The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  Her time spent in Edvard’s company was infrequent but meaningful. As much as Epifet held tightly to her belief that the elder Addihein needed to repent, their mutual relationship of suitability blossomed over time. She saw things in him. Glimpses of redemption.

  Edvard’s love for his son grew. It was that which redeemed him the most. Against their history of trials, Epifet knew he would die for Nicholai. It was one of the two facts that kept her present.

  Time shifted the things Edvard used to value. The things that were at the core of his poor decision-making in the past.

  Illusions of power shed with age. Matters of the heart replaced matters of the head. Some were blessed to discover life’s most valuable assets early on, but most needed the wisdom of age to help them arrive at that world truth. Edvard Addihein had it in spades now. That revelation often came too late in life for people to enjoy it. A soft frown creased over Epifet’s perfect face. It was one of existence’s cruelest games.

  It was not only Edvard’s growing humility that kept Epifet present in the Addihein mansion. Despite their strained history, he offered her prayer. He gave power to her name by remembering and bringing offerings to the secret shrine he crafted for her in his home.

  Epifet drew off the energy Edvard fed into the shrine. Small offerings made the biggest difference. A burning incense, sitting gently in a decorative, brass bowl. A handful of wildflowers—fresh at one point—still beautiful even as they curled up and withered into dryness. A handwritten letter, bearing her name, and an inscribed prayer. All of it fed her. Sustained her.

  In turn for his favor, Epifet lingered in the shadows of Southeastern. She protected Nicholai as best as she was able. The goddess kept her movements secretive, to spare herself from Nicholai’s inevitable questions. She knew he’d have many if he ever saw her. It didn’t seem like too long ago, when the pair of them lingered in the in-between realm, where Nicholai might have stayed, had she not pushed him out. Epifet would have delighted in his company, but not at the expense of his life.

  A contemplative sigh spilled from her. The dangers to Nicholai’s life grew with each passing day. When Mimir claimed the soul of Kazuaki Hidataka, the Goddess of Fertility knew Nicholai could no longer count on the immortal captain to save him from the efforts of his enemies ... of which the Southeastern Time Father had many.

  Epifet remained happy to stay vigilant outside of the young Addihein man’s homestead. With the tender ferocity of a mother’s love, she wished to defend him.

  Whether he knew it or not, the Southeastern Time Father was lucky. Her favor was not the only one he had earned.

  For as many enemies as Nicholai gained, he also received courtesies amongst some of the other lesser gods. Dimjir, God of Mercy, and the few others who did not condemn mankind for their past betrayals. Those who applauded his and Umbriel’s efforts to restore the poisoned Panagea. It had been enough to keep him safe so far.

  “How is he doing?” Edvard asked. Though his voice came in soft, it dominated in the quietness of the room. He had not seen Epifet for several weeks. He crossed the space and stood beside her, his hands behind his back, as he followed her gaze out the window.

  The goddess continued to watch Western’s citizens scurry about. They seemed content from a distance. None would know that they harbored intense hatred in their bodies. Hatred for the gods. Sharing borders with Northwestern only escalated their detestation. How so much animosity could live in such small hearts, Epifet had no idea. Without turning, she answered, “He is well.”

  Edvard nodded, relieved. The man’s relationship with his son felt as if it grew in their exchange of letters, but there was only so much he could discern from the written word. The contents of Nicholai’s letters never outlined the continued loss he must have felt over Lilac’s passing. Or the heavy sense of Kazuaki’s absence. Or the sustained guilt over Darjal’s death, or losing that young Avigail woman. Nicholai mentioned her once. Though he never brought her up again, Edvard felt his worry in every letter. He surmised she had never returned to his son’s home. He would have mentioned it if she had.

  Nicholai never cited any of them. Whether it was due to denial, or he was simply too busy trying to feverishly improve the lives of his people, Edvard did not know. He did know that he suffered for them. He knew because Epifet knew. She was kind enough to share.

  Edvard cleared his throat. “He tells me in his letters he’s had some small success bridging the gap between the wealthy and the poor. Is that true?”

