Elowyn was no stranger to death. Even still, Mairyn’s story drained the color from her cheeks. “I’m ... so sorry, Catty.”
Mairyn did not react to her condolences. She only stared ahead, focusing on nothing. “He was a good man, my husband. He knew unanswered questions raised fear, and fear raised violence. ‘It’s only their flight or fight response’, he said. A by-product of all people. He said it wasn’t their fault. He would have forgiven them. He was good at pardoning others.” Her gaze trailed over to the shotgun she leaned against the wall. Elowyn saw a quiet rage reflecting in the woman’s eyes. “I suppose it’s true what they say. Opposites attract.”
The two women sat in silence, the only movement coming from the steam of their cups before it faded into the air. Elowyn did not know what to say. Her eyes scanned the floor as if it would give her some insight. As expected, it did not.
“In any case,” Mairyn cleared her throat, lifting her tea to steal another cautious sip, “the surrounding footmen of Eastern tried to get the families of their brothers-in-arms to find shelter with them in Brendale, for protection. But I have children to raise in this fecked up world, and I know the world will give them nothing.” Her voice iced over, matching her eyes. “No shelter. No hand-outs. So I stay, to give them all of myself, and hope with everything I have they will learn through witnessing, that they can provide for themselves. They can be their own heroes.” She shook her head. “It’s the only way they’ll stand a chance.”
Maternal instincts were lost on Elowyn, but she found sense in Mairyn’s sacrifice. The Time Mother offered a small nod of approval. “That’s very noble of you.”
Mairyn sighed, reaching over to a drawer from her chair. She removed a small box and set it on the table, opening it with ginger fingers. “They’re slow to trust, the footmen of the rebellion. They’re keen on protecting those in their circle, so they won’t accept just anybody.” With delicate movements, she pulled a medallion from the box, clinging to it lovingly for only a moment before she slid it over to Elowyn.
Hesitant hands abandoned her tea to reach over and lift the medallion from the table. It had weight to it, bearing the Eastern insignia in heavy gold. Elowyn traced the engraved edges, where a path of text curved around the circular medal. “Bravery, valor, and strength manifest, a symbol of honor for Eastern’s best,” she read aloud. High praise from the Eastern division. Mairyn’s husband had to have done something incredible to have earned it. “Mairyn ... I can’t accept this.”
“I don’t wallow in the values of trinkets, Miss Saveign. That medallion belonged to Edgar, but it won’t bring him back. Take it. Find the men of the Brendale rebellion. Tell them Catty sent you.”
Elowyn stared at the medal for a moment before she slowly curled her fingers around it. She held it to her chest, turning her eyes to Mairyn. “I don’t know what to say.”
The woman’s face betrayed none of what she felt. “That’s not all you’ll need.” Mairyn slid her chair out and disappeared into the small room attached to the kitchen.
She was absent for some time, but when she returned, a handful of clothing and armor obscured her from Elowyn’s view. Mairyn placed it all on the table with a grunt, wiping the back of her wrist across her forehead. “Listen, they’re good boys up there. Good men. But regardless of your status, if you walk in there as a woman, they will offer you safety and nothing more. Generations of old thought have fed lies to their minds. If you want to be heard ... you need to immerse yourself in their world.”
Elowyn spied the contents of the table. Pauldron armor for her shoulders. Metal bracers attached to plated gloves for her forearms. Iron greaves for her feet. A fauld to protect her waist and thighs. A closed helm. A breastplate that lived inside the navy blue fabric of a long jacket, emblazoned with six brass buttons and straps. The materials on the table told an even greater story of what the military had expected of Edgar Catteral. To require this much protection, Eastern must have revered him as an incredibly capable man.
Still, Elowyn did not understand what Mairyn implied. She reached out to touch the large pauldron, sliding her fingertips over the weathered plate armor. “What do you mean, immerse myself?” she dared to ask.
