The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  The captain stood, silently sliding his arms out of his long jacket. He dusted it off several more times, to remove as much debris as he could. After inspecting to be sure no lingering blood splatter remained, he lowered the warmed object over her shuddering torso.

  It seemed to do the trick.

  A sharp inhalation raised Bermuda’s chest before she fell back into a much sounder state of rest.

  Kazuaki ran a calloused thumb down her cheek before he slid his hand to the side of her neck. He waited until he felt the thrum of her pulse in his fingertips. Weak, but steady. The god allowed his hand to linger there, finding small comfort in each beat, before he finally pulled himself away.

  Four long strides brought him over to an old chair, which he dragged back to the side of his hammock. He couldn’t risk crawling into the makeshift bed with her. Though Kazuaki had often boasted of the greatness of hammocks to himself, they were decidedly unstable things. He did not wish to wake her up simply to lay beside her. She needed all the rest she could get.

  He loomed over the quartermaster in the darkness of his cabin for a moment, savoring the sight of her rising chest. Leaning over carefully, he kissed her forehead. Where his lips were warm, her skin still held a chill.

  For how weak she was, she would never admit it.

  Kazuaki collapsed into the chair and huffed. As if she could keep such things from him. Lifting his hands, he freed his cascading hair from its tie, letting the matted black mass fall to his shoulders before he leaned back.

  A lingering glance assessed her once more as the sides of the hammock cradled her sleeping body. It would be nice he thought, to lay beside her. Cold though she was, the act of being beside her greatly warmed him.

  Kazuaki’s expression dimmed. He never had to worry about waking resting bodies in hammocks when he was alone. He wondered how long he’d have the joy of worrying about it now.

  Just as he placed his neck back to rest on the chair’s frame, an onslaught of whispers attacked him. Brows pulled together as Kazuaki dug his fingers into his temples, grimacing through the waves of words. More damnable, incessant prayers, uttered unto him by wretched, pathetic people. He pinched his eye shut and shook them from his thoughts, growing more adept at shoving the pleas to the back of his mind.

  He needed a distraction. More sounds, to drown out the utterances.

  Concentrating on the noises of the airship, Kazuaki sucked in a resounding breath. When he was able to hone his focus, familiar resonances greeted him: the hum of multiple engines, the wind striking against the rounded edges of the ship’s helium-filled zeppelin, the eccentric whirring of the generators … all coupled with the high altitude that made his eardrums pop on occasion.

  He could feel the ship move forward purposefully and without mercy. Revi must have been piloting the vessel. Each crewmember operated the airship in his or her fashion.

  The Houton man pressed it with a strange mixture of reckless efficiency.

  Penn operated with a cautious hesitation that did not show in his personality.

  Brack commanded a more untroubled approach, caring little for whether or not the ship maintained the quickest course, so long as he was having fun.

  Granite … somehow, the man’s emotionlessness was channeled through the body of the vessel, and it showed just as much in flight.

  The captain’s shoulders relaxed as the whispers gave way to his observations. It wasn’t until he heard footsteps above him that his eye opened, his pupil widening in the darkness.

  It seemed that someone else was just as restless as he was.

  Not wishing to allow the prayers to regain any of their footings, Kazuaki stood to his feet. He checked one last time to be sure Bermuda’s breaths were consistent before he turned and headed for the door.

  Ascending the stairs that led to the main deck, Kazuaki pushed the door open. The wind grabbed it, trying to rip it from his grasp, but the god was far too controlling to let it get away from him. With a forceful shove, he listened for the sound of the click, indicating the door had shut properly. Confident that it was latched, he spun to see the back of Nicholai, resting his elbows on the ship’s railing.

  Of course. The former Time Father. Who else had enough reasons to be so fidgety this late at night? He had been quiet since Umbriel died. Yet somehow, a determined—albeit forced—smile was never far from his face. Kazuaki could tell it was bullshit from a mile away.

  Nicholai saw nothing beyond the clouds before him. Though the airship’s exterior lanterns lit the area to some degree, the illumination was not powerful enough to grant him any sight beyond his immediate environment. The gales tousled his hair as he tightened his grip on the hat that rested beneath the safety of his arm.

