by Nikolas Lee
Violet spun back around and shoved a plate of perfectly risen buns into Ion’s hands. “Take these to your master. And, if your fool’s mouth could manage, tell him his breakfast is almost done.”
Ionikus nodded and proceeded through the swinging doors of the kitchen—chin up, shoulders back, as Dread always instructed.
Out of all forty rooms in the mansion, Dread’s dining room was Ion’s favorite. Sunlight poured in from the open roof above, bathing the unnecessarily long table in the middle and the red columns lining all four walls in its warmth. Trouble was, Ionikus was only allowed in if he was serving food to Dread, cleaning off the table, or polishing something with purpose. But when Dread left home, Ion would sit on the black, wooden throne at the end of the table and play the role of King, where his nonexistent peasants would wash his feet and serve him his nonexistent dinner. And oh, how delicious it was!
Ion slid the plate of buns gingerly onto the table in front of Dread. I’ll forfeit my throne for now, he thought, as the old man’s eyes fell upon him in a most disgusted manner.
“Your hair looks atrocious,” Sir Dread muttered. “And you need to clip your nails.”
“My apologies, Sir Dread,” Ion said. “Rose says breakfast is almost done.”
“Finally! I’m starving.” Dread poked one of the buns with his fork. “Nexus, my love, see if they’re to your liking—I know how particular you are about your buns.”
Ion held in a laugh. To his left sat Nexus Narcossus, Sir Dread’s newest fiancé of two weeks. She was abnormally thin, bossy, heavy with jewels, and a math test away from being as smart as a box of rocks. But her hair was long, blond, and the envy of the city for its natural curls, so, of course, Sir Dread had never loved anyone more. Except for Sally Sarsgard two months ago, and Marilla Maraudum the month before that.
Nexus reached for a bun and took a mouse-like nibble from the side. She chewed for a good minute, unaware of Ion’s rolling eyes, and said in a hushed, dainty voice, “Soft, but not too soft. The nymphs did well...for once.”
Dread fell back into his throne, laughing at a joke that didn’t exist.
“Oh, my beautiful Nexus!” he smiled, holding her small, soft hand in his gross, bony ones. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met such an entertaining woman! A whiny bunch, females have come to be—but you? Outstanding! Just outstanding!”
Nexus gave an exhausted smile and gently pulled her hand away. When Nexus was able to return to her buns, Rose came out of the kitchen and sat a teapot beside Dread. She nodded to him and politely swept herself back out of the dining room.
“There’s been more news from the Outerworld,” said Dread, pouring himself a cup of tea. “The war is going quite well, supposedly, though the Outerworld humans are putting up a good fight. They still have numbers on their side—two hundred million or so—and rumor has it they’re still crafting new weapons and armor with the technology they stole from Illyria. Thieves, the lot of them!” Dread buttered one of the buns nearby and stuffed it into his mouth. “You’d think they would have learned their lesson two hundred years ago. One war wasn’t enough for them?” He poured a cup for Nexus and scooted it her way. “Thankfully, however, the elves and dwarves and giants have all fought viciously for our dear Illyrian gods—praise Othum—and the Callers are proving a formidable force as well. Only a handful of Caller deaths since that first month.”
Ion clenched his jaw and fought his desire to scream right there in the middle of Dread’s fancy courtyard. The first month of the war had been the worst. Fifty Caller fatalities, and Mother was one of them. Ion had been allowed to cry only once, when Dread had first told him of her passing. But from that point forward, he’d been told to keep “such nonsense” in the confines of the basement.
Ion sniffled just a bit, and Dread shot him a glare. “Cheer up, boy,” he said. “War is not without casualty. You honestly thought you’d live through it without some sort of loss? That, of course, was a rhetorical question.”
“Say what you want about the Outerworld humans, Schnookums,” said Nexus, “they do know their arts and crafts.” Nexus stared into the wispy designs painted onto the side of her teacup. “I don’t believe I’ve drank from a finer piece of porcelain.”
“Ah, yes, this is a good set,” said Dread, looking proudly upon the table of porcelain dishware before him. “My grandfather inherited it from his grandfather, who’d led a raid into one of those Outerworld cities in the War of 2100.” Dread shoveled a piece of fish into his mouth, and said, “Caller, this summer sun is setting me afire.” One could only hope. “Give us some air.”
