As the crowd dispersed, Ion saw Queen Onyxia walking down the Obsidian Steps, her vicious glare set on him. She nearly tripped on the last stair, where, luckily, an elf was there to catch her hand. But she snapped her hand away, tossed him a look of disdain, and continued toward Ion.
“G-grandmother,” Ion said with a bow, gripping the emerald of his necklace as though it would provide him some sort of safety.
She paused, studying him critically. “How dare you!” she hissed.
“G-grandmother, I—”
“Don’t you dare call me that! You’ve tested my wrath now, calling down that lightning to foul Vasheer’s chances.” She leaned in close so that Ion could get a good view of those perfectly manicured, arching eyebrows, and the layer of white powder on her face. “I hope you know how to make the Queen’s bed, my child, because cleaning up my messes is the only future that awaits you now.”
An arm suddenly hooked around Ion’s—one so cold he was sure it was made of ice. There, standing beside him, was Lady Borea, her other hand gripping her staff.
“You,” Onyxia dead-panned.
Lady Borea recoiled. “Oh, my dear girl, could your breath smell any stronger of mead? Why don’t you go fix yourself up, while the Sky Guardian and I take a bit of a stroll?”
The Queen clasped a hand to her mouth in embarrassment, and Ion felt the tug of Lady Borea’s arm as she pulled him to the right. In the wake of the retreating crowd, she drew Ion up the Obsidian Steps, and started down the foggy streets of Illyria. Her skin was so cold, frost began to glaze over Ion’s arm.
“I’m sorry about her, my child,” said Lady Borea, her staff preceding each step. “So many years and Onyxia still hasn’t learned how a goddess is to act in public. I swear it’s that Egyptian blood. It’s a pity really—I always thought out of all my children, Othum deserved a real, true love. That poor boy’s still head over heels for her, though, which is even more of a pity.”
“Yes,” Ion replied uncertainly. “But I was wondering, Lady Borea, if you don’t mind me asking and all...where are we going? And...uh, why?”
She continued walking, thin lips pursed. “Nosy for a Sky Guardian, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Ion shrugged. “Never met any of the others.”
Lady Borea cackled and turned them down another street of turquoise, this one so thick with fog Ion couldn’t see two feet in front of him. “Yes, well, you weren’t missing much. Pompous creatures, all of them, walking around with their chests puffed out like angry penguins.”
“Angry?”
“Oh yes, so very angry.” Lady Borea quivered at the thought.
Ion wasn’t sure how to react to the comment, and most especially the quivering. Othum had said Thornikus was out of control and angry, but...all of them? Ion recalled Helia’s words about there being more than two past lives. I wonder...
“And how many does all of them mean?” Ion asked.
Lady Borea looked at him quizzically. “Just the two, my child—Thornikus and Atticus.”
Ion chewed on his lip, watching the turquoise tiles sail by beneath him. She was lying. Right to his face.
Through the fog, Ion saw them pass a lumbering tower at least two hundred feet tall, its walls made of sandstone like all the buildings here. Except at the top of it turned a number of massive lenses like the ones around Thoman’s head.
Lady Borea must have caught Ion staring because she tugged at him a bit and said, “That’s Thoman’s Watch—it’s from that tower that Thoman uses his many lenses to oversee the conflicts of Earth. It’s his job as the Illyrian of war to see that the Balance is upheld in each battle that is waged, tipping the scales either in favor of good, or evil, whichever will keep the Balance equal.”
“So...he helps evil?”
“Why, yes, of course,” said Lady Borea, face heavy with concern. “Has Othum taught you nothing at that forsaken school? The world runs on the two most powerful opposing forces: good and evil. So long as one exists, so too shall the other. But good and evil are greedy forces, you see, and so when the Balance shifts too much in favor of another, wars, battles, and conflicts must be divinely intervened.”
“And which one are we?” Ion dared asked. “I mean, a-are we good? Or are we evil?”
Lady Borea threw her head back and her cackle echoed off the surrounding walls of stone. “We, my child, are neutral,” she said, turning them down a narrow street.
