“It’s from my father,” he replied, distracted as his eyes darted from left to right to absorb the contents of the text. “He says he’s been spending a lot of time with a particular woman in one of Western’s psychiatric hospitals. He claims he’s gleaned some insight into how the lesser gods are corrupting people. Statistics say those most easily affected are the working poor. The lessers seem to have capitalized on their feelings of disparity by comparing them to the indignities they, too, feel they’ve suffered.”
“The elder Addihein is still alive?” Mimir arched a brow, raising his gaze from the plant that consumed his attention prior. He returned his interest to the leaves, rubbing the velvet shapes between his fingers as he muttered to himself, “I should have thought they would have taken him out weeks ago.”
Nicholai frowned. “What makes you say that?”
Mimir peered out at the Time Father from behind the green flora. “Let’s just call it a hunch,” he grinned.
The lesser god’s cryptic reply earned no appreciation from Nicholai. Mimir never shied away from an opportunity for ambiguity, much to everyone’s annoyance. It seemed to be a trait shared by several lesser gods that the Southeastern Time Father had encountered as of late.
Nicholai glanced back down at the letter, thinking back to the time he spent in the in-between. While distractions diseased him, he could not get Epifet out of his thoughts. “Mimir ... when you told Kazuaki about the impending attack on Seacaster ... you mentioned you discerned that on a channel of sorts, shared by the lesser gods, is that correct?”
The being slipped out from behind the plant, slithering over to sit beside Malcolm. “More or less.”
“How does that work, exactly?” The Time Father’s brows drew together as he set the letter down near the others.
Mimir rotated his shoulders, stretching. “It is difficult to explain. It’s a network of unspoken words. Feelings. Since we are all a creation of mankind, we are all connected by it, this spiritual frequency. Ways exist to prevent certain messages from traveling, but,” he shrugged, “all in all, we are bound by a shared thread.”
“Can I ask,” Nicholai approached, taking a seat near Malcolm and Mimir, “what do you know of the goddess, Epifet? As a lesser god yourself, you must have some knowledge of her.”
“Oh, Time Father,” Mimir’s voice faded. It almost sounded as if a strand of pity lived in his words. He smiled. It was not his traditional, cunning grin, but more of a sympathetic gesture. “I love humans. I do. And I despise them. But you ... you are truly one of the good ones. A genuine, benevolent soul. I will not burden you with the story of Epifet, that you might stay good a little longer. Panagea needs more of that. You have plenty of time to learn the horrors of mankind’s ugliness as the world keeps spinning.”
Nicholai did not extend Mimir the courtesy of hiding his dissatisfaction. “I’ve seen plenty ugliness in my day, Mimir.” The Time Father raised his chin, his stare concentrated as he threw it toward the lesser god. “I just choose to believe it is temporary. We all have moments of ugliness, but deep down, people are inherently good.”
Mimir’s eyes crinkled as a smirk split across his cheeks. “Adorable.”
As the tension in the room grew, Malcolm cleared his throat. He stood from his chair and clapped his hands together. “Who’s for drinks?” he asked. Without awaiting a reply, he left the two to themselves, disappearing into a room in the back.
The front door to the greenhouse squealed as it opened. Jernal entered, his hair still damp from the shower he finished not minutes ago. It felt good to wash his body of the filth the last months brought him, but no matter how long he scrubbed, the soldier could not recapture a feeling of complete cleanliness.
He closed the door behind him, collapsing into the nearest chair. An aura of frustration lived over him, like a lightning-filled cloud that threatened to strike him down at any moment. The man’s fingers flexed into the arms of the chair, the base of his nails turning white from the subconscious pressure he applied.
Mimir jutted his bottom lip out. “Not still pouting over your family, are you, Commander?”
Jernal shot a sharp look of daggers at the lesser god but said nothing. He said everything he wished to say already and more. Jernal asked Mimir countless times to let him accompany Kazuaki and the others to Southern. When the lesser god refused, he demanded it. When, still, the lesser god did not relent to his requests, he cast his dignity aside and begged.
Mimir did not concede.
