The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  “I see ...” Edvard swallowed, staring beyond the employee. His focus dwindled into the endless sea of white that made this place. “Would it be all right if I visited her compartment anyway?” he asked, his voice distant. “To say goodbye, I suppose.”

  A small frown fell over the staff member’s face. He hesitated. “I ... suppose that would be all right. But please, Mr. Addihein, I request you make it quick. We already have another individual coming in to occupy her room.”

  Edvard nodded, slipping past the white-coated man to walk down the white, painted walls on the white, tiled floor. He did not know why he felt compelled to visit the place where Esther drew her last breath. He only knew that each footstep took him closer until he found himself standing before it.

  A hand rose up and touched the cold metal that encased the room. It was strange. He sat in this space countless times upon visiting Esther. It did not seem as cruel then as it did now. As Edvard peered into the empty space, the conditions felt much more punishing.

  A thin mattress. No blankets. Limp shackles where her wrists used to be. An uninviting metal bowl, absent of any privacy, for defecating. It was no wonder she did not get better. This place was as dehumanizing as anything he’d ever seen.

  Edvard hung his head. He rested the top of his skull against the iron bars and stared at his polished footwear, wrapping his fingers tighter around the grates. It was odd to miss a woman who he never truly knew. Esther was as much the lesser gods as she was herself, and separating the two became impossible. But there was something about her he couldn’t get out of his head. Perhaps it was what she represented. The first step in a shift for Western. The answer to the plague the lesser gods brought.

  Something cold touched his hand. The Western Time Father’s head shot up. Standing in the cell that sat empty not seconds ago, a familiar face stared back at him. The soft, brown skin. The tender eyes. The full, unblemished lips. Though the woman standing before him was a far more withered version than the one he remembered staring at over thirty years ago, he recognized her instantly.

  “Hello, Edvard,” she said, her dress blowing at her ankles though no wind touched her. She folded her tattered wings behind her, giving him a moment to absorb her presence.

  His heart leaped at her touch. The guilt that flooded him was immediate and unforgiving. Despite the countless that years passed since Edvard last saw her, hers was a face that remained scalded into his memory, and forever would. The hair standing on his arms betrayed his emotions, as he met her eyes and tried to convince his tongue to speak. He only managed to utter two words. “Hello, Epifet ...”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Southeastern had no clue what horrors awaited it. Umbriel stared out the window of Nicholai Addihein’s home. She had finally returned from her long stint in Seacaster, healing the injuries of the survivors. The woman observed Nenada’s people through the clear glass as they carried on with their lives.

  Paranoia subsisted in their movements. The Earth Mother noticed they second-guessed everything they did. Even the smallest decisions were met with apprehension as word spread that Kazuaki Hidataka, the savior of Southern, met his doom at the hands of Mimir.

  The only man alive who ever slew a god. The only short-lived hope the people of Panagea had against the lessers that invaded them. Gone.

  Nicholai watched her from the open door to his bedroom, encompassed by grief, not just for Umbriel’s state, but Kazuaki’s fate. He and the captain did not always see eye to eye, but Kazuaki Hidataka was as much a friend to the Time Father as he was a legend to Panagea. He missed him terribly.

  Not wishing to allow Umbriel the discomfort of wallowing in sadness any longer than necessary, Nicholai crossed the distance and stood at her side. He tilted his head, joining her in the act of gazing out the window. “See anything interesting?”

  “No.” The tension in her shoulders reinforced at his arrival, as if she lived in so much shame, it overflowed into every muscle and bone. Even in her dishonor, she still projected a grace. “Not yet.”

  Nicholai cleared his throat and pulled his Chronometer from his shirt. He wound the crown, careful to be sure he turned it the perfect amount before he returned it to the safety of his vest. “It’s not your fault, you know ... for what happened to Kazuaki.”

