“Probably some water as well,” Revi muttered, carefully sliding Jessina into the waiting arms of the man the elder summoned. “But I doubt she’ll drink anything until she’s had sufficient time to recover.”
“Take her to the resting grounds, Ahlan, if you please.” The old man gestured for him to carry her off.
Emmy followed after her mother. Before she wandered too far, she stopped and turned around. A smile lived on her face. One of strength. One of gratitude beyond her years. “Thank you, sir.”
Revi nodded. “Any time.” He watched as Emmy bounced after her mother, ignorant of the fact that anything other than a full recovery awaited her. He hoped her optimism would be rewarded.
“Tell me about your daughter,” the elder said, lowering himself onto a raised chunk of rubble that served as a chair.
Revi inhaled, running his hands through his hair before his arms fell at his sides. They throbbed from the strain of carrying a grown woman across the expanse of several miles. “She’s eighteen. Blonde hair that saw a touch of brown weaving throughout, cut to about her shoulders. Freckled face, a bit of an attitude. Strong. Resilient. Smart.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I had a photograph.”
The man shook his head, a look of sympathy on his aged face. “I apologize, young man. Your description does not ring a bell. But many have found their way to Bricklemore, and more come in each day. Perhaps she is here somewhere, and if not, perhaps she will make her way here soon.”
Revi tried to disguise his disappointment. Not one to be deterred, he straightened his spine. “Do you mind if I ask some of those who have taken solace here? This is the largest coherent group of people I’ve come across since I entered Northwestern.”
The man stepped aside, extending his arm out as if he offered Revi the world. “Be my guest, young man. And thank you for your service to that woman and her child. May your good deeds be rewarded in time.”
Revi frowned. He remained a non-believer of karmic things but wiped it from his face as soon as he was able. “Thanks,” he murmured, slipping off into the collection of weary spirits who gathered in the tent city.
If karma had any intention of rewarding his good deeds, it did not happen here. After hours of interrogation, not one person gleaned insight into where Avigail may have been. Nobody claimed to have seen her. None thought the description sounded even vaguely familiar. It was with frustration that Revi came up empty-handed.
He wandered past the camps, to the outskirts of the collected mass of people. It grew difficult to keep the negative thoughts at bay. Revi wondered if Penn’s assumptions held a degree of truth to them, or if they were only that ... guesses. Shots in the dark.
It was true, Avigail did traverse a large portion of Panagea to find him. She also expressed an incredible distaste for him from the moment she arrived. Revi lifted a hand to his nose, feeling the betrayal behind the force of her punch. It still stung, though it took place a long time ago. The man speculated the meaning behind the assault hurt more than the physical act, itself.
Avigail knew where he was going. She knew he’d enter Striburn. He still had a way to go before he reached it, but it wasn’t unfathomable to think she might have wandered through this place on the way. Then again, perhaps she took a different route? Or perhaps the people of the tent city were far too consumed with their own concerns to have paid much attention to the presence of an otherwise unassuming girl?
Or maybe ... he only hoped she came looking for him.
Dismal thoughts aside, he couldn’t get the message Avigail said to him out of his head. When he asked her how she found him ... and her response. I looked, she said. And that is what he intended to do. For as long as it took until he found her, he would look.
Revi stared out on the horizon, his eyes narrowing as the silhouette of two adult bodies came into his view. His spirit was not compelled to move. He did not care for their condition. They were close enough to the tent city to find refuge if they wanted it. And yet, his feet headed toward them, crawling over the uneven rocks and building remnants.
Their backs were toward him. When he got close enough, he found himself asking, “You folks all right?”
“We’re fine, sir, thank you,” the man responded without turning around.
He identified a hurt in his voice. A strain. The words did not match the tone. When Revi peered passed their shoulders, he spied a primitive mound. It was not one that took that shape by chance. A manmade structure, resembling a monument of sorts, perched on the damaged earth before them. A tombstone. Scrawled across the surface in soot from a fire long burnt out, a name, a birth date, and a death date. The deceased was only twenty-five years old.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Revi murmured, clearing his throat. “I’ll leave you to your mourning ... if I could just ask one question, first.”