  Epifet ran her fingers down the fabric of the curtain, soaking in the softness of the material. She knew she was Edvard’s eyes. For however much the Western Time Father wished to view his son’s successes for himself, he could not bring himself to leave Western. Not when it teetered on the edge of fragility. “Yes. Fewer people fall to the gods’ influence in his division every day.”

  Pride. Edvard Addihein hadn’t experienced it in a long time. But word of Nicholai’s success shoved it up from somewhere deep in his heart, where it hid. He laid a hand over his chest. “I am happy to hear it.”

  Epifet nodded. “As am I. But we must not celebrate prematurely,” she said, her voice dropping. “It is but a drop in the ocean.”

  “I’ll take whatever small victories I am afforded at this point.” Much of Panagea belonged to the gods now, it seemed. Small reminders that fractions remained in the hands of men were music to Edvard’s ears. He turned away from her, walking over to a wall of books. He perused them, sending his words to Epifet once more. “And what of the Earth Mother? Umbriel?”

  Edvard’s concern for her was genuine. He knew Umbriel was one of the few true companions his son had left. After the captain’s fall, Bermuda and her crew never returned to Southeastern. As far as Edvard knew, the woman was on a rampage throughout Panagea. After everything, and everyone, that Nicholai lost ... Edvard had a vested interest in ensuring Umbriel was not added to the list.

  There was only so much a man could handle before he snapped, after all.

  The Goddess of Fertility stared out the window a moment longer before shifting her attention. Her hips swayed in fluid sweeps as she crossed the floor to a chair, lowering herself into it. “Southeastern is, perhaps, the safest place for her. The favor Nicholai has earned with the other lesser gods, few as they are, is enough to keep Havidite at bay. She has busied herself with other endeavors to worry too much about Umbriel.”

  Edvard found a book. He plucked it from the shelf and toppled it open into his hands, his eyes on the page. It served as a distraction. A place to rest his eyes while he gathered the courage to ask her the most burning question in his mind. “With things looking up as they are,” he started, unable to lift his eyes from the words he wasn’t reading, “how much longer do you plan to ... accompany me?”

  She understood his tone. It was a mixture of both apprehension and relief. Epifet became a beacon to Edvard Addihein. Unfortunately, she shined a light on two completely different sides of the Western Time Father.

  Her presence was welcomed. Edvard knew she protected Nicholai. Kept him safe. But she remained a liability. The hatred in the hearts of Western citizens concerning the gods grew greater each day. The lives of many family members and friends fell to the omnipotent hands of angered deities. Sharing a border with Northwestern, where the gods ruled supreme, only seemed to amplify their rage. “If you are asking how long I expect you to sustain me with your prayer,” she said, “that decision is entirely up to you. I am not here to manipulate your free will. I am only here to protect Nicholai.”

  “For which I am grateful.” Edvard bowed, the book still in his hands.

  “I will continue to do so for as long as I am able,” Epifet added, resting the side of her face in her palm, as she leaned her elbow on the chair’s arm. “It’s all in your hands, Edvard. I will say that you are one of the only sources of prayer for me.” Her tone fell as sadness filled her. “There are not many who wish to bring a child into a terrifying world. Things
in Southeastern may be better than they are in other divisions,” she said, “but it is the exception to the rule. Panagea remains a very dangerous place.”

  The Western Time Father carefully closed the book in his hands, knowing he would remain unable to concentrate on the text. Though he stood tall, his gaze fell to the floor. Her words rang true. He and Nicholai shared their tactics for bridging the financial gap, to correct the fundamental errors the late Esther Hiddle spoke of. The Addihein men strove to make a world where people remained anchored in their certainty enough that they did not need to fear falling to the gods’ corruption. But a handful of towns in an entire continent did not make a safe world.

  He placed the book back on the shelf and walked over to a chair across from the goddess. With a subconscious sigh, Edvard lowered himself into the cushion and leaned forward. “As long as you keep my son safe,” he uttered, “I will pray to you for as long as you need.”