  It was loud on deck. Loud enough to mask his more troubling thoughts. For that, he and the captain shared a common need.

  Kazuaki watched the well-dressed man, contemplating his next move. He was not in the mood for idle chit-chat. But watching Nicholai there, marinating in what the captain guessed was viscous, internal suffering … he begrudgingly found his legs moving forward.

  As Kazuaki rested his elbows on the railing beside Nicholai, the moon penetrated the clouds. He didn’t catch the man’s startled flinch at the unexpected sight of a visitor, but he suspected it was there. The god’s hair whipped wildly about his shoulders while he stared out into the abyss. “You know,” Kazuaki started, unwilling to make eye contact with his comrade, “it used to be that all I saw, looking over the edge of my old ship, was an endless ocean. Endless waves. I grew comfortable with that, though a large part of me always perceived it as a punishment of sorts. A prison, from which I could never leave.” He forced himself to turn his head in Nicholai’s direction. “Then, circumstances took me from the sea. Now, when I look over the edge, all I see are clouds … and I’ll be damned if I don’t miss the waves.”

  Nicholai listened intently, his blue eyes stuck on the captain’s face. When Kazuaki had finished, he coerced an indebted smile to appear. “The sky suits you better,” he observed, softening the grip his metal fingers had on the ledge. “You were very limited by the ocean.”

  Kazuaki nodded as he held fast to Nicholai’s attention. “So were you.”

  A clever comparison. Nicholai released a chuckle that lasted half a second before he turned his gaze back out to the boundless sky. Yes, he did miss the ocean. Southeastern. The people, anyway. Not the power, or the place. His thoughts drifted to the other division leaders and his smile shifted into a concerned frown. “Well”—he tapped his fingers on the railing and sighed—“I hope everyone else is content to trade their ocean in for sky.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they want.” Kazuaki shifted in his spot, settling to rest his weight onto the ledge. “Fate steps in and does whatever it wants, whether you’re ready for it or not.”

  A longer, more authentic laugh fell from Nicholai’s mouth. “I’d hardly call it fate.” He gestured toward Kazuaki. “It’s more like a band of rogue men and women, determined to even out the imbalance of power.”

  The captain shrugged. “If I’ve learned anything in my time,” he said, his jaw subconsciously tightening, “it’s that fate takes many forms.”

  Nicholai managed a small grin before he straightened his posture, fiddling with the brim of his hat. Silence settled over the conversation until he forced his gaze from the fashion accessory and looked toward Kazuaki. “How’s Bermuda?”

  The question made the captain wince. Or was it the voices? They were back, and they were just as ceaseless as before. Clamping the bridge of his nose, Kazuaki battled his way through the headache before he muttered a response. “Still alive.”

  Another frown crossed the former Time Father’s face. Something in Kazuaki’s body language let him know that it was not just the question that brought discomfort. Nicholai suspected very much that he knew what plagued the captain. Interactions with Epifet, Darjal, and Mimir allowed him the foresight of his observation … particularly whe
n Darjal had taken over his mind. “If you don’t answer their prayers,” he said, recalling quite vividly how fast Darjal had fallen into feebleness, “you run the risk of growing weaker.”

  “I already did one tonight,” Kazuaki barked, unable to disguise his irritation. Circumstances bred frustration with his situation. It seemed, no matter how hard he tried, endless existence followed him everywhere. “When do they start to learn to do things for themselves?” he grumbled, turning away from the clouds.

  Nicholai hitched a shoulder, his gaze falling to the floor. “They’ve been conditioned to rely on others. Lesser gods. Time Fathers. The bluebloods.” He lifted a hand to scratch absently at his jaw. “Submission has been hammered into them. History has told them they needed others to take care of them for so long, I genuinely think that’s all they believe anymore.” Rotating the hat around in his hands, he leaned his lower back against the railing. “I think when leaders are made with skill and good vision, and not an object imbued with godly power, they will begin to think more for themselves. People are more adaptable than they’ve been given credit for.”