Memories of the chained cyclops, the slain Sea Witch, and the poisoned Lost City rolled over Ion. “F-forgive me, Lady Borea, but from the looks of the Lost City...we don’t seem too neutral.”
He swallowed, waiting for the goddess to freeze him in his place.
Instead, she smiled at him and patted his hand. “You’re rebellious. I like that.”
Lady Borea stopped them at a pair of black doors—probably the only doors on all of Illyria not made of gold.
Lady Borea stepped forward and tapped the gates with her staff five times. Ion watched as they moaned and pulled themselves open. The air pouring out of the chambers brought with it a rancid sort of smell. Like dead flowers, or dead rabbits...or dead anything, really.
Ion held his nose, and Lady Borea replied, “You’ll get used to it,” before taking his arm in hers once more.
They proceeded through the gates, and Ion drew his eyes nervously over the inside. A narrow hall stretched before him, damp and dark, with only a few torches floating along the black stone walls and a small opened skylight overhead. Lady Borea drew Ion down the hall, past several rooms on either side, which were closed off by way of jagged, iron bars like prison cells. The first room had a platform in the center of it, above which hovered a great hammer, bolts of white electricity dancing off it. The second cell held a spear with a blade that glowed a bright green.
They passed a third row of cells, with the one on the right holding nothing within.
“Why’s that one empty?” Ion asked.
“That chamber once held the Scepter of the First Light, before those dreadful humans stole it,” Lady Borea said, continuing down the hall.
“So this place is—”
“The Weapons Vault of Illyria. It is a proud place for us Illyrians, for it’s within these chambers that we store all our most precious weapons. Within each cell resides a mighty destructive force, each from a time long past, from a pantheon long dead—whether they be Norse, Egyptian, even Chinese. Though, I must admit, we’ve unleashed nary a few of these forces, and could only do so with the agreement of all the Illyrians.”
Lady Borea stopped at the biggest cell at the end of the chamber—light only penetrating the first few feet within.
The ground shook with the step of what lay beyond the bars, and a monster moved into the dim light. Its body was horribly disfigured, its flesh pale and covered in clumps of eyes that popped up all over its arms, head, and stomach like an uncontrollable case of acne. Bulbous tumors grew out from under its chin, the back of its head, and the sides of its legs. It opened its mouth, which was wider than any mouth Ion had seen, and licked its jagged, crooked teeth with its black serpent’s tongue.
Ion took an immediate step back and clamped his fingers over his nose. This was where the smell was coming from.
“This, my Guardian, is one of the Five Plagues,” said Lady Borea. “The Disease, we call him. Or it could be a her, who’s to know, really?”
“The Disease?”
“Yes,” she replied. “This was one of the Plagues we unleashed in the War of 2100, to remind the Outerworld humans of who they were fighting. Nothing like millions of disease-stricken humans to ward off another attack, wouldn’t you say?”
By the smile on Lady Borea’s face, Ion knew she got some sick sort of pleasure out of gazing upon this monster, out of recalling the destruction it’d caused.
“You gave the humans...diseases?”
“It was an idea of Illindria’s, who now resides in that relic of yours,” said Lady Borea, “dare we mention h
er name.”
Ion stared into the cell, imagining men, women, and children suffering at the hands of the gods. At the hands of his gods.
“I certainly hope that squirrely little mind of yours isn’t judging your pantheon for their actions?” said Lady Borea. “After all, let’s not forget the damage your past lives have caused to the Outerworld and its humans. Why, I’ve never seen a more brutal weather god. The way you fought, the storms you conjured—the Guardian of Destruction is more like it.”
“B-but, I’m not like that now.”
“You aren’t now, this is true. But I suppose only time will tell if your fate lies behind the bars of one of these cells. Like the Disease, here.”
“Me? Behind these bars?”
“Yes, you,” she said. “And most especially with that jaw of yours.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Guardian, what have you been told about your Connection Seal?” she asked.
