by Nikolas Lee
“Don’t do this, Ion. Don’t let him take over.”
The elf doesn’t understand! said Thornikus. These Illyrians are not who they say they are. They made you freeze these humans—innocent men, women, and children. It’s their fault. And they must suffer for it.
Ion outstretched his arms and the winds plucked him from the street, rising high into the air.
He looked down at Lillian, rage pulsing through his system with each beat of his heart. She stands in your way, Ion.
Kill her.
Kill the Blood Guardian.
Don’t listen to him! Lillian screamed. You’ve entered Consumption, Ion. Your emotions are controlling your powers, allowing Thornikus into your mind, your thoughts. He is anger. He is destruction. And you must refuse him!
She’s lying! said Thornikus. She fights for the Illyrians!
Lillian stepped forward, and with a panicked, angry point of Ion’s finger, a wave of rain washed down the streets, bathing Lillian in ice and freezing her where she stood. The sound of grinding metal rang in Ion’s ears as the iron lampposts of the street bent to the will of the winds. A car flew through his vision, smashing through a brick building across the way.
He’s wrong, Ion, said Lillian, her voice weaker now, more faint. I fight for you. I know you’re hurt. I can feel your pain as if it were my own. But killing me, killing the Illyrians—it won’t solve your problems. Your rage is clouding your judgment.
Lies! shouted Thornikus. All lies!
Ion bared his teeth and sent another wave of rain down upon Lillian.
Fight your anger, Ion, said Lillian, her voice so soft now. Fight it just as Vinya would do.
Vinya, Ion thought, shame lapping over him in an instant. He’d...he’d nearly forgotten about her.
No! shouted Thornikus, sounding so suddenly petulant. Don’t lose focus! Don’t...let her...win...
The cold of the snow bit at Ion’s skin, and the winds lowered him to the street. He looked out at the raging walls of snow and ice and sleet. Colder and colder it felt. So loud, too.
What would Vinya do? asked Lillian.
As Ion felt his pupils retract to their normal size, the winds dissipated in seconds, as if called away by an unheard voice. The Sun broke upon the streets, glimmering over the icy statues of Vasheer and Lillian.
“She’d...fight,” said Ion.
All the power that had pulsed through Ion was leached from his body in a flash, and when his vision went black, he fell backward. The cold of the snow the last thing he felt.
The sound of a victory horn the last thing he heard.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE CRESCENT MANTLE
“Hello?” came a singsong voice. “Sky Guardian? It’s time to wake up, my dear boy.”
Ion opened his eyes to a haze of white as though he was still looking through the blizzard of the White City. When the haze faded, however, he made out the wrinkles of a face, saggy jowls, and heavy bags under cold, blue eyes.
“Lady Borea?” Ion gasped.
“Oh, he’s awake!” cheered the goddess.
Ion saw another face—one almost as wrinkly as Lady Borea’s, but squared and male.
“Thank the Triplets!” said Othum.
Ion felt his strength slowly return as a few hands helped him to sit upright.
“The Consumption you entered will have you feeling a bit under the weather,” said Lady Borea, while Ion realized one of the hands supporting him was her old, bony one. “But since this isn’t your first encounter with it, I’m sure you already knew that.”
“Consumption?” Ion asked, and suddenly it all came flashing back to him—the rain, the snow, the wind, the voice of Thornikus, and the things he called for. “Lillian! Where’s Lillian?”
“Right here, Ion,” she answered, the owner of the other set of hands holding him up.
“Lillian.” Ion breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I? I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m okay, Ion,” she said, helping him to his feet with Lady Borea. “Better than you’re doing right about now.”
Ion stood on wobbly legs, the world spinning as he regained his senses. The usual crowd of elves, dwarves, and giants stood before him, watching in worried silence.
Ion swallowed and turned to Lady Borea, to the mighty gods of Illyria who stood in a line behind her, and Oceanus and Theo who stood behind them. Oceanus and Theo looked at him with consideration, empathy, understanding perhaps. But the same could not be said for the other Illyrians. Eos and Ezra, Soldune, Helia—their noses were high, their lips set solemn and straight. Their faces as severe as their judgments. Ion dared not even look in Vasheer’s direction.
