Despite the unflattering comparison, Rennington smirked. “You’re a riot, E.P.”
The woman coerced another short-lived grin before she glanced away. The nickname put her right back in the Underground. She had felt useful there. While some may have argued that the thievery of the pharmaceuticals was a gray area at best, Elowyn never doubted that she did everything she could for that rogue organization. For the people who accepted her solutions, as well. In that area at least, she felt no failure.
It would be good, she thought, to feel fully purposeful again.
The woman looked up, glimpsing Bermuda once more, as she stood in the mists on deck. Elowyn may not have been the great leader to Eastern that she thought she would be … but she was a damn good medic. It was time to put that knowledge to use. “I’ll catch up with you more in a bit, Renn.”
As if he knew what pulled her away, the man offered an understanding nod. “Sure thing.” He patted her shoulder before pushing himself off the pole. “I should see if Revi is keen on switching shifts anyway.”
Elowyn listened to the sounds of Rennington’s boots fading into the distance before she chanced approaching Bermuda. What should she say? The quartermaster she knew was always hesitant to accept help, even if it was for her own good. Bermuda never could separate the unpleasant feeling of vulnerability from receiving assistance. Unwilling to make the woman feel weaker than she already was, Elowyn took up a stance beside her, her arms tight around her torso. It helped to seal in some warmth and keep her anxieties at bay. “Foggy night,” she observed, following Bermuda’s gaze to the dark, clouded sky.
The quartermaster’s eyes widened when she turned to view the source of the voice. How had she missed Elowyn’s approach? Once there was a time where she could have reacted to someone coming from a great distance and have all the time in the world to react. Had her senses taken that much leave of her already? “Yes,” she forced herself to say, putting on a polite smile. “More so than usual.”
Elowyn stared, trying her best not to focus on the signs of physical deterioration. It was difficult. Clearing her throat, the woman reached into the satchel at her side. It was one of the few things she had taken from the Eastern division during her departure from her former life. “These won’t cure anything,” Elowyn admitted, pulling a small, corked vial from the contents of her bag, “but they will ward off the fatigue. Dull the pain.”
Bermuda gawked at the offering with mixed emotions. How did she know? As the quartermaster stared at the vial in Elowyn’s palm, she found herself laughing internally. How could she not know? Gods, she must have looked to be a rather pathetic sight. What Elowyn’s perceptive nature did not intuitively tell her, Bermuda guessed very much that Brack or Rennington filled in the rest. The damn chatter mouths.
Swallowing down her instinct to refuse the offer, Bermuda reached out a slow, unsteady hand. “Thank you. I … I appreciate it.”
The shock that followed Bermuda’s easy acceptance was hard to wipe off her face. Elowyn gingerly placed the vial in the woman’s waiting, metal fingers. “Of course,” she replied, folding her arms behind her back as soon as she let the object go. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Bermuda’s gaze dwelled on the pills as she rolled the vial around in her palm. Her heart started beating faster. The pockets of her mouth salivated, and she ran her tongue across her teeth. Holding the bottle only increased the feeling. The unadulterated thrill that stemmed from being two seconds away from shoving a stimulant into her bloodstream. The power that followed. The weakness that drained away.
The woman forced her eyes shut as her curling metal fingers clanked against the vial. She pulled it to her chest and inhaled before sliding it down into her pocket. A pocket that felt very empty these days, with no military-grade stimulants weighing it down.
The cravings still existed. They were loud most nights. Luckily for Bermuda, Umbriel’s sacrifice had quieted a majority of them.
Elowyn kept a keen focus on the subtleties, recognizing the addiction for what it was. She winced. Her concentration fell to her boots, and she hung her head. “I feel like I missed so much.” A lot of turmoil. Turmoil that she could have helped with, had she not been hiding from the gods in Eastern’s underground.
A short laugh leaped out of Bermuda’s mouth. “You know the chaos that follows the crew,” she said, hitching her shoulder. “Technically, you didn’t miss anything new.”