  Kazuaki scoffed. He knew what drove Nicholai on his quest to destroy the Chronometers, but it did little to ease his temper. “That sounds like it’ll take an eternity.”

  Nicholai smirked. “Well,” he extended a hand, taking a chance on a lighthearted joke, “you’ve got time.”

  It was enough to soften his annoyance. Kazuaki managed a small smirk and nodded. “That, I do.” In no short supply, either.

  Tilting his head, Nicholai spied the captain’s expression. His demeanor adopted a more serious tone. “Of course, when they do start thinking for themselves,” he started, his thoughts returning to the lesser gods’ history, “the prayers will stop.”

  No prayers. Just silence. Kazuaki shoved his hands into his pockets, living in the delight that mental picture brought. “Thank the gods for that.”

  “If it stops,” Nicholai added, his brows furrowing over his eyes, “you will be debilitated.”

  Lifting his chin, Kazuaki stared off into the darkened sky that lived beyond the ship’s ledge. Memories of Olnos, God of Metal, crept into his mind. The day that he and his crew climbed the mountain, stripping the god of his precious sword. The legendary Olnos looked like nothing more than a feeble old man, withering away on a steel table. Isolated, and forever trapped in timeless deterioration.

  Kazuaki closed his eye and drew his shoulders back. “At least it will be quiet.”

  Chapter Two

  Clouds twisted through the airship’s propellers. The heaping mass pulled into the Eastern division and settled onto a bare spot. The luxury of vacant ground did not go unappreciated. What would have once been a nearly impossible feat was now attainable. The chaos of natural disasters and vengeful gods decimated large chunks of the clustered architecture. Hard times caused many structures to collapse to the ground. Without focused leadership over the last year, the Eastern division suffered from gaping holes, where condensed construction once reined.

  Nicholai held tightly to the ledge as he leaned over, unaware of how white his knuckles turned from the effort. He hadn’t seen Elowyn Saveign in quite some time. It was a relief to discover that she was alive, and an even greater one to learn that she intended to return to her position as Eastern’s Time Mother.

  A shame though, that he was about to take that title away.

  The former Time Father watched as Rennington hoisted his body effortlessly over the airship’s side and landed without injury on the ground below. The last surviving Platts brother was the most visibly excited to see Elowyn again. Quiet observations led Nicholai to believe that the newcomer, Wulfgang Hion, was a close second … but while Rennington wore his eagerness on his face, Wulfgang was a more self-controlled sort. A reserved celebrant.

  As Brack and Granite put the ramp in place and began to lower it, Nicholai glanced over his shoulder at Revi. He hadn’t spoken to him much since the man left Southeastern in pursuit of his daughter. The fact that Avigail had never returned to Nicholai’s home town and Revi had made no mention of her since reuniting with everyone, led Nicholai to believe that his hunt to find her was ultimately unsuccessful.

  Driven by guilt that he hadn’t kept a better eye on the teenager while she was in his care, Nicholai cleared his throat and forced himself to approach the man. He needed to be sure that Revi was okay. He certainly didn’t appear to be.

  The search for Avigail had left the once-muscled man looking rather gangly and malnourished. More gray streaks slithered through the dark mats of his hair, shining as the sunlight caught them. For every physical scar that he had earned from his travels, his eyes spoke of the most damage. Something was missing from them. Hope, Nicholai guessed.

  It was a tragic reoccurring theme.

  “Hello, Revi.” Nicholai removed his hat and held it to his chest. “How are you?”

  The man grunted as he pulled on a rope that ran around one of the larger storage crates scattered about the ship. It had shifted too much in flight. He needed to be sure it was secured. “I could ask you the same thing,” he muttered without looking, tying off the newly tautened cord. “And I’d bet the answer would be the same.”

  Nicholai’s gaze fell to the storage crate. It felt like a safe place to look. Running from the uncomfortable thoughts that plagued him grew tiring. He suspected, after a year of searching for his daughter without success, Revi had grown tired of it as well. Placing his hat back atop his head, the former Time Father forced a grim smile. “So … terrible, then?”