The woman spun around. Her eyes resembled Jessina’s, enflamed, with a ring of rose-colored skin surrounding them. Though a glimmer of life still lived in hers, unlike the woman he carried across the badlands. “What can we help you with, young man?” she asked, wiping the tears from her face.
“I ... I’m looking for my daughter,” he started.
Her head tilted. Her face adopted a look of familiarity. “Your voice,” she uttered, her words choked from the strain of misery, “and your face ... my gods,” she breathed. “You’re Revi Houton, aren’t you?”
Revi blinked, taken back by her statement. “I am,” he replied, both incredulous and cautious.
“Forgive my surprise, young man,” Everly clutched her hand to her chest, gesturing to her husband. “My name is Everly, this is Thom. We were residents, in the slums of Avadon last year. You and the others came to our aid. You brought light to a very dark place.”
Her admission caught him off guard, but he remembered his time in Avadon well. It was one of those memories one simply did not forget. “Glad to see you are well,” he said, though immediately regretted the fallacy of his observation.
If his statement offended her, she did not show it. “You and those people did a fine thing,” she said, nodding her head as she relived the reminiscence. “Thom and I will try our best to assist you in any way we can. What can you tell us of your daughter, Mr. Houton?”
“She’s ...” He paused, having recited the words a thousand and one times to the people within the tent city. “She’s a spitfire. A head full of street smarts. Blonde hair, to her shoulders, with some browns cutting through it. Eighteen years old. She’s—”
“Oh, dear,” Everly stopped, exchanging glances with Thom as he finally turned around. “Her name ... is it Avigail?”
Revi’s heart dared to leap from his throat. He felt it quicken with his pulse as hope inflated in his chest. “It is.”
“Gods,” Everly shook her head, “now that I’m looking at you ... yes, she looked just like you. She has your eyes.”
“Do you know where she is now?” Revi asked, scarcely able to contain his anxiousness.
Everly bowed her head. “This was as far as we were able to take her. She said she was heading to Striburn. We told her the rumors that it was reduced to ash, that it was dangerous to go, but ...”
Revi nodded, his gaze flicking along the ground as he plotted his next move. “Thank you. And ... I’m sorry, for your loss.”
“It’s unnatural to bury your child,” Everly said, her focus falling back to her son’s tombstone. “It’s just not right. I hope you find her, Mr. Houton. I hope you are spared from this. I would not wish it on anyone.”
Revi squared his shoulders. “Neither would I.”
“Here.” Everly lifted her finger, pointing to a steam car that sat twenty feet away. “Take it. There should be enough liquid in the water tank to get you there.”
Revi glanced over his shoulder, taking in the sight of their offering. It would cut down on his travel time greatly. But the gesture was too much. “I can’t accept that,” he said, taking a step back. “How will you two return h
ome to Avadon?”
Everly smiled. She seemed at peace. “Take it, darling. It will ease the pain in our chests knowing it was used to save someone from the hurt we feel now.”
Hesitation followed; Revi wanted to say no, to refuse, to let those who grieved for their lost son maintain their safe transportation back to their home town. But he also wished to find Avigail before any harm befell her. His eyes closed, and to his surprise, he found himself saying, “Thank you. If I can return it, I will.”
Everly shook her head, holding up her hands. “No need for that.”
Revi did not question her. He glanced at Thom, nodded a thank you to him as well, and bolted for the vehicle. It would take time to prepare it, to steam it up, to start the pilot—but it was still a faster alternative than his own two legs.
The effort it took to get the automobile moving flew by. Before Revi knew it, he rattled over the uneven environment toward Striburn. The tent city faded from his vision, falling farther and farther into the landscape behind him. High in the darkened sky, clouds crept in, disguising some of the light offered by the moon.