Resentfully, Ion tightened his fists at his side, and a breeze flooded the courtyard—light and refreshing, as Dread preferred.
“It’s too warm!” Nexus whined, waving her hand angrily at Ion.
Ion focused his thoughts, and when he felt the air cooling his metal jaw, he stopped.
“Perfect,” said Dread. “At least you have one good use.”
Father had always said that Air Callers are proud—the proudest of all the Callers. But Ion hadn’t felt proud in five months. He was nothing more than a personal fan now, meant to cool off Dread and Nexus whenever they were a tad off temperature, or to blow away the stink of lesser folk.
The winds stirred with Ion’s angry thoughts, and when Nexus barked, “Stop! You’re messing up my curls!” Dread delivered a smack right on the back of Ion’s head.
“My apologies, madam,” said Ion, rubbing the spot where he’d been struck.
Just as Dread began to tap the dinner table impatiently, the wood nymphs came marching out of the kitchen, their fat hands balancing several plates of food. There was a pyramid of steaming lamb kabobs, cups of carrot soup, plates of pink salmon fillets, and another serving of buns.
When at last the breakfast was laid out on the table, Dread grunted, and the wood nymphs disappeared once more into the kitchen. As the judge and his fiancé ate for what seemed like forever, Dread carried on—through a mouthful of food—about some new, atrocious bill Eldanarian politicians were trying to pass. Nexus answered every so often with an “Oh, really?” or an “Oh, that’s nice, dear.”
Dread stabbed a slice of salmon on his plate and stuffed it into his mouth. “Today, I think we’ll go into town,” he spoke around the wad of food in his mouth. “Shall we fetch you some nice jewels while we’re out, Nexus? An obsidian ring, perhaps? Or maybe a diamond bracelet—I know how much you’ve been wanting a new diamond bracelet.”
Nexus lit up, and the rivers of diamonds and pearls around her neck and wrists seemed to sparkle that much more. “Oh Schnookums!” she said, her hands nestled beneath Dread’s pointed chin. “I would love a new diamond bracelet! Has there ever been a more perfect Schnookums than this one right here?” She playfully tapped his nose, careful to avoid the wart. “But—um—why not get the obsidian ring, too? A girl has to have some variety in her life, after all.”
Dread winked. “Anything for my love. Leaving a jewelry store with only one item is for lesser folk anyway.”
Nexus beamed, and Dread continued stuffing his face. Ion wanted to puke.
Dread pointed at the porcelain teapot just out of his reach, and Ion knew this to mean, “Pour me a cup, Caller.” After Dread cleared his throat, which either meant, “enough” or “enough, slave”—Ion hadn’t yet figured that one out—he put the pot back on its saucer, and Dread went on.
“I’ll need to run by the courthouse first,” he said. “There are some matters that need my attention. Files, I’ve been told. Important ones about a complaint, which needs my attention as soon as possible.”
“Very well,” Nexus said, giving her usual saddened droopy-face-look before sipping at her cup of carrot soup.
“You’re going with us, Caller,” said Sir Dread.
Memories flashed before Ion’s eyes of all the times he had left the mansion: the old lady who’d stared at him and his slave tunic in shame, the stupid kids who always followed him through town, ca
lling him the Iron-Jawed Boy—and the whispers, the endless, annoying whispers. Ion and his kind were no longer welcome on the streets of Protea, though no adult Callers were even around to walk on the streets. The Detainment made sure of that.
Ionikus, in his sudden fear of leaving the mansion, let slip a word he shouldn’t have. “But—“
Dread’s silverware fell to his plate in a horrific clang. The room fell silent besides the nervous drumming of Ion’s heart.
Sir Dread looked to Nexus with a smile. “Just one second, my love.”
Next moment, Ion was back in the kitchen, thrown against the wall, with Dread’s cold, bony hand wound tightly around his neck. The old man had a surprising sort of speed and strength when he was angry.
“Listen here, boy!” he said, his voice low but no less angry. “You will be coming with us, got it? No whining. No buts. And if once—just once—I feel there isn’t a breeze around me and my dearest Nexus, I’ll have you and your freak jaw thrown in prison for denying your master his service!”