  “No. Not Kazuaki.” Umbriel’s heart fell for the captain. For Bermuda. For the crew. She missed him. She missed the others. Bermuda did not return to Southeastern, and the Earth Mother knew by the aura that stemmed from her before they left, the quartermaster had no intention of returning at all. Her anger would take her on a much different path than the town of Nenada. “His fate was sealed before my intervention. But I invited the gods back into Panagea, Nicholai.” She turned away from the window to face him. “They will only repeat what they attempted in Southern elsewhere. It will be less poetic to spread chaos in a town that doesn’t mean as much to Darjal, and perhaps a little harder to infiltrate the minds of people who are not conditioned to be so blindly religious, but they do not care for such things. They will not stop. Soon, the world will exist solely for them. I invited them back to save Panagea ... and I fear I have doomed it.”

  The pain in her eyes was hard to look at, but Nicholai held his gaze steady. Her words sheltered an undeniable weight. He wished to ease her suffering. “You know,” the man shrugged, his tone lightening, “I doomed Panagea once, so ... you know ... thanks for trying to steal my thunder.”

  She smiled. It was small. But it felt like a victory.

  “We’ll figure something out, Umbriel.” Nicholai met her tiny smile with a brighter one of his own. He turned to look out the window once more, watching the cautious citizens as they carried on with their lives. “People are more resilient than the gods give them credit for.”

  Umbriel wanted to believe him. She saw the untainted belief that thrived in his face when he surveyed his residents. It was so pure. People like Nicholai Addihein were a dying breed. The corners of her smile grew wider, more sincere, as she studied him. “I never thanked you for saving my life. Havidite has never been an admirer of mine. I can’t imagine it was easy to restrain her.”

  “Gods, no,” Nicholai shook his head. “She has the strength of a thousand men.”

  Umbriel chuckled once, heartfelt in her amusement. She followed his gaze back outside, her hands behind her back.

  “Umbriel ...” Nicholai kept his focus beyond the room in which they stood, the only way he knew to separate any liability from what he was about to say. “The strength of a thousand men or no ... I’d always come for you.”

  Her smile found a permanent place on her lips. She nodded. “And I for you.”

  The man held her gaze. It made her heart accelerate, the way he looked at her. “I must confess ... I ...”

  He paused. Her heart leaped in her chest at what he might say. What she hoped he’d say.

  “ ...I’m terrified Malcolm might shoot me down if I didn’t.”

  A playful anecdote. Her heart fell, but her face showed no evidence of it. She forced a small laugh and turned back to the window.

  The pair stood in the company of the ticking clocks. They did not bother Nicholai as much anymore. Enough time passed to remove the discomfort of his interval spent in the realm between realms. He counted sixty-five ticks before his curiosity bested him. “So ... what do we do now?”

  The Earth Mother closed her eyes. She filled her lungs with a deep breath. A lone shoulder lifted. “I do not know.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The heavy aura seeping out of the cracks in the doors to Bartholomew’s study would have deterred any being from entering. But Brack ‘The Rabbit’ Joney did not shy away from discomfort. On the contrary, he was often the source of it.

  Still. A momentary lapse in self-assuredness kept him outside the door a little longer than it normally would have. He knew what awaited him on the other side, and it was nothing he felt an eagerness to see.

  He stepped up to the door and looked down
, his eyes on the brass handles. He raised a bandaged hand to it, the other arm bound to a sling after having been ripped from its socket in the skirmish. A small amount of blood soaked through the dressing as he pushed down on the handle to open the door.

  Well-oiled and maintained, the door opened absent of any noise. Brack’s eyes traveled across the filigree carpet and over to the chair where Bermuda sat. Her body slumped deep into the last piece of furniture Captain Kazuaki Hidataka had ever used. Though the door made no noise, and the soft runner of carpet absorbed the impact of his boots, he knew she was aware of his presence. Not much slipped passed the quartermaster.

  When he stood at an arm’s distance from her, the Rabbit glanced down at the empty glass she held. The last thing touched by Kazuaki’s lips, except for Bermuda, herself. She flexed her wrist inward and outward, listening to the sounds of the glass as it crawled across the carved marble arms of the chair. The katar sat across her lap, unclean, still wearing the crimson stains of its many victims. Her free hand sat atop it, possessive and inert.

