The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles) by Nikolas Lee Page B

opened once more. The Illyrians rose and started toward the gates, while Othum looked over at an elf standing in a far corner of the Hall and said, “The Procession Bell, Markus!”
    The elf nodded, wrapped his hands around a rope beside him that hung from the ceiling, and pulled. The Procession Bell rang, again and again, loud and mighty and beautiful. Othum raised his hand over his eyes like a shield from the Sun, and scanned the Hall.
    “Ion?” he called. “Mr. Reaves, where are you?”
    “R-right here, Skylord,” said Ion, standing not but a few inches from Othum’s throne.
    “Oh, there you are!” said Othum. His eyes grew to take in the tray of sweets Ion held in his hand. “ And you have cakes ? Why didn’t you tell me?” He grabbed a single sweet and stuffed it into his mouth. “De licious !”
    “I’ve been standing here the whole time, Skylord. You told me to pass out the sweets. Remember?”
    “Hmm, I’m not so sure about that,” said Othum, swallowing the last of his cake. “I am, however, sure that you should be the one to lead the Procession to the Sanctum.”
    “ Me ?” Ion asked. “But, Skylord, I-I don’t even know what a Procession is .”
    “Well, for information’s sake, it’s an ancient tradition where the Guardians escort a line of Illyrians from the Hall to breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or in this case, brunch. It’s simple—go to the front of the line, stand by the first Illyrian there, and introduce yourself. Then, lead the Procession to the Sanctum of the Deep.”
    “Okay, but where is the Sanctum of the Deep?”
    “Take a right out the gates, then take a right down the first road you can,” Othum explained. “There’ll be a pair of gates at the end of that road—golden gates encrusted with sapphires.   That’s where you’ll stop, open the doors for the Illyrians, and wait until we’re all inside. Oh, and I’ll take this.”
    Othum grabbed the tray of sweets from Ion, and gave him a nudge toward the line of gods. “Go on, Mr. Reaves. Sky gods are bound to be leaders, and this is where you’ll start.”
    With the bell ringing through the Hall, Ion looked over at the line of Illyrians—standing single file, though spaced widely apart—and gathered his confidence. He walked toward the gods, each step accompanied by a ring of the bell. He passed Onyxia and her critical stare, then Nepia and Oceanus who stood beside her, passed Esereez, Thoman, Theo, Vasheer, Lillian and then a god with dark, caramel-colored skin and a mouth sewn shut by way of a thick strand of thread.
    Ion hesitated before coming into the field of vision of the goddess at the head of the line. She had to have been at least two heads taller than Othum—the tallest of all the Illyrians. She wore a mask of twisting, arcing bands of gold with large holes reserved only for her eyes . Robes darker than a Moonless night hung from her shoulders and draped the floor, folding over the stone at her feet in rolling waves of black smoke. Only her hands could be seen, hands with fingers as long as Ion’s forearm, veiled by the same golden weavings of metal upon her head.
    Ion took a step forward and cleared his throat. The goddess, who’d been looking forward with her masked hands clasped over one another, looked down at Ion. Her white, pupil-less eyes struck him like a bolt of his own lightning.
    “H-hello, Lady Helia,” said Ion, offering out his hand for her to shake before realizing how dumb it was. “M-my name’s Ionikus Reaves, and I’m—”
    “The Sky Guardian—I know,” said the goddess, voice deep yet ghostly. “But I doubt you’d want to touch my hand, Mr. Reaves. For it might very well be the last thing you touch.”
    She looked ahead and Ion slowly retracted his hand. He caught her scent—one of roses. Of sadness .
    “Of course,” he said, feeling foolish. “I forgot about the stories—”
    “Stories about me?” she asked curiously.
    “Oh, um —not stories,” he said,