Ion knew he was pushing it, but he couldn’t remain silent, not with the sound of the Iron-Jawed Boy running through his head.
“I. Won’t. Go.”
CHAPTER THREE
AN UNHAPPY SHE
After a small kitchen brawl, where Ion was shoved, kicked, and possibly smacked by a kitchen ladle, he found himself sitting on a plank fashioned to the back of Dread’s carriage. The carriage itself hobbled through the narrow Protean streets looking like a bit of death, its walls a deep black, its wheels a shimmering silver with barbed spokes. Of course, this was exactly how Dread liked it. “Lesser folk fear dark colors,” he always said.
Soon, the usual set of kids found the carriage, and played their usual game of chucking rocks at the Iron-Jawed Boy. Though they hadn’t gotten any better since the last game.
“Stay still, Caller!” they said, launching a volley of stones. “Stop dodging! It’s not fair!”
Ion sighed, resented his father some, and turned his attention to the city passing by on either side of the carriage.
Buildings of every shape and size passed by: narrow ones soaring up to the heavens, and squat ones only six feet tall or so, all built of turquoise and marble. Statues and fountains embellished every street corner, and all around swarmed busy Eldanarians. Sorcerers rummaged through cauldron stores and creature-hatcheries, vanishing in puffs of smoke. To the right, flower nymphs with pink blossoms for hair pranced under a square of hanging gardens, and to the left, dwarves with gold nuggets melded to their skin from years of mining drank merrily outside Minerva Taverna.
The carriage passed by a wealthy man thumbing through a basket of dried goblin noses outside a witch’s bazaar. Behind him stood a ten-foot-tall cyclops who not-so-happily held a pile of the man’s groceries in his meaty arms. At that moment, a pale green troll about as tall as Dread climbed onto a wooden crate beside the man and announced with a raspy voice, “Pixie hairs, Chimera blood—half-off today only! Buy one cyclops eye, get a second one free!” A shriek ripped through the air, and Ion could only steal a glimpse of the whimpering cyclops as he fled down the street, his angered master in hot pursuit.
The carriage came to a sputtered halt. A tall man in a crimson-hued cloak—a man Dread referred to only as Driver—limped around the corner and unchained Ion from the boot of the carriage.
“Get the door, Caller,” he said, his tone only slightly nicer than Dread’s.
Ion ran to the door of the carriage. He straightened his tunic and belt, checked his reflection in the window to make sure his jaw had not a single smudge, and then gingerly pulled the door open.
“We’ve arrived at the Courthouse of Protea, Sir Dread,” he said, as stately as he could.
Dread stepped down to the cobblestone road, dusted off his black toga with his black gloves, and leered across the way. “Worst decision those politicians ever made,” he grumbled. “A witch’s bazaar across from a courthouse? It’s absurd!”
Dread turned on his heel and escorted Nexus out of the carriage as well, his hand held out as if he was any sort of a gentleman.
“Smells of troll hair,” she said with shudder, her many necklaces clinking about as she stepped down to the Protean streets.
“I can assure you that in two weeks time, my dear Nexus, such a smell will not exist in this part of town,” Dread said, smiling at his beloved.
After instructing Driver to stay put, Dread and Nexus climbed the stairs to the courthouse, a breeze encircling them, with Ion and his closed fists only a few steps behind.
The Protean courthouse towered so high over the city, some days its shadow stretched for three city blocks. Soaring blue columns lined its exterior, with gardens stretching all around the outside and twin statues standing beside its front doors. The statues were kneeling—both holding bows, arrows aimed at the ready. Dread had taken Ion to the courthouse many times before, so when the statues turned in their places and directed their aimed arrows at the group, Ion was only slightly terrified this time.
“Password,” they said, strong in unison. Ion could hear the cables tightening, set on a timer to shoot wherever they desired in five seconds—give or take two.
Dread leaned in, whispered two words, and immediately the statues turned back around. The front doors creaked open, and the courthouse bared its insides.
The long hall before them stretched on for an exhausting while, with courtrooms lining both sides. The ceiling loomed quite distantly above, huge, opened windows sitting beneath it.