Othum’s face was as considerate as Ion’s fellow Guardians, but the sight of it brought back the flood of Thornikus’s angry thoughts. They bred you for destruction, he’d said. Bred you for death. There were questions to be answered. Questions about his creation, about the destruction he’d been commanded to cause. But when he rounded back on Lady Borea, he quickly remembered they’d have to wait.
The naming of the next Hand was upon them. And the massacre that will follow.
Ion bowed to the gods. “I’m sorry, my Illyrians. For my Consumption. For losing control.”
“Sorry?” cried Vasheer. The god stepped out of the line of Illyrians, teeth bared. “Well isn’t that nice? Did you hear that, citizens of Illyria? Your Sky Guardian is sorry he nearly killed the gods he’s bound to protect. Well, I for one do not accept your apology! Your little...freak show out there could’ve—”
“Good Triplets,” Lady Borea shouted, all the attention shifting to her, “I knew you were a fan of the dramatics, Vasheer, but could we take it down a notch for just one moment? Sure, the Sky Guardian entered Consumption and nearly fatally wounded a teammate of his, and not to mention a member of the Illyrian pantheon. But he did put on a good show, did he not, citizens?”
The crowd erupted with applause and whistles.
Lady Borea’s hands fell upon Ion’s shoulders, as he tried to withhold his disdain. “Vasheer doesn’t have to accept your apology, because I do.”
Ion stared at her, amazed, astonished, completely blown away at how great of an actor she’d come to be. How many times had she put on this show before? How many gods had been slain by her hand, by her tricks and schemes? Ion pulled his shoulder away, daring to flare his nose at her.
She narrowed her eyes on him, and he did the same.
“Grandmother, I insist you stay out of this,” Vasheer’s voice pulling them out of their moment. “I mean, you can’t honestly crown him the winner of the Race. He practically cheated!”
“Wait...winner?” Ion squeaked.
“Indeed,” said Lady Borea. “When you fell to the streets after you left Consumption, you were an inch from the finish line, unbeknownst to you. And then of course you fell backward and the Race had been won. But, unfortunately, your victory means no Future Hand has won more than one event.”
“So—” Ion began.
“It came down to a vote,” said Othum behind them.
Lady Borea walked back to the line of Illyrians, taking her place in between Othum—who was suppressing a smile—and Lady Nepia, her blue skin deep and dark, her hand wrapped tightly around the diamond-pronged Tempest.
“While Lord Vasheer displayed great bravery in his slaying of the Sea Witch,” said Lady Borea, “and Lord Thoman revealed to us his passion in his capturing of the Moon Bow, our Sky Guardian here valiantly won the Race. But only one god can be named the next Hand of the Moon.” She paused, gaze sweeping over the waiting, watching crowd. “And with a three-fourths vote, that god...will be Lillian Monroe.”
The crowd gasped so loud it was as though the island itself inhaled.
Ion looked at Lillian. Everyone looked at Lillian. He couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe it. Her mouth and eyes were wide open, the faded pink color draining from her long ears.
“This can’t be!�
�� Vasheer screamed.
“How could you do this?” shouted Esereez.
“This is most irregular!” Thoman cried.
“Quiet!” An angry rap of Lady Borea’s staff sent a shockwave through the ground. “I will have quiet.” She took a calming breath. “Out of all our competing Future Hands, there wasn’t a single one who showed the grace, consideration, and kindness that the late Vinya and the Moon Goddesses of Old have always shown.”
Lady Borea let her eyes—suddenly much gentler—fall upon Lillian. “In the Fight, you were the only competitor to defend another, shielding Ion from the flying squidlings. It was a selfless act, and one Vinya would have proudly done. In the Retrieval, you set aside your desire to claim the Moon Bow, and saved Ion from a deadly fall instead. And in the Race, you stood beside Ion and fought what could have been your death at the hands of rain, ice, and snow, just so you could coax Ion out of the disastrous maze of Consumption.”