  Brack scratched at the sideburns growing from the sides of his jaw, his voice easy. “Ship’s all loaded up as you wanted, love. The others are waiting.”

  Bermuda stopped moving the glass. She did not look at him. “Good. I’ll be right out.”

  The Rabbit offered a small nod.

  She knew he was worried. Brack never wore disquiet on his face, but she sensed it in his behavioral shift. Bermuda ventured a guess that it had something to do with her poor history of handling deaths. She could hardly blame Brack for his concern. The way she reacted after things ended with Ty was reprehensible, weak, and pathetic. But this was different.

  There was no self-pity. No feelings of responsibility surrounding Kazuaki’s fate. Just pure and complete hatred, for Mimir, who stole him, and for Nordjan, who invited the lesser god back into Panagea. Her animosity was accompanied by an unquenchable thirst for retribution. When she noticed Brack made no motion to leave, her eyes shot to his face for the first time since he arrived. “I just want to sit here for a moment longer.”

  Her comrade flickered an eyelid, his body still reacting in unexpected ways after the battle ended. He glanced down at Bermuda while he rubbed at his eye. “You know, Bart offered for us to stay as long as we need to. There’s no reason to head out so quick.”

  Bermuda did not falter. “I’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

  The man’s head cocked to the side. The sensation of scarcely contained venom that emanated off her was palpable. When he could no longer stand it, Brack knelt beside her. “Look ... there’s no shame in takin’ a break, mate. Cap’s gone. It feckin’ rips my heart from my chest to say it. But no matter how much it hurts, charging out there, katar drawn, slaughtering a sea of gods and goddesses ...” He shook his head. “It ain’t gonna change nothin’.”

  “I don’t need a sea of them,” she muttered, the beds of her nails turning white as her grip on the glass increased. “I only need one. But if it takes a sea of them to find him, so be it.”

  “Mimir’s covered his bases, love.” Once Brack controlled the twitching in his eye, he rested his gaze on the weapon in her lap. “He said he couldn’t be killed by those katars.”

  “Yes,” she said, her metal hand gliding over the smooth steel as she stared ahead. “Kazuaki agreed not to kill him with the katars.” Bermuda tore her focus from the wall that occupied it before. She locked onto Brack’s pupils, her gaze unwavering. Direct. Terrifying. She leaned forward, her words leaving her in a whisper. “But I made no such bargain.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Home meant different things to different people. Even amid the chaos that rained down on Panagea, Rennington felt luckier than most. He had two homes. With all the residences that burned to the ground throughout all the divisions, that was certainly more than many.

  The memories of being born and raised in Southern territory surfaced more frequently than they had at any moment prior. He remembered growing up, admiring the footmen of his hometown. He remembered climbing onto the rooftops of the small houses that lined the streets to get a better view of them as they marched in parades, or led Darjal Wessex’ sedan chair to the churches for public appearances. Or how their camaraderie was highlighted in the event they needed to take down a thief or a convict. They weaved through the crowds with a commanding majesty. Though most maintained a steadfast appearance, the occasional footman broke the military’s rigid expectations and issued a small wave to excited children who stood nearby.

  Those soldiers were the picture of honor. In a little boy’s eyes, honor meant everything.

  Those footmen were the reason he signed on to be a soldier to Southern, back when Darjal Wessex reigned. But the late leader took his vision of integrity and partisanship and turned him into a deserter. Darjal sucked out the nobility of being a soldier when he ordered Rennington and his comrades to assassinate the children of those protesters years ago. To Darjal Wessex, they were better off dead than alive. Orphaned children were a burden on tax dollars, and he wanted all he had to go to the churches that painted him as a god. He destroyed the fantasy of the principle that Rennington built. He hated him for that.