“Except that the captain is a god,” Elowyn interjected. “And Nico has relinquished his Chronometer.” Her expression softened, as did her voice. “And the beast is dead. And—”
“—Umbriel,” Bermuda finished for her, an unreadable inflection in her admission.
It was enough to pull Elowyn’s focus from the ground. Her brows knit together as she narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Yes.” Bermuda pulled her arms tighter around her body. “It was … a damn shame.”
“Gods alive,” Elowyn breathed, running a single, disbelieving hand through her hair. Another life lost. “Poor Nico. I … I know it’s been a while since I last saw him, but … one doesn’t need a degree to know that those two shared something.” Her earliest memories of the pair involved them spending a lot of time together; the risk of growing Panagea’s first plant in centuries inside those abandoned factories in Avadon. The giant tree that the pair had pushed through the walls of Darjal’s church. Everything they had done since, while she slaved away to make Eastern something better. “Here I am, thinking just about us,” Elowyn confessed, a breathless noise leaving her, “but it feels like the whole damned world has changed.”
A brief feeling of pity swept through Bermuda upon bearing witness to Elowyn’s grief. Umbriel had been loved by all. It went without saying that she was missed by all, regardless of how short their time was together. “Some things are still the same,” the quartermaster said, hoping to pull her comrade from her anguish.
A small spark of hope flashed through Elowyn’s eyes when she lifted her head. “Like what?”
Having no comforting answers on standby, Bermuda froze. “Um …” After biting her bottom lip, she shrugged and flashed a pathetic attempt at a grin. “Just Brack, mostly.”
Against the callousness of new revelations, Elowyn released a laugh. “Ah, yes.” She raised a hand to the sky. “Our one constant. That man is our true north.”
“Better keep your voice down,” Bermuda cautioned with a wry smirk, “or he might mistake your compliments for an open invitation.”
Elowyn cupped a hand over her mouth for the sake of giggling into it. “It’s all right,” she said as soon as she got her laughter under control. “I’ve endured far worse than the relentless advances of Brack Joney.”
Holding fast to her smile, Bermuda rubbed at her tired face. As much as she joked, Brack truly had come through for her during her downward spiral toward revenge. She considered enlightening Elowyn about the man’s unexpected past as one of the monks of Montezu, but she decided instead to grant her the gift of one less earth-shattering revelation. “I’m sure there are plenty of other things that have stayed the same,” she said, staring beyond the airship’s ledge. “It’s just hard to see them from up here.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Things were changing too fast. It was the gods-damned theme of the last three years. Just when Nordjan devised an ability to adapt to whatever shift fate threw at him, another unexpected crack slithered through the glass of his already fragile sanity.
When that hired hand—Baron something-or-another—came to his division with word of Edvard’s fraternization with a goddess, Nordjan had suspected that things would not end well for the elder Addihein. With the Western division full of god-hating citizens, the man had it coming.
Still … he had not considered just how brutally they would murder the man he had once called a friend.
For as much of a shock as that knowledge turned out to be, the discovery of Nicholai shattering the Western division’s Chronometer ende
d up being far more unexpected. Unexpected and alarming.
To find out that Southeastern had been freed from the Chronometer’s hold, as well … and now …
Nordjan dropped his hands into his lap. The letter, clutched in his fingers, crinkled under the force of his grip. After a brief return to her title as Eastern’s Time Mother, it seemed that Elowyn Saveign had forfeited hers too.
Three divisions, running off nothing more than the voices of the people. Three divisions, with no direct leadership to keep civilians in check. The Chronometers were not just supernatural devices that regulated the divisions’ times—they were symbols. Symbols that people were meant to remain subservient to those who knew what was best for them and had the power in their hands to ensure it.
What was Nicholai trying to do, taking that structure away?