“That I’m a descendent of the Triplet Omnus,” he said. “That—”
“Ahh, yes—Omnus,” said Lady Borea, her voice thoughtful. “How unfortunate it is for you that the god your Seal comes from is the one god our pantheon recalls nothing about. There isn’t a single statue, temple, or writing left of him. All we know is that he was a Triplet, and that he had no children to speak of, which of course means he had no one to pass down his Seal of the three-eyed triangle. How interesting it is, then, that whoever managed to manufacture a Seal of his, chose to place it upon one of the most dysfunctional creations of the gods.
“But,” she continued, “the mystery of it all is besides the point. Tell me, what do you think your jaw does for you?”
“It helps control my powers.”
“When it’s joined with your staff,” said Lady Borea.
“So you’re the Illyrian Othum said he told?”
“Of course,” she said. “I am his mother, after all. But alas, Guardian, gifting you with control over your powers isn’t all your Connection Seal does.”
“I don’t even know if I want to know what else it does.”
Lady Borea smiled slyly. “Your Seal is actually quite different than the Illyrians’. You see, the blood in yours comes from an ancient time—a time before the Illyrians, when the Gods of Old ruled this world. What Othum told you was correct—your Seal does provide you with control. But the primary purpose of a Connection Seal of Old was to provide its bearer with even more power.”
“More?” he nearly screamed.
“I’m afraid so.” She was reveling in this, Ion could tell in the slight smile upon her lips. “Sadly, I’m not aware of who would have had access to Omnus’s blood to construct that jaw and staff, but they clearly had a dastardly plan. For what’s done is done...and it seems you’re even more dangerous than we thought.”
Ion recalled the conversation with Othum halfway through the school year, about how Ion already had more power coursing through his veins than was natural, than was bearable. And now...more power? It felt like his insides were writhing around beneath his skin.
“Of course, the other Illyrians are unaware of this unfortunate fact,” Lady Borea said, “but the Triplets only know how they’d react if they found out. I mean, you’re already so unstable with the abilities you naturally possess, and then with this added bit of juice...I don’t know if the Illyrians would allow such a force of nature to exist.” She ran her finger playfully over the large quartz that topped her staff. “But, being the only god who knows the true nature of your Seal, I’d be willing to keep this teeny, tiny secret between us...should you do something for me in return.”
Ion took a calming breath in a desperate attempt to center his thoughts. Here he was again, in the hands of yet another god. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Ah, I thought you’d say that!” she said. “Now, I love Vasheer dearly. Truly, I do. But he’s simply not fit to be the Hand of the Moon, and I think we both can agree on that, yes?”
Ion looked cautiously about the floor, eyeing all the shadows dancing by candlelight. He’d nearly forgotten that not even his shadow could be trusted.
“Oh, don’t worry about Onyxia,” said Lady Borea. “She knows better than to eavesdrop on my conversations. Besides, the Egyptian is probably already sound asleep in her bed—mead does that to you, you know.”
“If you’re sure,” he said with a swallow.
“Ion, what I need you to do is simple. Do not let Vasheer win the next event. The Queen needs no more power than she already has, and since the boy is clearly under her thumb, I think it unwise to give her anymore political sway. Are you following?”
“Yes, Lady Borea.”
She smiled. “And don’t worry, my child. If you succeed, I’ll make sure the Queen cannot follow through on her threats. Old God’s promise.”
Do these gods ever quit with their games? Ion thought. It seemed a vicious sport now—one deity trying to outsmart, outdo, out power the other. Had this been going on since the creation of the pantheon? Since the time of the Old Gods?
“Fine,” said Ion. “I’ll see to it Vasheer doesn’t win. At least I’ll try.”
“Very well,” said Lady Borea, face lighting up. “Now, it just so happens you’re not the only one who requires time with the Lady of Frost today, so I’ll kindly ask that you see yourself out of the Vault before my next meeting begins.”
Ion clenched his troublesome jaw, and bowed.