The soldier tried to leave on his own. For each footstep that fell closer to Southern’s border, an invisible weight around his ankles grew heavier, until it weighed him down so unnaturally, it felt as though his bones were a thousand pounds each. His debt to Mimir did not grant him the benefit of leaving. Supernatural efforts made it too difficult to accomplish. It was only when Jernal decided that he would die if he continued trying to make it to Southern that he finally yielded to Mimir’s desire for him to stay.
He was not happy about it. And he made no move to hide that fact.
Nicholai matched Jernal’s outward look of dissatisfaction. When Malcolm returned with three glasses of wine, he stiffened at the rigidity in the room. “Come now, gentlemen,” he extended an offering to Nicholai, “your negative energy is going to seep into my plants.”
An unenthusiastic arm reached out and accepted Malcolm’s offering. Though Nicholai shared no interest in consuming alcohol, he did not wish to offend Malcolm. He knew how much work the man poured into crafting the wine. The botanist knew it was a favorite of Captain Hidataka, and therefore made it a priority to perfect a small harvest with Umbriel’s assistance. A show of gratitude, to the immortal who saved the life of his son-in-law on more than one occasion. “Thank you, Malcolm.”
Mimir reached his eager hands out, his eyes aglow with excitement. “I have not tasted an organic libation in centuries,” he purred, saliva collecting in the pockets of his mouth.
A hesitation subsisted in Malcolm’s face, but he eventually handed the lesser god a glass. Mimir put it tight to his nose and breathed it in before sliding his tongue down into the ruby liquid.
Nicholai wrinkled his nose. Seeing Malcolm only brought out three glasses, he handed his to Jernal. “Looks like you could use this,” he uttered.
The soldier said nothing as he accepted it, and washed it down his throat in three large gulps. He wordlessly set the glass on a nearby table and returned to sulking.
The Time Father’s appearance still matched Jernal’s. Seeds of worry were planted in his gut since the others had left. Though he was never of a particularly strong use to them in battle, it seemed irregular not being beside them. Not knowing whether or not they were all right. His concern thrust memories of Iani’s death into the forefront of his thoughts. Nicholai still remembered the look on the young Platt’s brother’s face when Carlo Angevin filled him full of lead.
His gaze moved to Mimir. Nicholai knew the lesser god lived in a constant state of awareness. He seemed to know things the others did not, balancing on a mystic thread that ran between realms. Though he still felt a level of discontent for Mimir’s unhelpful response earlier, Nicholai couldn’t help but ask, in the hopes of easing his anxiety, “Do you think they’ll be all right?”
Mimir lifted his wine glass to his lips and tilted it back, savoring the liquid much more than Jernal did. When he finished his sip, he exhaled. “Do you want me to tell you the truth?” he asked. “Or do you want me to tell you what you want to hear?”
Nicholai scoffed and tried to cross his arms, but the movement only reminded him of his sore ribcage and he readjusted. He was edgy. Restless. The sound of Malcolm calmly sipping his wine in the corner was nearly enough to send him over the edge, but he tried to steady himself. It was of no use to act irrationally. He’d done enough of that already when possessed by Darjal.
Jernal sat in his chair, deflated. He exuded an unmatched sensation of wretchedness. A fierce combination of resentment, fru
stration, and uneasiness. The soundlessness around them only served to emphasize the shared dejection of both men.
It was too much to tolerate. After several minutes of living in the atmosphere created by both commander and Time Father, Malcolm set his glass of wine down. “Good gods, son.” His eyes fell on Nicholai and he shook his head. “I haven’t seen you this far from yourself since Lilac passed.”
His words cut him, but only in a way that seized his attention. Nicholai knew Malcolm must have been serious in his conviction; it hurt the greenhouse keeper just as much as it hurt Nicholai when the subject of Lilac Finn rose to the surface. “I apologize, Malcolm. I’m just ... worried.”
“Kazuaki is immortal, Nicholai.” Malcolm frowned. “He’ll be fine. And the others, they’re human. From what I understand, the lesser gods cannot touch them.”
“Malcolm speaks the truth,” Mimir interjected, taking a considerate sip from his glass. “Mostly.”
