheer? Of course the one god he disliked the most. He doesn’t deserve the Throne—at least, not Vinya’s. Ion did one last drag of the blade, and Onyxia turned in her seat to face him. Her eyes were bloodshot—surely, from all the mead she’d been drinking earlier.
She grabbed hold of Ion’s hands, the knife now tight in his palm. “Say you’ll do it, Grandson.”
Ion hesitated. “The Skylord wouldn’t be okay with this, My Queen.”
“Ugh!” She threw Ion’s hands away as she rose from her seat. She walked over to a small table in the corner of her room, on top of which sat a large rusted box with a spinning disc on top of it, a large megaphone-like device sprouting out its side. “The Skylord has lost his power. His command. He used to be so rugged.” She stared wistfully out the window at her side. “No one questioned the Skylord. No one. And now? He’s a sad, sad shadow of himself. It’s pathetic really.”
She took the disc off the box in front of her and replaced it with another, setting a small arm of the device on top of the new disc as it spun. The music returned, slower, more gradual this time, like the first stirrings of a storm. The powerful voice of a woman came in, her long, drawn-out notes so sad and longing.
The Queen stood there, taking in the sound, her eyes closed. Then, she turned to Ion. “Ionikus Reaves, I am your grandmother,” she spat. “I carried Vinya for three years—three years—before giving birth, and this is how I’m repaid? With insolence and—and questions?”
“G-grandmother, I apologize. I’m...I’m just not sure about all of this.”
Onyxia turned her nose up at the response, gaze now as sharp as the knife Ion had used to shave her head. “Fine then,” she said quickly. “If you won’t help Vasheer because he’s blood, then you’ll help him because I demand it.” She approached, unblinking, the ends of her white robe dragging the floor. She stopped at Ion’s side, and after a moment of silence, whispered, “You’ll help Vasheer win. Or I’ll see to it you never leave this island. All it takes is a single word, Ion. A single word and you’ll become a personal slave of the Queen’s. You’ll wash my clothes, serve my dinner, shave my head, and do whatever else I say just like you did for that judge on the Isle of Eldanar. Do you understand?”
Ion felt the anger twitching in his limbs, felt the metal of his jaw growing hot. Tightening his fists and curling his toes was all he could do not to explode. “Yes, Grandmother,” he said through gritted teeth. “I understand.”
“Good,” she said turning to him with a smile. “Now, run along. Another big day for you tomorrow. Oh, and Ion—speak of this to anyone and I will know. I trust you’ll find my shadows are everywhere.”
Ion looked down at the shadows cast across the floor, watching as they bent and swayed at Onyxia’s whim. He bowed, sure his jaw was steaming, and fled the room. Faster and faster, he raced along the streets of Illyria, heart pounding angrily in his chest. It was as though the wind had been sucked from his lungs, as though Sir Dread had just threatened him again. By the time he’d reached the Guardians’ chambers, his body was shaking. He slammed the doors behind him, leaning against them. He closed his eyes, took in a great breath, and felt himself calm just a tad. Another breath, a little bit calmer.
He heard the sound of distant thunder roll through the room, and he opened his eyes to the soaring mass of clouds that loomed over the ocean outsi
de the terrace. Lightning forked through them, the flash silhouetting a man who stood at the balcony a few feet away.
Light flickered off the five diamond spikes growing out his head.
Not you. Not now.
“Vasheer?” Ion asked.
“Bright One, to you,” the god replied, still staring off into the distant storm.
“My apologies,” Ion tried not to growl. “Is there a reason you’re here? In the Amethyst Manor?”
“Do I detect a tone?” he asked petulantly, turning with his nose flared.
“Of course not, Bright One. You must be imagining it.”
Vasheer sniffed. “There’s not much to imagine when it comes to you. You’re as clear as glass to an experienced god like me.”
“Am I?” Ion asked, daring to play along.
Vasheer clasped his hands together behind his back and walked along the balcony’s edge, thunder rumbling in the distance. “I must admit I underestimated you,” he said, his golden eyes nearly glowing in the darkness.