Lady Borea held out her hand to Lillian, and Lillian hesitantly approached. Anticipation strangled the audience.
Lillian placed her pink hand on Lady Borea’s. “We know now you are the true Hand of the Moon, Lillian Monroe. But are you willing to accept such a position? Becoming an Illyrian, becoming the Goddess of the Moon, comes with a great deal of responsibility. Agree to it, however, and immortality, power, and a Throne will all be yours.”
Lillian thought, chewing on her lip. Queen Onyxia rolled her eyes in the background. Ion couldn’t imagine what Lillian was thinking. Immortality? Power? A seat amongst the gods of Illyria? Would she accept? Could she accept?
Then she answered, “I do. I want to be the Hand of the Moon.”
The crowd erupted behind Ion, their hoots and hollers and whistles surely carrying to all ends of the island. While Othum boasted his uncontrollable, goofy grin, Lady Borea managed a smile as well. Was this what she was planning? Ion wondered. Was this the moment she and Helia were waiting for? The tension gripped at Ion, his muscles tight beneath his skin. He watched the other Illyrians, analyzing how very unimpressed they were by the decision. They were quiet. Solemn. It was to be expected, though. Lillian didn’t have Illyrian blood—she was a servant of the gods, not one of the gods. How could they ignore that, them with their rules and guidelines and judgments?
How long would they stay silent?
The Skylord stepped forward and bowed before Lillian. “We are pleased to welcome you into the Illyrian family, my dear child. But before we can officially name you the Hand of the Moon, you must perform one last task.”
Lady Borea and Othum parted like two opening doors and Ion saw they were standing before another edge of the island, where a long, narrow bridge of stone stretched a coliseum field away to a small island hovering off the mainland. Two monstrously tall nymph statues flanked the end of the bridge on the small island, their hands holding great jars out of which poured waterfalls, orange in the light of the setting Sun.
“That is the Terrace of the Moon,” said the Skylord, “and that is your temple.”
Othum pointed to the cylindrical building of stone rising out of the island, five terraces surrounding it, each filled with water that cascaded down to the next until it had fallen off the island completely.
“Your last task is called the Summoning,” said Lady Borea. “Go to your temple, sit upon your Throne, and insert the Bow of the Moon into the holder at its side.”
Lady Borea rapped her staff against the stone floor and an elf heavy in armor walked out of the crowd. He knelt before Lillian, presenting to her the Bow of the Moon. Lillian looked to Lady Borea, who gave her a reassuring nod, and Lillian took the interlocking deer antlers of the Bow. She regarded it with awe, her mouth slightly agape.
“And just one last thing,” said Lady Borea.
The goddess opened her withered old hand, and a glimmering diamond within rose from her palm. It floated over to Lillian, everyone watching quietly, anxiously.
“The Eternity Diamond,” said Lady Borea. “Among the last of its kind. It grants you the gift of immortality once the Summoning has ended.”
The glittering jewel stopped at the center of Lillian’s forehead and hovered there, rotating in its place. Then, a blinding, silvery light spread out from inside the Diamond, and when it faded, a set of grand silver plates fit only for a god sat upon Lillian’s shoulders. They shimmered like no other metal Ion had seen. Two crescent moons grew out of the ends of the shoulders, linking with a full moon that rose behind Lillian’s bald head.
Lillian took it all in, running her fingers over the plates.
“The Crescent Mantle you now wear comes from the hidden power within the Diamond,” said Lady Borea. “It must be worn during each Summoning of the Moon, which will occur once a month. Now, begin your march to the Terrace, Summon the Moon and restore the Balance. Guardians—as the new Hand of the Moon, Lady Lillian will require an escort for her first walk to the temple.”
Oceanus and Theo nodded and quickly took to Lillian’s side. But Ion hesitated. This was it—what Lady Borea had been planning all along. It was after the naming of the Hand, and the Guardians were the ones chosen to die.
“Something wrong, Sky Guardian?” Lady Borea asked.
He stared into her cold blue eyes, jaw clenched but unsure of what to say or do. Kill them all, she’d said. But why? Why would she want us dead? What are we walking into?