“Remember, Ion,” said Lady Borea, “this stays between us.”
“Certainly, Lady Borea.”
Ion made his way to the exit, his steps just as heavy as his thoughts. Not only did Ion have an angry sister to deal with, a Tournament to fight in, his past lives stalking him, and a Seal attached to his face from some guy no one remembered, feeding him even more power he didn’t need, or more importantly, want, but now he had conniving gods pulling him this way and that.
After closing the doors of the Weapons Vault behind him, Ion turned the corner to find Lady Helia waiting around the bend, her white eyes bearing down upon him.
“L-Lady Helia,” Ion said, flinching away from her gaze.
He quickly bowed, but the goddess said nothing, instead walking past him and turning down the road he’d come from. The road to the Weapons Vault. Ion stood there, thinking. Helia was Lady Borea’s next meeting...
He turned and peered around the corner Helia had turned, sticking close to the sandstone building that had made it so. The doors of the Weapons Vault were closing, the smoky tendrils of Lady Helia’s robes disappearing behind them.
Cautiously, Ion approached, creeping through the foggy street until he was outside the Vault. But how to sneak in? He looked down, watching the fog breathe over his sandaled toes. Maybe you won’t need to.
He stepped back. If his powers were limited to his willpower and creativity, as Othum had said, it would only require a thought...and the fog could be used as I wish...
Ion breathed in and focused, feeling the fog sweep up his legs, bleed over his shoulders, and cool his fingers. What he was trying to do, he’d read about before in class. He’d never tried it before, but already he had learned how to create his own clouds. Bending fog to my will can’t be much harder. A low hum resounded through the street, and when Ion opened his eyes, and held his hand in front of his face...there was no hand to behold but a small shimmering of light. Invisible. His mind had bended the light reflecting off the moisture in the fog, making him nearly transparent.
Vinya would be proud.
Ion allowed himself a smile, and with a great lunge, landed quietly on the foggy roof of the Weapons Vault, no evidence of his existence to be seen. Slowly, he moved through the clouds, stopping before the single skylight he’d noted when he was in the Vault.
Lady Borea faced the prison of the Disease, staring blankly into the cell. Lady Helia stood silent much further behind her, those golden-armored hands of hers linked behind her back.
“Is everything as it should be?” L
ady Borea asked.
“Yes, Grandmother,” said Lady Helia. “They have agreed to the terms and will be present during the naming of the next Hand. Just as you suggested.”
“Then it’s set,” said Lady Borea. “They’ve proven more trouble than they’re worth. Good riddance, I say.”
“Othum will not be happy, Grandmother. You know this.”
“Which is why, when the time comes, you must freeze me as well. The others must not be able to implicate me in the matter once the deed is done. Otherwise, we’d lose the grip we’ve fought so hard to keep.”
“As you ask, Grandmother.” Lady Helia nodded. “But...what of me and my fate?”
“We’ve discussed this already,” said Lady Borea. “We all must sacrifice something for the cause of the pantheon. Even if it be our freedom.”
“So you’re sure, then?”
She turned to Helia, lips drawn in a solemn line. “Yes,” she said. “Kill them all.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FROZEN CITY
The Isle of Illyria came alive with the song of a thousand singing whales as it descended once more through a floor of clouds. Ion stood at the edge of the Silken Vale in almost the exact space as yesterday, the eyes of all the Illyrians and the watching citizens of the island on his back.
Kill them all. The words plagued Ion’s mind like some incurable disease, as troublesome this morning as they had been all night while he lay in bed. Lady Borea and Helia were planning a massacre, right here on Illyria. And who was to be killed was anyone’s guess.
He looked at Vasheer, Esereez, Thoman, and Lillian—all standing in a line beside him, their expressions grave and focused. Could it be the Future Hands? Ion rubbed the cold metal of his jaw, its nicked surface catching on his skin. Could it be him and his monstrous jaw? The other Guardians? The other Illyrians?
The only thing that seemed certain was when. After the naming of Hand, Lady Helia had said.