  Epifet nodded. She knew the risk he acquired in doing so. For that, she summoned a small, yet grateful smile. “Thank you, Edvard. You know I will do my best.”

  Of that, he had no doubt. “I know.”

  As Epifet relaxed into the chair, a frown replaced her smile. Her poised brows came together, and she leisurely rose. “Speak of ill will, and some shall appear.”

  Edvard leaned his tired body forward. “What do you mean?”

  Epifet smoothed out the lines in her flowing gown. “The Goddess of Stars sends word that more assassins are on their way to Nicholai’s homestead. I must be off.”

  Edvard joined her in her look of distaste. It seemed the goddess rarely enjoyed a moment of relaxation before she was called elsewhere. He sat back, wrapping his fingers into the edge of the chair’s arms. “No rest for the wicked, it seems.”

  “No.” Epifet stretched her wings out behind her. The distance they spanned in width, doubled her height. “Nor for the good.”

  In a single breath, she was gone. The goddess left nothing behind but a few feathers. Edvard spied them on the floor, settling amongst the dust bunnies that her wings kicked out from beneath his chair. The man reached over, bending down to pick them up.

  He wished to keep all evidence of her presence to himself. The man stuffed the feathers into his pocket and glanced at the door to be sure none of the staff stood in the open doorway.

  With the divide between lucid humans and gods growing more violent in Western by the day, it remained in his best interest to keep Epifet a secret. It was not wise for anyone here, particularly Edvard, to be found in the company of the gods.

  Not twenty years ago ... and certainly not now.

  A flutter in his chest brought a discomfort with it. The memories of secrecy, and the burdens they carried with them. Time granted men many things—but for some circumstances, it seemed no amount of time existed that would sweep away a man’s biggest regrets.

  Edvard crossed over to the bookshelf again. After one more reassuring glimpse over his shoulder, he placed his palm on the shelf’s edge and gave it a forceful push.

  The bookshelf pivoted, rotating with some effort as it spun into the hollowed-out wall. The books disappeared, giving way for the shrine to come into view on its opposite side. Edvard reached into his pocket and grabbed the soft feathers burrowed inside. When he pulled them from their hiding place, he set them gently on the altar.

  The man stared at them for some time before he closed his eyes. “Best of luck, Epifet,” he whispered under his breath, knowing full well the more he spoke her name, the more power she would have to protect his son. “Keep him safe.”

  Edvard bowed once to the monument before returning the bookshelf to its proper place. With his hand on the smooth surface, a vacant gaze looked at the spines of his many books. His shrine to Epifet hid once more. Sealed away from the eyes of others, living in the same state as the rest of his secrets.

  Chapter Three

  Nicholai stared at the black, iron gates. He assessed the property before he set foot on it. Guarded by an unwelcoming fence on all sides, the gothic mansion sat, elegant and representing everything the Odenhardth family name had earned.

  The building commanded the same majesty the family did. The legacy of the Odenhardths was as old as civilized living, itself. When the people of Panagea crawled through fields of uncultivated terrain centuries ago, it was an Odenhardth who declared and organized land for farming. When the population of the continent grew, it was the Odenhardths who hired others to construct factories, to produce food-like products at a previously unimagined volume. The Odenhardths were behind nearly every major renovation in Panagea’s history.

  Generations of manufacturing and expanding their industrial efforts, on the backs of the working-poor, bought the family of elites everything they ever wanted.

  Today, Nicholai intended to take a small piece of it away.

  He glanced down at the document clutched in his hands. A hope existed that Ganther Odenhardth would accept the deal with little hesitation, but the Southeastern Time Father expected resistance. He was not alone in that judgment.

  Umbriel had voiced her opinions on Ganther’s priorities. She was not shy in sharing her apprehensions with Nicholai. With a history of profiting on the physical labor of others, and documentation highlighting his remorselessness for employees who found themselves unable to work, Umbriel wore a cautious sentiment for Ganther.

  She recalled the Odenhardth name from when she set foot in Panagea long ago, long before the other Earth Mothers were slaughtered and she was doomed to her island. It seemed they left a bitter taste in her mouth even back then. It was a strange thing for Nicholai to witness in the woman, who found little fault in anyone.