Struck with a particularly bad case of déjà vu, Nordjan crumpled the parchment and tossed it aside. Like clockwork, he found himself filled with the need to hunt down Nicholai Addihein once more before he caused even greater damage to Panagea.
If memory served, he was very hard to track when he was on the run …
Standing from his chair, Nordjan traipsed over to the nearest window. He stared through the condensation that gathered on the glass, peering down at the people who trudged through the knee-deep snow below.
As if staving off the influence of the gods wasn’t bad enough. Filling prison cells with manipulated men and women, and listening to the outcries from their family members, who were too polluted by adoration for their own flesh and blood to understand the necessity of the quarantines. Now he’d have to divide what little time and energy he had left to silence Nicholai Addihein once and for all.
How easy could it be, when all previous attempts had failed?
He would need fortification. If the former Southeastern Time Father came to his division next, expecting some sort of surrender of Nordjan’s Chronometer …
The very thought made the Northern division leader huff.
Nicholai could pretend he was the peoples’ savior all he wanted. Nordjan knew better. Without a proper structure to keep them subdued, the wicked would rise. They would trample over the passive, bringing their aggressive ideals with them.
The young Addihein had already changed Panagea for the worse, bringing the lesser gods and all the chaos that accompanied them, back to the land.
He wasn’t about to let him make another cataclysmic mistake.
Chapter Four
Touching down in Southern brought a strange feeling with it. Circumstances shifted the landscape far beyond Nicholai’s memories of when he had scrounged through the catacombs beneath Avadon, desperately searching for a way to save Lilac Finn. It had changed even beyond his freshest memory of being in the Southern division, stumbling onto the body of Jodathyn Breed. It evoked a surreal sentiment Nicholai could not come to terms with.
The art of disembarking the ship grew into a well-choreographed routine. Everyone, even Elowyn—who had fallen back into her role amongst the crew as if she had never left—managed to skillfully organize the arrival to their destination. Nicholai watched it all with mild fascination, swept away to the first time, long ago, when he once thought this team of societal rejects were a fearsome, untrusting lot.
He found himself lost to his memories a lot these days. They were more forgiving than the present.
Nicholai adjusted the collar of his shirt and dusted off his vest before he started down the ramp. Revi, Brack, Granite, Rennington, Elowyn, and Bermuda had already made it to the bottom. When Nicholai reached the crew, he glanced back into the direction he had come from. If Bermuda was here, what was keeping the captain?
“I tell you what,” Brack laughed, clapping his hands together, “as soon as I lay my eyes on ol’ Bart, I’m gonna give him one of these!” The man reached out to Rennington and scooped him up, lifting the soldier from his feet as he jostled him back and forth.
“Gods!” Rennington squeaked, his lungs compressed by Brack’s forceful embrace. “If you approach him like that, you’ll be killed. The footmen will think you’re trying to commit assault!”
After returning Rennington to solid ground, Brack flashed a charismatic smirk. “Ah, how much trouble could I get in with them?” He laughed, slugging his comrade in the shoulder. “I got Southern’s best soldier on my side, don’t I?”
Rennington snorted. He rubbed the afflicted area where Brack had unleashed his playful assault. “I’ve been gone so long,” he muttered, gazing in the direction toward Bartholomew’s homestead. “I doubt they’ll still respect my authority. Seacaster’s militia has likely seen dozens of advances in the ranks since I’ve been gone.”
Brack shrugged, his grin constant. “Well, you don’t seem too broken up about it, mate.”
A slow smile tugged at one corner of Rennington’s mouth. “Nah. I got better things to worry about than all that.” He felt the proximity to Iani’s grave pull at him as if he had an invisible rope wrapped around his torso. It had been too long since he last laid eyes on his little brother’s final resting place. The man’s skin jumped at the opportunity to see him again, even in the form of a headstone.
Up on the airship, far from the prying eyes of the crew, Kazuaki strode into the galley, searching for the cook. He rubbed at his bearded face, peering around a wall of various hanging pans and utensils. When he found Penn, the man’s hands were busy with a large pot of his recent culinary concoction.