“Underestimated me? If this is about today, I swear I—”
“You might even be, dare I say it, cunning,” said Vasheer. “But however smart you think you are, I have grave news for you, Guardian...you won’t be taking what is mine.”
“I don’t want what’s yours. I didn’t even want to be in this Tournament!”
“I know that,” Vasheer snarled. “The High Illyrians simply wish to test me, to see if I’m as fit to hold the Throne as they think I am. But don’t think I’m not aware of your thirst for power amongst this pantheon. You seek the Throne of your mother, to prove yourself, to sit in her stead.”
“You have it all wrong. I—”
“It’s pathetic,” Vasheer spat. “I mean, to think the Throne should be yours when you’re the reason it’s empty.”
Ion stepped back. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me, Guardian. A god is dead because of you—my beloved sister. Personally, if I was in your position, I’d feel so much shame I’d withdraw from the competition. But shame is a feeling reserved for the enlightened, I’ve always said. It takes true consciousness to know when you’ve done something wrong.”
“I-I didn’t mean for any of that to happen to her,” Ion said, jaw suddenly cold.
“Lies!”
“I swear it!” Ion shouted. “I didn’t mean for it to happen!”
“Stop swearing in front of me,” said Vasheer. “You’re a god killer. Your swears mean nothing to me. I’d be careful if I were you, Guardian. One mistake here on Illyria and you might very well find yourself as dead as both your mothers.”
Vasheer gave Ion one last glare, and made his way to the exit, disappearing behind the doors of the Manor.
Ion stared blankly out into the rising columns of clouds that loomed in the distance. Lightning flashed, and in five seconds thunder boomed. Ion gritted his teeth, feeling the weight in his jaw, and collapsed to his knees.
I didn’t mean to do it, he thought. He tricked me. K’thas tricked me.
But the idea plagued his thoughts. Of K’thas reeling him in with the spirit of Mother. Of Ion freeing him, and the battle that ensued. Of Vinya being struck in the chest by Solara’s barb-tipped vine. And how she died in his arms. Was he really responsible for Vinya’s death? For the death of his own mother? Could he really have avoided that dreadful night had he not been so stupidly weak? Or was the disrupted Balance just playing a trick on his mind?
The thought pounded itself angrily into his head. So helpless. So useless. So weak.
As the weight grew heavier and heavier in his jaw, the temperature of his skin plunged, and from out of the pores in his skin seeped waves upon waves of clouds he’d never summoned, pumping out with each breath he took. They flooded the terrace, and then it came...
“You killed her.”
Ion looked up from his hands, and there, standing only a few feet away, was the boy who looked to be only five summers old. He wore his same smile, his same formal tunic. But tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“How could you do it? he asked. “How could you kill her like that?”
Rage coursed through Ion in one grand surge. It was so hot even the touch of his clothes made it feel as though his skin was melting off. But as much as it hurt, as much as it burned, the anger seemed to...to feed him. It pulsed through his veins as though traveling by blood.
And it was intoxicating.
“I didn’t kill her!” Ion screamed, and a crack of thunder, not from the distant clouds, but from his own voice, boomed there on the terrace.
But when the child opened his mouth to speak once more, another voice came instead, and suddenly Ion was staring into Lillian’s elven face, her hands placed firmly upon his cheeks.
“Calm yourself,” her voice echoed eerily through his head, though her lips weren’t moving. “Do not lose control, Ionikus.”
Ion shut his eyes as tightly as he could and tried to force the anger out. When he opened them, green lightning danced through his clouds, outlining the ten children standing in a circle around him and Lillian. Their eyes were black as Esereez’s charcoal skin, but their features differed from one to the next—some girls, some boys, some blond, some bald. Another flash of lightning, and Lillian reluctantly washed her gaze over the children.
They might have looked different, but they spoke with one voice. “You killed her, Ion. You killed Vinya.”
Lillian and Ion screamed, and in seconds, had bolted through Ion’s clouds and raced down the hall, shooting into Lillian’s room. They closed the door behind them, barricading themselves against the cold wood.