Thothramore O’Lens, a small man with a monocle sewn onto his right eye, greeted them once they entered. Three strings of gray hair grew out the top of his head, while loose, emerald robes hung from his...round body. Last time Ion had seen him, Thothramore tripped over himself and accidentally used Dread as a landing pad, so, quite frankly, Ion was surprised to see he was still alive and breathing.
“A-afternoon, Sir Dread,” Thothramore said with a nervous bow.
Dread nodded and started down the hall, the quivering man walking at his side, his head down and his hands full of his robes.
“Where are these important files you spoke of?” Dread asked, peeling his gloves off as he walked.
“Yes, very important,” Thothramore said quickly. “There seems to be a problem with—“
“Is Ms. Gregor complaining about zoning again? Tell her if she made better use of that dead plot of grass she calls a yard, we wouldn’t have felt the need to build a bestiary next door. Eyesores will only be placed next to eyesores. A fine judgment on my part, don’t you think?”
“Y-yes, well...well, it isn’t Ms. Gregor.”
Ion heard the cheers inside a courtroom to his right—a gavel smacking wood in a room just ahead.
“Then who is complaining now, Thothramore?” Dread snapped. “Spit it out already!”
Nexus, Dread, and Thothramore filed into the last room at the back of the courthouse. This was Dread’s office—a room Ion was never to enter.
Ion stood outside as always, listening in on the hushed voices within.
“Dread,” Thothramore whispered, “she’s p-p-pretty unhappy with you.”
“She?” Dread asked. “Who is this she?” Silence fell as he thought. “No...you can’t mean...not...not that she!” Dread’s voice was rife with terror, and as amusing as this was to Ion, he couldn’t help but wonder who this she was. There were so many shes! Dread never had much luck with keeping female friends...just ask Marilla Maraudum and Sally Sarsgard.
But before Ion could hear anymore, Nexus marched up to the door, barked at Ion for eavesdropping, and slammed the door shut. He harrumphed, wilting down to the floor. The breeze he had been holding slowly diminished. He chewed on his lip, wondering. Whoever Dread had wronged this time, Ion was certain they were very big and very powerful; Ion didn’t even think Dread could yelp. Maybe, thought Ion, this she will throw Dread in jail or something. And then maybe, just maybe, Ion could manage an escape.
By the
time Ion’s plan had developed actual steps, a proper alibi, and a new name for his new life, the door to the office flew open.
Dread looked pale and frightened, as though he had just been open-mouth kissed by a ghost. “If we stay on the move, she’ll never find us!” he said breathlessly.
Ion slowly and silently got to his feet, careful not to earn Dread’s attention.
“Schnookums, just calm down!” Nexus urged from inside the office. “Running might not be the best idea.” Dread said nothing. “Schnookums! Pay attention to me!”
“Shhh!” he hissed, and Nexus threw her hand to her chest, completely appalled. “Listen...”
Ion perked up. At first, he heard nothing, thinking maybe Dread had mixed up his morning medications. But then…then he heard it. It was faint, but in seconds it swelled, and soon Ion could only hear the thunderous noise of a million beating insect wings. A swarm of hissing locusts blasted through the opened windows above, pouring in like an unstoppable river, eclipsing the light of the sun and covering all the available exits.
“Locusts?” Ion asked in disbelief.
“Locusts!” Dread screamed.
The insects darted to the nearest walls, blanketing them like sheets of winter’s ice. A small tornado of them swept down to the center of the courthouse, swinging about as the hissing came to a crescendo. The hard exoskeletons of the locusts whirling about shifted into human skin, molding into a pair of long, pale legs, then a waistline, stomach, chest, and a dress colored a bright white. Arms covered in silver bracelets came next, and a pair of green eyes flashed open, sitting beneath the subtle brow of a girl who looked no older than twelve.
She flipped her fiery red hair over her shoulders, batted her eyelashes, and approached Dread with a smile.
“Silly judge,” she said, as sweet as could be. “You’d be well-advised to listen to your darling little Nexus; running away from an angry goddess is never something one should do.” She clamped her fingers tightly around his nose and whispered, “Unless you’d prefer losing a few fingers or toes...maybe even both.”