After transferring the pot off the heat, Penn glanced in Kazuaki’s direction. He pushed the brim of his beret up with his thumb and arched a brow. “Feck. You look like ass.” Upon the realization he had just disrespected his superior, the cook cleared his throat and added a hasty, though grumbled afterthought. “Captain.”
This was no news to Kazuaki. He had dreaded the expected entry into Southern since he first surmised its inevitability. “Just stay with the ship,” he ordered, digging his fingers harder into the frame of the door. “We’ll be back quickly.”
Penn inclined his chin. A feeling of suspicion narrowed his eyes. He had never witnessed the captain in such a fidgety state. Curiosity gnawed at him, but not enough for the socially inept cook to enter into a long conversation. “If you say so.”
The captain turned away from Penn. Clenching his jaw, he shoved his hands into his long jacket’s pockets. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe … just maybe … their meaningless lives would busy them enough to grant him some sort of reprieve.
He could only hope for such a thing.
The ramp shook beneath him with each footfall until Kazuaki made it to the bottom. He surveyed Bermuda’s face from the corner of his eye, analyzing her features as the others chatted amongst themselves. “You all right?” he asked discreetly.
A compulsory smile followed. She hated that he felt the need to ask. Bermuda understood his worry; if the situation was reversed, she doubted very much that she’d act any differently toward him. After clearing her throat, she nodded. “I’m fine, Kazuaki.”
And she was. The pills that Elowyn had gifted her drained much of the pain from her muscles. Temporary though the solution was, it filled Bermuda with certain gratitude. One less hurdle to slow her deteriorating body down.
Kazuaki nodded before turning toward the others. “Let’s make this as efficient as possible,” he mumbled, drawing his shoulders back. “In and out. No loitering.”
Nicholai glimpsed Rennington’s face, bearing witness to the disappointment that appeared in the man’s eyes. Holding up his index finger, the former Time Father took a step forward. “I’m as motivated as you are, Kazuaki, but we can afford a little flexibility here. Bartholomew has to prepare his leaving arrangements, you know.” He put on a tired grin. “A few extra hours certainly won’t kill anybody.”
The god huffed. He turned his back, preparing to cut through the center of the town. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered to himself.
With a blink, Nicholai turned toward Renningto
n, offering him an apologetic smile and a shrug. ‘I tried’, he mouthed inaudibly to the soldier, before following after the captain with the others.
Rennington chuckled under his breath and trailed along. The hustle and bustle of present-day Seacaster was enough to slather a metaphorical ointment on his disappointment. To see the people going about their daily lives, exchanging friendly gossip instead of fearful whispers about gods and goddesses … to be very much themselves, rather than infected by the influence of the lessers … it was as pleasant of a welcome-back view as he could expect. While he doubted very much that the days of shoving manipulated men and women to the ground, cuffing them, and stuffing them in overflowing jail cells was entirely behind Southern’s footmen, there did not seem to be any indication of such upheaval today.
The rugged pace the captain set ground to an unexpected halt when he saw the others starting toward the town center. Kazuaki narrowed his eye. His spine grew rigid. “I have no desire to cut through the town center. We’ll go around.”
A quizzical brow flew up on Revi’s face. “Why? Coming from the man who demanded efficiency, that seems like a waste of time.”
Bermuda glimpsed the captain, a hand sliding to her hip. He seemed off. On edge. “Is it my turn to ask if you’re all right?” she queried, cocking her head.
A low rumble sounded from Kazuaki’s throat. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, the muscles in his arms tensing. “You’re going to have to trust me. Wisdom lives in sticking to the shadows.”
Scratching at his cheek, Nicholai analyzed Kazuaki with calculating eyes. “Of course, we trust your judgment, but … is … is there a particular reason why?”
How annoying. Kazuaki scowled. There once existed a time where his orders would never be questioned. “It’s—”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 132