  Revi wiped his hands on his hips before he took in a deep breath. Respect coerced him to find Nicholai’s eyes. It was an instinct to reply with bitterness, but for all the shit that the Addihein man had endured, with the death of Lilac swiftly followed by the death of Umbriel, he didn’t have it in him to be callous. Revi held his gaze for a silent moment, before finally nodding. “Unmistakably.”

  Bleak though his response was, Nicholai felt relief in hearing it. It was as if the phrase was an exoneration from his previous guilt. “I’d say, at least it couldn’t get any worse, but,” Nicholai winced, drawing upon every memory where things did indeed, get worse, “I’ve since learned that there is no wisdom in challenging fate.”

  “No.” Revi drew his shoulders back, but eventually reached out a hesitant hand, and clapped it down on the man’s shoulder. “There isn’t.”

  Nicholai watched as Revi strode past him, heading for the ramp. Wulfgang beat him to it, having already joined Rennington at the bottom. He waited, shifting his focus in the direction of the ship’s wheel—where Kazuaki stood. The captain was discussing something with Penn. Likely the prospect of the cook staying with the ship.

  Old habits died hard.

  After word of Penn’s order to stay with the vessel fell out of his mouth, Kazuaki started down the steps to the main deck. He stopped before the cabin doors, staring at them as he waited.

  Bermuda.

  Nicholai knew that the quartermaster was the cause of the captain’s delay. As the days went on, daily tasks left her drained of more and more color. Try as she might to keep it to herself, there was no hiding the darkening circles beneath her eyes. No disguising the bruises on her body, earned from remedial maintenance chores. No masking how they never seemed to heal.

  Kazuaki’s ears perked as the door creaked open. His spine straightened when Bermuda exited, and he assessed her condition immediately.

  The quartermaster shielded her eyes with her hand, wincing in the sunlight. When she caught sight of Kazuaki outside the door, she recovered as hastily as she was able to and forced a pleasant smile. “I can’t believe it’s been over a year since we’ve seen her,” she said, falling in step alongside him.

  Allowing her fatigue to escape comment, the captain held his arms behind his back and followed her to the ramp. “Only one trip to Southern away from having the whole crew back together.”

  Bermuda fashioned a grim expression. “What’s
left of us, anyway.”

  The pair headed down the ramp, followed by Nicholai. When the entire crew, save for Penn, stepped onto the streets of Shroudmond, they noticed quite a few gawking glances from the Eastern city’s inhabitants. Parking an airship in the middle of town was not something that happened on the daily.

  “Come on,” Wulfgang barked, motioning the group to follow. “If she made it back safely, she’ll likely be in the quarters of her estate.”

  The collection of rogues weaved their way through the flattened roadways of Shroudmond, stopping for nothing. Nicholai shoved his hands into his pockets. Sunlight caught the rims of the goggles attached to his hat. The trek was quiet. Quieter than he remembered adventures with Kazuaki and the crew being.

  It was that thought that prompted him to notice the empty spot near Granite. Of course. How had he not noted it before? Preoccupied with Umbriel’s funeral, and making arrangements for the citizens of Southeastern, he hadn’t even noticed that the spirited dog no longer flanked the behemoth’s side.

  Whatever tragedy befell the mongrel, his heart bled for Granite. He had loved that dog more than most people loved their parents.

  What else had he missed, being separated from the people he had nearly thought of like family for so long?

  As the assembly of individuals traipsed closer to the Time Mother’s home, Wulfgang took the opportunity to survey their surroundings. The people seemed less mechanical. Emotional greetings exchanged between passers-by met his ears. They showed far more life in their eyes than had existed in those who dwelled in Brendale. Surely, Elowyn had made a successful return and arranged for the medication to flow into places beyond the Eastern soldier’s hometown.

  Less than half an hour of silent walking brought them to the grand doorway of the Time Mother’s home. Two footmen stood guard, halberds in hand, staring at the approaching mass with cautious tension. When the crew—led by Wulfgang—stopped before them, one inclined his chin. “What can we do for you?” he murmured, his tone steeped in annoyance.