Like a screeching record, the three men whipped their heads toward Mimir. Nicholai crossed the room toward him, his hands pressing down into the arms of the chair Mimir sat in. He lowered his head, his voice uncharacteristically dark. “How so?”
If Mimir was affected by the proximity of Nicholai’s face, he did not show it. He tilted the glass up, savoring the last drop of the crimson liquid before he set it back onto the table. “Well, Havidite will certainly be there,” he said, chuckling. “And she hates Earth Mothers. It used to be that she, alone, was responsible for the success of plants, but when the Earth Mothers came to Panagea ...” He shook his head. “Oh my, was she ever livid.”
“Havidite.” The name rang a bell of familiarity. Nicholai’s brows furrowed together as he searched his brain. Yes. Havidite. The Goddess of Harvest. The one responsible for the death of Jodathyn. The one who set this entire series of corruption into motion. “But she cannot hurt her,” he said, hoping to convince himself. “Umbriel is ... is ...” He couldn’t finish. Nicholai already knew what Mimir was going to say before he said it.
“—born of both gods and men.” Mimir leaned back in the chair, relaxed. “As the blood of Naphine runs through her veins, so, too, does the ability for them to spill it.”
“Kazuaki will keep her safe,” Jernal muttered from his place in the chair. Whether he cared to admit it or not, the immortal showcased a surprising penchant for protecting those in his crew. Jernal noticed it even overflowed at times, into defending the lives of others.
“I am certain he will too,” Mimir nodded, “if the army of lesser gods they have amassed do not keep him too busy.”
Nicholai released his grip on Mimir’s chair, running his hands through his hair. It was already hell living with the knowledge that they were in danger before—but now, with this—Mimir dumped a tidal wave of doom upon him. Would Kazuaki know to protect Umbriel? If he thought lesser gods could not hurt humans, he might not. He stormed about the room, trying to collect his thoughts.
Malcolm caught him by the shoulders. Nicholai lifted his gaze from the ground and snagged the elder man’s stare. “Nicholai,” he said, holding him tight, “just go. Umbriel has made herself a daughter to me. I will not lose another.”
“I ...” Nicholai felt a void in his chest. A hollow surface that only responded to the icy metal of his Chronometer against his skin. “I can’t,” he uttered, though his words lacked conviction. “I am bound to Southeastern. I ruined these people once, Malcolm, I, I cannot risk—”
“How many times have you left Southeastern this year alone, Nicholai?” Malcolm’s voice was stern, sharp enough to be certain he penetrated Nicholai’s wall of misgivings. “You are not the other Time Fathers. You know your time restrictions. You’ve nearly mastered them. Just go. Make it back before your twenty-four hours are up.”
He seemed so sure. Nicholai hesitated. “And if I do not?”
A frown crossed over Malcolm’s face. “I know the only thing that would stop that from happening is if the lesser gods succeed. And if they do, then Panagea is already doomed, whether her divisions are frozen or not.”
It was all he needed to hear. Half of his heart had already left with them anyway. But it was not just for Umbriel and the others that Nicholai was struck with a sudden need to go. All along, he felt he was abandoning his people, putting them at risk for his carelessness again ... but Panagea had not yet recovered from the events of last year. Infection still plagued her. Their small collection of forests had only touched the surface of curing her. If Umbriel fell ... if the last Earth Mother perished ... Malcolm was right. His people were as good as condemned anyway.
“I’m going to need some transportation,” Nicholai said. “The faster, the better.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“My cycle?” Rhirvin winced as Nicholai walked passed him, heading toward the machine’s resting place in his backroom. He followed, carrying a guise of uncertainty with him.
Nicholai threw the tarp off the vehicle, running his hands over one of the smooth, metal bars that protruded out from each side. He lifted his head, finding Rhirvin’s hesitant eyes. “Please. I would not ask if it were not a matter of great importance.”
“I don’t know, Nico.” Rhirvin rubbed the back of his neck, straining as he cocked his head to the side. “I haven’t even worked out all the kinks yet.”
“You’re an expert machinist, my friend. Your knowledge blows mine out of the water.” Nicholai tried to flash an encouraging smile. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
Rhirvin cringed at the Time Father’s display of reassurance. The heartening grin he wore only served to layer a sheet of guilt over the machinist if he were to refuse Nicholai’s request. With a surrendering sigh, he uttered, “Please, don’t break it.”
