The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles) by Nikolas Lee Page B
Authors: Nikolas Lee
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allowing himself a smile. “Oceanus doesn’t seem to agree.”
“Think nothing of it,” Father said. “I’m proud of you, and that’s all that matters.”
As Ion climbed the grand stairwell to Illyria with Theo and Father at his side, he wondered if that was true—that Father’s pride was all that mattered. He chewed on his lip as he ascended, questioning whether or not he’d made a mistake, if he should’ve done the heinous thing Vasheer had. But why was he wondering this? Everything that was good in his heart told him he’d done the right thing, but there was this...this voice in the back of his head telling him different. Was it the pressure from Oceanus? From Othum? From the urging stares of all those watching Illyrians? His jaw felt heavy as ever, and his stomach was still roiling unbearably. He was feeling shame—shame about not doing what others wanted him to do, shame about not being the god he was supposed to be. He suddenly felt so...so not cut out to be a Guardian.
And the boy! He suddenly remembered. How he’d clung to the back of the Sea Witch, those gray eyes staring so mischievously at him. Who was he? Why was he?
Ion reached the top of the stairs, and an elven girl with white, braided pigtails and deep purple skin stepped in front of him.
“Ionikus Reaves?” she asked, her little nose held high.
“ Yes ?” Ion asked, Father and Theo walking ahead.
“Queen Onyxia requests your presence in her chambers after the falling of the Sun,” she said. “Her room lies in the Twisting Keep atop the Eastern Rise. Knock thrice on the silver doors, and she will meet you within.”
The girl turned before Ion could say anything and trailed off into the crowd, which by now was splitting off in three directions.
Ion sighed, imagining all that mead, and the sneering and shouting Queen Onyxia would probably be doing. What he needed was time to think, time to sort out the reason for the boy’s appearance, Helia’s words, and what horrible thing the gods would have him do next in the Tournament. But he had no time. The Illyrians were now taking that, too.
When the Guardians had returned to the Amethyst Manor, they sat around a table on the terrace, eating their usual dinner of sweets, while a team of elven nurses tended to Ion and Lillian’s minor scrapes and bruises. They smothered the wounds in some gooey, honey-like substance that smelled of lavender and that healed the cuts after being gently wiped away. Mother would’ve loved this stuff when I was growing up , Ion thought.
By the time the elves had finished, night had set over the Isle of Illyria, and Ion was on his way to the Queen’s chambers, albeit nervously. The Eastern Rise—a great hill stretching along the eastern side of the city—loomed in the distance. Atop it stood the Twisting Keep, a monstrous building of sandstone with two grand statues flanking its sides—old men they looked to be, both laden in armor and wearing triumphant helms, one of their hands held out as if to speak of a warning for trespassers.
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
“Think nothing of it,” Father said. “I’m proud of you, and that’s all that matters.”
As Ion climbed the grand stairwell to Illyria with Theo and Father at his side, he wondered if that was true—that Father’s pride was all that mattered. He chewed on his lip as he ascended, questioning whether or not he’d made a mistake, if he should’ve done the heinous thing Vasheer had. But why was he wondering this? Everything that was good in his heart told him he’d done the right thing, but there was this...this voice in the back of his head telling him different. Was it the pressure from Oceanus? From Othum? From the urging stares of all those watching Illyrians? His jaw felt heavy as ever, and his stomach was still roiling unbearably. He was feeling shame—shame about not doing what others wanted him to do, shame about not being the god he was supposed to be. He suddenly felt so...so not cut out to be a Guardian.
And the boy! He suddenly remembered. How he’d clung to the back of the Sea Witch, those gray eyes staring so mischievously at him. Who was he? Why was he?
Ion reached the top of the stairs, and an elven girl with white, braided pigtails and deep purple skin stepped in front of him.
“Ionikus Reaves?” she asked, her little nose held high.
“ Yes ?” Ion asked, Father and Theo walking ahead.
“Queen Onyxia requests your presence in her chambers after the falling of the Sun,” she said. “Her room lies in the Twisting Keep atop the Eastern Rise. Knock thrice on the silver doors, and she will meet you within.”
The girl turned before Ion could say anything and trailed off into the crowd, which by now was splitting off in three directions.
Ion sighed, imagining all that mead, and the sneering and shouting Queen Onyxia would probably be doing. What he needed was time to think, time to sort out the reason for the boy’s appearance, Helia’s words, and what horrible thing the gods would have him do next in the Tournament. But he had no time. The Illyrians were now taking that, too.
When the Guardians had returned to the Amethyst Manor, they sat around a table on the terrace, eating their usual dinner of sweets, while a team of elven nurses tended to Ion and Lillian’s minor scrapes and bruises. They smothered the wounds in some gooey, honey-like substance that smelled of lavender and that healed the cuts after being gently wiped away. Mother would’ve loved this stuff when I was growing up , Ion thought.
By the time the elves had finished, night had set over the Isle of Illyria, and Ion was on his way to the Queen’s chambers, albeit nervously. The Eastern Rise—a great hill stretching along the eastern side of the city—loomed in the distance. Atop it stood the Twisting Keep, a monstrous building of sandstone with two grand statues flanking its sides—old men they looked to be, both laden in armor and wearing triumphant helms, one of their hands held out as if to speak of a warning for trespassers.
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
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