“Like it or not, you’re entering a man’s world, Miss Saveign.” Mairyn grabbed the helm and slid it down over Elowyn’s head. “It’s time to play the part.”
Elowyn felt the weight of the helmet settle onto her skull. It protected her on all sides, allowing no gaps. She frowned, turning to Mairyn. “It’ll never work.”
“It’ll have to.” Mairyn slid the rest of the armor toward her. “I know it’s not ideal, Miss Saveign. I know it’s downright insulting. But if you want to help your people ... if you think you can,” she paused, taking a step back to take in the sight of Elowyn, “you’ll have to make some sacrifices. I’m sure your dignity is only the start.”
The Time Mother reached up to touch the steel that surrounded her head, a look of contemplation settled over her. It was not ideal. But Mairyn was right. She knew the ins and outs of Eastern’s footmen far more than Elowyn did. Her short reign over the division paled in comparison to Mairyn’s intimate familiarity through her late husband. She drew in a deep breath, tried not to feel completely defeated, and nodded her head. For her people. For Eastern. “All right. I’ll do it.”
Mairyn nodded as well. She slid back into her chair as Elowyn took the armor to the nearest room and fitted her way into each piece. The greaves were several sizes too big. She accounted for the difference by stuffing cloth into the sides. The fauld fit loosely over her narrow hips, threatening to slide off at any moment. Elowyn threw more thick clothing over her body to add bulk to her frame, giving the fauld something to cling to.
The gloves and bracers nearly fit. It was easier to disguise the discrepancy by keeping her fingers clenched at all times, so they did not risk sliding off. Elowyn slid her arms into the long jacket, which reminded her much of Captain Kazuaki’s attire. The pauldron armor was the final piece, secured over her small shoulder. It was with some luck it had buckles and straps, unlike the rest of the components; though it was huge and gave her the appearance of broad shoulders, she adjusted it with relative ease.
The helm was just about the only thing that fit properly. With a flick of her finger, the lightweight steel visor came down over her face, disguising the femininity of her features behind it.
She emerged, holding her arms out at her sides. The armor felt cumbersome, but she remained confident she could adjust.
Mairyn tilted her head, inspecting Elowyn for authenticity. The heftiness of Edgar Catteral’s armor gave the Time Mother the appearance of a warrior. So long as she never removed her disguise in front of the Brendale soldiers, none would be the wiser.
“It’s perfect,” Mairyn said, a difficult to detect sadness coloring her words. “Just one more thing.”
Elowyn watched from behind the slits of her visor as Mairyn vanished into a different room. She returned, holding a towering halberd in both her hands. The official weapon of the Eastern military. “Here you are.”
Armored hands reached out, accepting the staff of the halberd and bringing it to her side. She dug the blunt end of the stick into the floor and took a subterranean breath. “Well?”
Mairyn nodded, approving. “You certainly look the part. Here are the instructions to Brendale’s rebellion,” she said, slipping a piece of paper into Elowyn’s iron palm. “Good luck.”
Elowyn bit her bottom lip. She summoned no words that would capture the gravity of her gratitude. The mass of her armored body made the floor creak as she approached the door and stood in the frame. “Thank you, Catty. I won’t forget this.”
Mairyn watched as Elowyn stepped outside and turned to face her. “Don’t. Don’t ever forget,” she said. “Not me, not what I’ve done for you ... but what you need to do. For these people, much as I hate them with everything I am. For this place. And when you return to your position of power—and I hope you
will—remember to never, ever, let this happen again.”
It was a lot to live up to. Elowyn nodded, fearing no pressure. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.”
Mairyn watched her go. She lingered in the door frame for a long while, recalling the last time she witnessed Elowyn Saveign and her comrades vanish from her property line. Much had changed since then.
When Elowyn faded completely from sight, Mairyn disappeared back into her home, closing the door. She swept over to her shotgun and seized it, then crossed the distance to the table and sat. Gentle hands laid the weapon across her lap, freeing them up to curl around the heat of her teacup. She took a sip, eyes on the door, and waited.