Nicholai lit up at the sound of Rhirvin’s submission. He circled the cycle, a hand on his chin, as he tried to quickly study the components. “Great—how does it work?”
“Gods,” Rhirvin murmured, shaking his head. “You’re going to break it, aren’t you?”
“Rhirvin ...”
“Right, right,” he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, sighing once more. He knew Nicholai recognized his way around machines; all Time Fathers were required to be expert mechanics on some level. But the sophistication surrounding his cycle was beyond anything mankind discovered yet. It was the pinnacle of design, speed, and function. While Nicholai would likely recognize the purpose of some components, he’d need an introduction to the innovative technology if he had any hope of not killing himself. “I’ll give you a run through.”
Nicholai perked and rubbed his hands together as if the action helped him concentrate. “Thank you, my friend.”
A nod came from Rhirvin as he gestured to the cycle. “Here’s the engine, clearly. It’s liquid-cooled. No steam power from this baby.” He patted his creation lovingly. “You’ll find the rotary valves here ... the carburetor ... the throttle, for speed—”
“Great, great,” Nicholai nodded, having a vague familiarity with some of what Rhirvin showed him. “And the brakes?”
The machinist shot the Time Father a questioning look. “Remember when I said I didn’t work out all the kinks?”
Nicholai made a face. He scratched at the back of his head. “That ... seems like a fairly key component though, don’t you think?”
“The braking system is flawed,” Rhirvin informed him, kneeling beside the cycle. “Even at half its capability, the machine has too much power and speed for me to find anything that’ll succeed in slowing it down at a good pace. It’ll brake, but it takes a long time ... which is fine, if you know when you’re coming to a stop and can make whatever calculations you need, but not so great if you need to brake in an emergency.”
The knowledge was only mildly discouraging to Nicholai. He wrapped his fingers around the handle again and flashed the machinist a charismatic smile. “I’ll try not to crash into anything.”
Rhirvin freed a sound that was something between a scoff and a chuc
kle. “That would be nice.”
Nicholai threw one leg over the cycle, careful not to show any indication that he operated with still-broken bones, and settled into the seat. He glanced down to familiarize himself with where everything was a final time. When he lifted his head, he found Rhirvin’s gaze. “Thank you, my friend. Truly.”
The machinist walked over to a chain hanging from the ceiling. When he pulled on it, the hanging door to his shop heaved upward, exposing the outdoors to the Time Father. Rhirvin extended a hand, a gesture for Nicholai to venture off into the wide world toward whatever it was he needed to do. Rhirvin had no intention of asking. He knew for Nicholai to request the use of his cycle, it was clearly something vital. “Good luck.”
With a final nod, Nicholai lowered his goggles over his eyes and tossed his hat aside, knowing full well it would not survive the ride. He fired up the cycle’s engine. The loud noise echoed off the walls of Rhirvin’s machine shop, and without delay, he charged out the mouth of the building.
Rhirvin watched him go until he disappeared. With the cycle’s speed, it only took moments. He shook his head, wiping his hands on a dirty rag he pulled from a belt loop. “So far so good,” he muttered, pleased to see Nicholai did not immediately pilot the cycle into a wall.
The machinist’s eyes weren’t the only ones that followed the cycle’s path as it exited the Southeastern town of Nenada. Perched on the roof of the greenhouse, Mimir stood as tall as he could, hovering on the tips of his toes.
When all that remained for him to see was a line of dust kicked up from the cycle’s tires, he turned to Jernal, who he dragged up to the roof with him. “Pack your things, Commander. The time has come for us to follow.”
The soldier’s eyes fell under the shadows of his knitted brows. He knew something was up when the lesser god lugged him up to the roof, but he never expected an announcement like that. “I thought you said it was too dangerous for you to go to Southern?”
Mimir smirked. It was hard to see at first, but when a beam of moonlight caught the glistening saliva covering his teeth, it glowed. “He who risks nothing,” he whispered, “becomes nothing.”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 86