He hoped Everly and Thom would be all right. He could not fathom being in the same predicament they found themselves in. If any ill fate were to end Avigail’s life, it would destroy him. Ruin him.
Before, Revi had the luxury of denial. Endless thoughts that his children were fine, that they lived a better life without him. But Avigail’s reemergence into his life crushed that pipe dream and replaced it with reality. He couldn’t live with himself if something happened to her.
As the steam car jostled over a rough patch of road, a frown crossed Revi’s face. He knew, then, why Everly and Thom gave him the steam car. He knew why they reassured him there was no need to return it. They had no intention of returning to their home. Of returning to Avadon.
They, too, couldn’t live with themselves, knowing the rest of their lives would be spent without their son.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mimir stood outside Malcolm’s greenhouse, admiring the exterior. The lesser god found it amusing that such a small building contained so many hidden varieties of plants. He liked it in there. It put him in mind of the days of old. When wildlife choked the hills of Panagea with bursts of floral sweetness. Colors spilled over every mountain peak and valley, coating the world in something other than bronze and iron, as it did now.
The lesser god did not mind the metal world. He did not mind any world that had people in it. Preferences teetered toward the archaic version of Panagea, as nostalgia had a way of flattering a mind, but this place was tolerable too. It had Kazuaki Hidataka in it, after all. The immortal was, without a doubt, the most fascinating persona Mimir encountered in his centuries of living.
He missed the captain’s presence. His constant looks of irritation. Though Kazuaki and the others had only been gone for a week, to Mimir, it felt much longer.
He busied himself by flashing wide grins at those who walked by, though there were only a few. The state of things terrified handfuls of civilians from wandering outside their doors unless it was deemed necessary. Those who made eye contact with him shuddered at his unnatural appearance and quickly moved on. It only dampened his spirits a little.
He did not need these people. He had the commander. He had the captain. The unfulfilled bargains between those two alone were enough to sustain him. Though, he wouldn’t have minded a little of that old-world worship. It came in droves, then.
A feeling of being watched caused the lesser god to turn around. A small, knowing chuckle escaped him when he saw Darjal. The man did not look as grand as he had when they first met one another on the island that bore his well. It made Mimir grin. Darjal was a prick back then; for that, Mimir found his predicament amusing. “Well, well, well,” the lesser god gleamed, puffing out his chest, “look what the crippling absence of prayer dragged in.”
Darjal’s wrinkled face leaked an allowance of emotions. Anger, frustration, confusion, desperation. Mimir ate it all like a four-course meal served at a sophisticated banquet. The weakening being stepped forward, his step more labored than before. “Why is this happening to me?” he growled.
Mimir did not bat an eye. “You know why this is happening.”
A sound of unadulterated grievance spilled from Darjal’s mouth. “I gave them everything! I spent decades giving myself unto them, lavishing them in the reverence of my churches, of my presence! How could they forget me so quickly?”
“You did do some of those things, yes,” Mimir agreed, nodding. “But elegant churches and elaborate stained glass windows featuring you at your best, do not make you a god. Telling people you are godly does not make you a god. They made you a god. And you forgot to do the one, simple thing that cements that which you coveted into reality: you never answered their prayers.”
“Their prayers were none of my concern,” Darjal spat, shaking. “They ask for meaningless, earthly things. Money. Health. Good fortune. Things only central to those who dwell in the physical realm. I am a god, Mimir, not a puppet for them to use for requests.”
Mimir snickered, shaking his head. He could not tell if Darjal rattled from ire or weakness, but he did not care. “That is all we have ever been. And that is all we will ever be. You may be a god, Darjal, but you still suffer from a very human ego.”
The late Southern Time Father looked down at his hands. They quaked beyond his control. He closed his fingers into his palms, hoping that might steady them. Some of Mimir’s words seemed to sink in. The prisoner of the well certainly had more experience being a lesser god than he had. In a rare act of earnestness, Darjal hung his head. “What can I do?” he asked, his voice low.