“Who are they?” Ion asked, shaking and breathless.
Lillian panted beside him, staring at him with eyes full of fear. “I...I saw into your mind, Ion. Th-those people...they’re your past lives.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE RETRIEVAL
The next morning, the Sun had betrayed Ion like so many times before, leading him into a day he’d never wanted to meet. It was a particularly humid day, too, so much so that Ion found himself sweating through his tunic on the way to the Silken Vale. And as if being betrayed by the Sun and sweating through your tunic wasn’t annoying enough, Lillian had to keep going on about the whole your-past-lives-are-talking-to-you business.
When they reached the Obsidian Steps, Lillian grabbed Ion by the arm and yanked him around. “Ion, you need to listen to me,” she said, whispering urgently, Father and the other Guardians walking in front of them. “This isn’t normal. I haven’t seen my past reincarnations, and Theo and Oceanus haven’t seen theirs. You need to ask Othum—”
“I’m not asking Othum anything,” Ion said. “Look, I understand your concern, but I’ve dealt with this past-life mess before and everything turned out fine.”
“Things aren’t fine, Ion, and you know that. You’re afraid and concerned, but your pride is and always has been louder. I can hear those thoughts falling from your head. Remember? You know this isn’t good.”
“I know I know,” Ion snapped in frustration. “I just...I can’t admit this is a problem, because there are...there are already so many!”
“Well that isn’t how life works—something you also already know,” said Lillian. “There’s a reason they’re talking to you, Ion. Your anger last night was unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and...and I fear it’s that anger that’s allowing your past lives to resurface. They’re feeding off it, which is becoming more uncontrollable by the day. When I touched you, I saw into your head, your memories. Only, they weren’t your memories. They were old—hundreds of years old, and they were violent.”
Ion tightened his fists at his side. His jaw burned with his frustration.
“But your anger was not all that I felt last night,” Lillian said. She looked out over the Silken Vale. “There was anger...and there was joy in it. Don’t let the voices win, Ion. Or there will be consequences. For us all.”
Ion watched Lillian walk down the Ob
sidian Steps and he followed, brooding over it all. She was right. He knew that. This was no work of the Balance, but his past lives playing a game, haunting him into madness. And he feared they were winning.
The scene before him was all that could bring Ion out of his thoughts. All around the island towered the mightiest clouds he’d ever seen, like some proud kingdom of spires and walls and turrets, gold and pink in the Sun’s morning light. He walked past the sweeping plains of the Silken Vale’s white sands, underneath the tresses of its silk trees, until he reached the crowd gathered at the edge of the island. The elves, dwarves, and giants parted as the Guardians and Father made their way to the front. The faces of the crowd were lit with a sort of intrigue, admiration even, which Ion replied to with timid nods.
The gods of Illyria waited at the front, smiling down at Ion and Lillian as they joined Thoman standing only inches from the island’s edge. He was the only Future Hand yet in attendance.
“Ah, our trusted Guardians have arrived!” said Othum, smiling proudly. Oceanus and Theo took their places behind him and Lady Borea. “Now we’re waiting on...”
Just then, the crowd behind the Illyrians parted once more, and Esereez and Vasheer appeared, joining the line of Future Hands. Vasheer was heavy in gold armor that twinkled in the sunlight, Esereez keeping it simple with a leather jerkin, boots, gloves, and skirt.
Ion looked at Queen Onyxia, clad in a silver dress that shimmered like the scales of a fish. She tipped her goblet of mead at him and winked. A toast to cheating, Ion thought. Her words echoed through his head then. Vasheer must win.
“Now that the princesses have arrived, we can begin,” said Lady Borea, leaning against her staff. She turned to the crowd behind her. “Citizens of Illyria! On this day, we gather to hold the second event in the Tournament of the Moon. An event we Illyrians have named the Retrieval. Those who seek victory in this event must retrieve one item placed at the center of an Outerworld city of our choice. Retrieve what, you ask? Why, the most important weapon in the arsenal of the late Lady Vinya—the Bow of the Moon.”