  It was her apprehension that made Nicholai promise to take a handful of footmen with him to the Odenhardth mansion. They stood on all sides of him. Left. Right. Behind. It was both suffocating and humiliating.

  Nicholai shuffled uncomfortably in their presence. Despite the horrors of the world as they came to be, he did not enjoy the company of hired bodyguards. They reminded him of the captain’s absence. Kazuaki assumed the place of ten mercenaries in his day, and he did it absent of pay. Though he never verbalized it, his profit was the sheer benefit of knowing Nicholai lived to see another day.

  The Time Father closed his eyes. He missed him terribly.

  Not one to break a promise to Umbriel, however, the Southeastern Time Father dragged the band of footmen along to his monumental challenge: seeking compliance from one of Panagea’s blue bloods. The very same string of individuals who wanted him dead because of his efforts to restore nature to the land.

  A well-dressed man, bearing arms, approached Nicholai’s small army as they stood outside the closed gate. He stepped up to the iron rods from the mansion’s side, expressionless. With a cock of his head, he looked Nicholai over, and his collection of footmen, his body stiff and rigid. “State your business.”

  “Oh, come on.” Nicholai held up a hand, gesturing to his guards, all donned in Southeastern-issued military regalia. “You know it’s me. You know why I’m here. I scheduled this meeting with Ganther weeks ago.”

  The unnamed man huffed. “No one sees Mr. Odenhardth without stating their business.”

  Nicholai closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. If he wants to do the dance, that’s fine.” He took a deep breath and stood straighter. “My name is Nicholai Addihein, Time Father of the Southeastern division. I have come to discuss the purchase of Mr. Odenhardth’s manufacturing plant, and the land he owns in the Southeastern town of Sescol.”

  The guard waited. Upon further unnecessary analysis of Nicholai’s person, he nodded. “Very well. Mr. Odenhardth is expecting you.”

  “Imagine that,” Nicholai uttered, failing to keep his exasperation from being showcased, while the man opened the gate. Before his footmen could follow him inside, the mansion guard held out his hands.

  “You’ll need to leave your weapons at the door.”

  “Oh?�
� Nicholai arched a brow, turning to face the individual. Spying the weapon the gate guardian carried, he crossed his arms. “Will I be afforded the same courtesy?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “I cannot speak for the whereabouts of Mr. Odenhardth’s private weapons collection, sir, but his hired hands are instructed to remain equipped at all times.”

  Nicholai sighed. He would have been content to leave the footmen at the door, had it not been for his promise to Umbriel. He frowned, turning to look at the men he brought with him before he returned his attention to the gate guardian. “Mr. Odenhardth will have to make an exception for his division leader.”

  The man appeared frozen. His face wore a confusion the likes of which Nicholai had never witnessed before. He said nothing, caught between the risk of pissing off the wealthiest man in Southeastern, and the capitol crime that was disobeying a Time Father.

  Nicholai saw the anguish in his face as he analyzed his options. The Time Father closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, despising the act of waving his title around to gain access to any privileges. “I assure you, we are of no threat to Mr. Odenhardth’s life. If he lets you go from your position for violating his terms, I will find a job for you somewhere in Southeastern. You have my word.”

  A hesitation followed. A job in Southeastern under the Time Father meant nothing if Ganther were to have him killed for noncompliance. After much internal debate, the man knew he had little choice. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. “Through the main doors,” he uttered, following his gut. Extending an arm, he gestured toward the mansion’s front entrance. “Follow me.”

  Breathing a sound of relief at his first stroke of luck, Nicholai nodded and tipped his hat. “Good man. Thank you.”

  With his footmen in tow, they crossed the weaving driveway. An assortment of expensive, colorful stones caught beneath each footfall as they walked. In the center of the lavish entrance, a fountain sat. It dragged another frown out of Nicholai’s face, putting him too much in mind of the fountain in Seacaster. The gods. The battle. Kazuaki. It was difficult to forget how red those waters turned with blood that day.