Mairyn Catteral knew that the odds of the next entity to waltz through her doorway being a welcomed thing was slim to none. Not in Eastern. Not these days.
With any luck, if Elowyn Saveign was successful, someday Mairyn could stare at that door without concern, and put her apprehension to rest, just as she did her husband.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rennington released a grunt as he shoved the delirious civilian against the walls of Bartholomew’s residence. Though the raving madman’s cheek pressed tight against the rough stone structure, he still managed to spew several curses off his tongue. The soldier forced the man’s wrists behind his back, holding them with such a fierceness that his fingers turned blue.
“Justice will prevail,” the man spat as Rennington struggled to hold him still and shackle the iron cuffs around him. The coarse texture of the walls outside the Southern Time Father’s home scraped the top layer of skin from his cheek as he slid down the exterior. “Naphine will bring righteousness to this place!”
When Rennington heard the satisfying click of the shackles falling into place, he pulled the man from the face of the wall. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, having a much easier time maneuvering the body about now that it wasn’t flailing its arms like a threatened animal, “so I’ve heard.”
“She is the one who truly loves us!” the man shrieked. Rennington pulled his lips back in repugnance as he handed the cuffed individual off to a fellow soldier. “Naphine, Goddess of Love! Shine a light on the false adoration of our Southern Time Father, Bartholomew Gray!”
“Where do I take him?” the footman asked, one hand on the shackles while the other pinned the writhing man by the back of his neck.
Rennington frowned, running a frustrated hand through his hair. Seacaster’s institution was full. The institutions bordering the city were at maximum capacity. They had sent the overflow to Eastern—with Elowyn’s strides in medical advancements, they had more suitable facilities, more space, but since her disappearance, all transfers ceased.
The prison was not the right place for this man; he was no criminal in his right mind. Callouses on his hands pinned him for a hardworking man. While the condition of his clothing pointed to a class of the working poor, Rennington did not lump the underprivileged people of Southern into stereotypes. He jailed his fair share of blue bloods too ... but they had enough money to escape the confines of a prison cell with relative ease. With little other choices, the soldier groaned. “Take him to the penitentiary. Make sure he has a single cell, so he’s no threat to others.”
“Penitentiary is filling up quick, sir.” The footman dug his boots into the ground, to better hold himself steady against the floundering man’s movements. “I can’t promise him a single cell.”
Rennington cringed, scratching the back of his head. “Just do the best you can, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched as his brother-in-arms dragged the howling man away and shoved him into a steam car with several other footmen in back. “Naphine!” the man continued to wail, his head to the sky as if the heavens would open up and deliver her to him, “save me!”
Another wince from the Southern soldier betrayed his discomfort. Rennington never thought he’d miss people chanting for Darjal. But as time went on, and more and more people fell under the influence of the lesser gods, the late-Southern Time Father’s name did not surface as often as it used to.
He felt an admitted sting of guilt for wishing the Darjal enthusiasts would return. Rennington knew from the conversation at Panagea’s center that the newly ordained lesser god was an inconvenience to Nicholai. But he knew what to expect from Darjal’s worshipers. They were easier to handle, predictable. Just single-minded people, obsessed with finding and destroying the Southeastern Time Father.
The others ... the people obsessed with the old-world gods ... they were fixated on killing everyone. Including themselves.
Southern fell further from her graceless state. The division had barely begun to recover from the devastation of last year’s events. Much of the land still suffered in a state of disrepair, with the skeletons of businesses and the ghosts of homes littering every street corner. While it was true some improvements were made, the land was slow to heal. Finances were drained. Much thought needed to be poured into where investments would be made.
The few signs of progress that Southern had lived through came to a standstill. Bartholomew did his best. He continued to govern with sound logic and reason. But the men and women available to employ his corrections were in short supply, and dwindling more with each passing day.