Mimir shrugged. “If you would have put as much effort into maintaining your status as you did into trying to kill the Southeastern Time Father, we may not be having this discussion right now.”
The instability in his legs mocked him. It was so much more than a physical deficiency. Darjal remembered bits of mortality. He remembered the pains of injuries suffered. This was something far different. An internal failing. A feebleness that withered his soul, if, as a god, he had one left at all. It was as if he was being slowly swallowed by a snake that would eventually digest him in his entirety, leaving nothing behind but the stomach acid he melted in. “I don’t want to be forgotten,” he whispered.
Mimir did not move. He looked unquestionably commiserative. “Nobody does.”
“I’ve dedicated my entire life to this,” Darjal breathed, extending his arms out toward Mimir in a final act of securing his pity. “What can I do?”
Glowing eyes fell to the cobblestone. Mimir shrugged once more, with less effort. “The gods have been trying to figure that out for centuries.”
Restless footsteps exited the Addihein household as Nicholai opened the door to check his mail. He hoped to have received word from the others. He removed a small stack from the iron box attached to the side of his home. The letters were fewer and farther between these days. The praises people sung of him dwindled with not only the infection of the lesser gods throughout Panagea but the announcement he made prior that no plans were yet in place to combat them. It was not a popular statement when he said the people needed to do their best to steel their nerves and minds until a solution was devised.
As he filtered through the letters, scanning for anything that might be from his companions, his eyes flicked up and outward. He spied Mimir’s back in the distance, near Malcolm’s greenhouse. Though the lesser god stood far from his vision, his unnatural, shadowy color made him stand out from the common man. Nicholai winced. The public sentiment toward gods was one of turmoil. As far as the people knew, they were a thing to be feared. Allowing Mimir to run amok was not in Nenada’s best interest.
“Mimir!” Nicholai called out, stepping off his porch to approach him.
The lesser god spun, taking in the sight of Nicholai as he neared. When he turned back to speak to Darjal, he was gone.
The Southeaste
rn Time Father issued several awkward nods to the few passersby he encountered on his brisk run toward the lesser god. They watched him with cautious eyes as he neared Mimir and gestured toward the greenhouse. “Would it be too much to ask that you stay indoors?” he asked, a kind plea in his tone that was followed by a hint of exasperation. “I don’t mean to offend, but I don’t want the public to think I’m fraternizing with the lesser gods any more than they already do. The last thing I need right now is additional attacks on my life.”
A smirk from the lesser god was Mimir’s reply. “Of course, Time Father.” With his hands behind his back, he waltzed inside Malcolm’s greenhouse.
Nicholai glanced over his shoulder. He earned some questionable stares from those who saw him. “Everything’s fine,” he said, giving a friendly wave. “Nothing to concern yourselves over.”
They did not appear convinced.
“Right. Well.” Nicholai summoned as charming a grin as he could muster. “Good day to you both.”
The citizens exchanged uncomfortable glances with one another before they carried on with their journey. Nicholai pursed his lips together and turned, slipping into the greenhouse door before he found himself in any other uncomfortable situations.
Inside, Malcolm tended to his indoor plants. With a watering can in hand, he delivered fresh liquid to the waiting greens, trying to avoid the intense curiosity of Mimir, who watched from barely an arm’s distance away. The lesser god spent a lot of time in his greenhouse since Kazuaki and the others departed for Southern. While Malcolm was not particularly fond of him, his presence grew familiar. Tolerable.
Nicholai continued to shuffle the letters around in his hands until his eyes fell on one bearing the Western seal. He set the remainders on a table and tore the wax open, removing the parchment that laid dormant inside.
Having completed his task, Malcolm relieved himself of the watering can, traipsing over to a nearby chair. “What have you got there, Nicholai?” he asked, lowering his bones into the waiting padding of the cushion.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 85