  Rennington glanced down at the Southern uniform he wore. Pride weaved through him when he slipped into each part, down to the boots he pulled on his feet. After Darjal’s death, he was happy to see Bartholomew Gray turn Southern around in an incredible way. It was almost hard to remember the time when he despised the attire and what it stood for. Returning to his duty in Southern felt right. It felt good to be a soldier again. To fight for something, and someone, worth fighting for.

  Southern remained his first home. It ran through his veins. But his other home called to him. The place that scooped him up when Panagea detested his desertion. The place that sustained him when he had nowhere to go. If Southern was his blood, Kazuaki and the crew were his bones.

  It was a call he couldn’t ignore.

  “I know I’m duty-bound to Southern,” he said with a sigh. “I know I said I’d never leave again. That I’d commit to changing this place for the better. But with the captain gone ... with everything falling to shit ...” He shook his head. “Bermuda’s got herself in some dire straits. That woman is bent on revenge. Avenging the captain, and all that.”

  Rennington paced, his feet shuffling across the ground. It was visible to anyone who gazed upon him he writhed in discomfort at having to leave. It was hard enough tearing himself away from Southern when he had accompanied Kal Rovanas to Northwestern. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not easy to hear. I know you want me here, but ...”

  The man lifted his hands to his head. His fingers crawled under his cap and into his hair as he closed his eyes. “I can’t leave her to this fate. And the captain ... I owe my life countless times over to that man. I know I promised my life to Southern, but ... Bermuda’s about to raise a shit storm in his name. I can’t abandon her while she fights for what he stood for. If the situation was reversed, they’d do it for me.”

  Rennington closed his eyes. “I took all the right steps. My leave has been approved. I ... I’m leaving tomorrow.” His jaw tightened. He clenched his teeth, hard. “I know it’s soon, but ... she’s already pretty restless, you know. There’s no time to waste.”

  Polished boots carried him several paces forward. Rennington stood straighter. “Yes, it will be dangerous. Fighting lesser gods sounds impossible, doesn’t it? I’m sure she’ll handle that part, with that feckin’ godly katar of hers. At the very least, I can keep any manipulated men off her and the others’ asses while she slays her way to some shitty version of whatever peace she can find at the end of all this.”

  He sighed again. A gentle breeze touched his face. Rennington adjusted the cap he wore on his head. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here, actually,” he admitted. “I have a favor to ask you. If something terrible should happen ... if I should die off Southern ground ... I need you to come find me. Take me back here. This is where I
belong.”

  The man cleared his throat. It tightened inside his neck and brought him discomfort. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. It could be weeks, months, years ...”

  Rennington stooped to sit. He rested his back against Iani’s tombstone. A simple, stone monument with his brother’s name etched on it, along with the years of his birth and death. “So if it’s okay with you, I’d like to sit here a while. In case I don’t get the chance to do it again anytime soon.”

  He sat in the quiet until it ate him. Unable to stand the silence any longer, Rennington pulled out his harmonica and made it sing a few soft notes. It didn’t feel the same without an accompaniment. Without Iani telling a ridiculous tale to go along with it. Without Elowyn joining in on her instrument, or with her voice. He lowered it from his lips and gripped it in his palm.

  Smoke billowed off the horizon. From what, he did not know. It was almost a common thing these days. Rennington guessed it would only grow more common, as Panagea faded further into a new breed of decay.

  That smoke was a symbol. Once a positive one that used to signify Panagea’s growing industry. It crawled out of each factory’s tower with a purpose, created by the hard-working hands of those who rose to attend their jobs each day. It was a different kind of smoke now. An emblem of smoldering carnage. The symbol of mankind’s fall.

  A dim smirk crawled across the soldier’s face. He reached forward and plucked a rare blade of grass from the earth, twisting it between his thumb and middle finger. He beckoned a deep breath to enter his lungs as he pushed himself harder into the cold stone behind him. It helped him feel the proximity of Iani’s spirit. “If you don’t find me, I’ll come find you,” he said, flicking the grass from his fingers. “And I will haunt your ass like a mother fecker ...”

  THE SERPENT THAT SWALLOWED ITS TAIL

  Book Three of the Panagea Tales

  McKenzie Austin