Rennington had hope in the beginning. Upon comparing notes with Bartholomew, Southern’s state of infection was relatively low when likened to the other divisions. Eastern’s status was abysmal. At least, the latest report they received from Elowyn was. Rennington only imagined what it was like there now. It made his chest tighten, thinking of what Elowyn must be enduring ... or what she had endured.
He tried not to think about her in the past tense.
The soldier knew from experience Northwestern lived in turmoil. More so than his beloved home division. But for how long? It felt as though the statistics were catching up with the others. Restraining the barbaric became harder and harder as their numbers grew. Some footmen were turned. Others simply left. Rennington wanted to harbor grudges, but he couldn’t. He remembered a time when he, too, abandoned his duty to the Southern military.
It was hard to watch the descent. His division loosened into uncultivated savagery before his eyes. The place he and his brother had grown up in reflected few precious similarities to the nostalgic land he remembered.
One of the few things that brought him comfort in these times was knowing Iani was buried close by. Though his brother was long gone, he felt him in every takedown. Every act of integrity. Every effort he made to keep Southern what it was when they were boys: home.
Iani’s presence, whether real or imagined, was enough to get him through the hard days. Rennington felt he brought a sense of honor to his brother and the Platts name. It was a name that, if he were being honest with himself, needed a little restoration.
The soldier kept watchful eyes on the town center as he pressed his back up against the wall of Bartholomew’s home. An eager hand positioned near the falchion at his hip, ready to sacrifice everything for the man he believed would keep Southern afloat.
Inside the residence, Bartholomew hunched over his desk. It was a place he became accustomed to over the past weeks. With his elbows on the table, his sleeves rolled up, and his head in his hands, he loomed over a parchment, though any onlooker could see his focus was not on the text.
Kal watched him from the open door to his study, a saucer and a cup in his hands. It pained the ambassador to see his lover in such a sorry state. It was not a look Bartholomew Gray wore often. He slipped into the room, quiet in his movements, and carefully placed the small plate and cup beside the Southern Time Father’s arm.
Bartholomew hardly acknowledged Kal’s presence. When the ambassador leaned forward to see the scholar’s eyes were closed, he knew why. “I wish you’d get some rest,” Kal said, reaching over to give Bartholomew’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “You know ... in a bed. With a mattress. And blankets. Pillows. You remember
pillows, don’t you?”
The Southern Time Father startled at Kal’s sudden appearance. He readjusted the glasses over his face after rubbing his eyes. “Yes,” he nodded wearily, “I know. But I’m afraid sleeping brings more harm than good these days.”
“Here.” Kal pushed the tea toward him. “Compliments of your friend, the Earth Mother. She sent it some time ago. I cannot say for certain what’s in it, but it might help you relax.”
Bartholomew put on a worn-out smile. He lifted the tea to his mouth and drew in a small sip. The subtle herbal flavors coated his tongue. The liquid pleasantly warmed down to his stomach. “Thank you, Kal.”
The ambassador met his gratitude with a smile of his own. “Would you care to elaborate on why you haven’t come to bed as of late? I have my speculations, of course, but it might help to discuss it.”
Careful hands lowered the teacup back to its saucer. Bartholomew adopted a look of exhausted contemplation. “Naphine haunts my dreams. She speaks of her growing army. In the vision, she says they will descend on Southern as soon as Darjal falls from power.” He shook his head, rubbing his temples. “It mimics what she said when she appeared to me earlier, when you were in Northwestern, with the captain and the others.”
Kal listened, a gentle hold on his tea. “Do you believe them? These nightmares?”
Bartholomew hung his head, pushing his sliding glasses up his nose, as his eyes drew to a close. “There is logic in her words. She says the people of Southern have long been conditioned by Darjal to seek the favor of a higher power. As soon as they realize Darjal will not answer their prayers, they will grow eager for a new god, or gods, to follow. In the dream, she assures me they will have plenty to choose from ... after the gods finish slaying those who they feel parallel an equal retribution for mankind’s past sins against them.”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 82