“Sky Guardian!” Lady Borea snapped, jowls jiggling in her anger. “I demand you escort the Hand of the Moon!”
Ion found Lady Helia’s gaze bearing down upon him behind Borea. My murderer. Was she about to take his life again?
“Ionikus Reaves!” Othum boomed, stepping forward. “You heard the Lady!”
“Apologies,” said Ion, battling Lady Borea’s glare. “I think I’m still recovering from the Race.” He bowed, and took to Lillian’s side. She regarded him with concerned eyes, and with a great breath, she took her first step on the narrow bridge.
This was it. The march to the end. I have to say something.
Lillian, he thought, looking at the elf as they proceeded down the bridge. Lillian, if you can hear me, you must know something.
Her voice filled his ears, smooth as silk. You have the loudest thoughts I’ve ever had the displeasure of catching, she said. So if you think I don’t already know of Lady Borea’s plans, you’re sorely mistaken.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE FRACTURE
Just keep walking, Lillian told Ion, as the Guardians marched down the tiny bridge. Once we’re in the temple, we’ll be out of earshot.
We can’t tell Oceanus, Ion insisted. She won’t believe us.
Lillian’s pink skin burned red under the light of dusk, the Crescent Mantle glistening and gleaming on her shoulders. She was quiet now, thinking and planning like she always was.
You’re right, she finally returned. But we must be alert. If by chance Lady Borea isn’t planning on killing us, then we must avert the deaths of those she does intend to slay.
“This is so exciting,” Theo whispered, though trying his hardest to focus ahead.
“Shh!” Oceanus hissed. “Lillian needs to focus, Theodore. For Triplets’ sake, she’s about to Summon the Moon and restore the Balance! She doesn’t need your distractions.”
“Thank you for that, Oceanus,” said Lillian flatly. “Pressure noted.”
“You’re welcome,” said Oceanus, oblivious of Lillian’s tone.
They passed the towering statues, walking through the mist of the falling waterfalls at both sides. The Guardians reached the end of the bridge and went up the stairs leading to the opened temple doors. The curved walls within soared so high the domed metal roof seemed a mile away. Along the walls, attached by bolts and screws, were gears—small gears, big gears, gears so thick they must have weighed more than five Soldunes, all of which were linked to one another, though not moving as they usually would have.
In the middle of it all sat the Throne of the Moon—a grand seat of white
marble banded in swirling strips of silver, which grew off the top in great, sparkling arcs. Ion couldn’t help but imagine Vinya sitting there, her bright smile beaming at any who entered her temple.
Lillian walked to the Throne and ran her hands over the stone, heavy in thought.
“The Throne is all yours,” said Oceanus, smiling beside her. “You should be so honored, Lillian! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely really jealous right now. But I’m going to look past that now. You’re an Illyrian, and as a Guardian, I will be more than happy to serve you.”
“Technically, I’m not yet an Illyrian,” said Lillian. “But after the Summoning...”
She stepped in front of the Throne, preparing to sit.
Don’t, thought Ion. It could be a trap. The...the trigger that starts the massacre.
If it is, Lillian replied, then we must invite it. If we’re the ones she wishes to get rid of, I will face her with the power of the Moon God.
From day one, Lillian had seemed notably older than the other Guardians. At least, to Ion. How could she not, given her many years of access to the most private, powerful, and even darkest thoughts of those around her? It couldn’t help but shape intelligence, and it was now no wonder to Ion that Lillian was named the next Hand—if it wasn’t some huge ploy of Borea’s anyway. No wonder that she was now willing to take the lead and give the orders.
With a great breath and her head held high, Lillian sat on her Throne.
“How does it feel?” Theo asked excitedly.
“Cold,” said Lillian, rubbing her hands on the great stone arms flanking her sides. “And big.”
“Well you deserve it, Lillian,” said Theo.
Lillian took a breath. “Let’s see if the Moon agrees.”
She slid back into her Throne as far as she could go, and placed the Moon Bow into the holder beside her. With a clink! the Bow was locked in.
