“It’s him!”
“The God of Salvation!”
Kazuaki groaned, raking his fingers down the sides of his face as the shrill, excited cries of Seacaster’s people pierced his ears. In seconds, he found himself surrounded. Bodies squeezed through the crew, pushing and shoving, all clamoring to get within arm’s reach of the god they venerated.
“Why are you here?”
“Is there trouble in Seacaster?”
“You saved my husband’s life!”
The captain’s eye twitched. He laid a palm tightly over one of his ears, his teeth clamping together in his mouth. The voices were incessant enough when they were nothing more than whispered prayers. To hear them out loud, each one piling on top of the other as the volume grew and grew, competing to be heard over the last person’s shout—it nearly drove him mad.
Nicholai sucked air in through his teeth, cringing as Seacaster’s residents flocked Kazuaki. Yes. He understood quite well now, why the captain favored a desire to leave as efficiently as possible.
Bermuda grunted when a nameless denizen shoved her aside to steal her proximity to the God of Salvation. The quartermaster scowled, gripping the man’s wrist with her metallic fingers as she pulled him back. “Shove me with that hand again,” she said, bending his elbow unnaturally, “and you’ll be pulling back a stump.”
Kazuaki wrinkled his nose, moments away from pulling a machete from his belt. No, he reminded himself—even if he wanted to cut his way through his crowd of venerators, there was nothing his blade could do. With a frustrated exhalation, he forced his gaze to the largest of his comrades. “Granite. Assist, if you will.”
Towering over the tallest of Seacaster’s citizens, Granite shoved his way toward the front of the mob. His massive arms scooped up two grown men and one woman. With a calm, yet firm tug, he plucked their prying hands from Kazuaki’s long jacket, and set them several feet away. “Next time,” he cautioned the crowd, his voice booming over their jarring cries for Kazuaki’s attention, “I’ll use bullets to move you, instead of my arms.”
It was enough to earn the captain and crew some much-needed space. It was a bonus that it also earned them horrified silence.
Kazuaki stared into the perplexed eyes of his admirers before turning, placing a ginger hand at the small of Bermuda’s back. Without another word, he continued onward toward Bartholomew’s homestead.
Watching the others trail after Kazuaki, Nicholai looked on. He shifted his concentration toward the confused people. Their expressions showed discomfort. A sliver of betrayal. He couldn’t chance that the captain’s rough handling of them would not hinder the number of prayers he received. Stepping up onto a decorative ledge to give himself some height, Nicholai held up his hands. “Citizens of Seacaster,” he started, putting on the diplomatic voice that he had learned from years of political appearances, “please, grant the God of Salvation your clemency. He is here to answer a massive prayer, indeed. One that will benefit the whole of Panagea, and for that, he must make haste. He will see to it that you are all still taken care of as soon as he completes this most important quest.”
It took a moment for the words to settle into the jolted peoples’ heads and hearts, but after several breathless seconds, they nodded their approval. Yes. Of course. That made sense. An exchange of gossip, and excited whispers about seeing the God of Salvation with their own eyes, slowly faded away from Nicholai. The mob began to depart, carrying their words away with them.
A sigh of relief left his lungs as he leaped down from the ledge. That was a close one. It seemed Kazuaki Hidataka needed to hone his people skills if he intended to keep the citizens’ favor. Nicholai broke out into a run to catch up with the others, stopping at Rennington’s side.
The captain said nothing as he continued. He only walked alongside Bermuda, searching for the best route.
“You know,” the quartermaster said, looking up at the god who walked alongside her, “if you wanted to avoid them, you could have just transported yourself to Bartholomew’s estate. We would have caught up eventually.”
Kazuaki scoffed. He would never chance leaving Bermuda to the precious few jackals who still roamed Panagea. Unwilling to admit anything that would make her feel more vulnerable than she already did, he feigned a quick response. “I hadn’t considered it.”
“My ass.” She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “You consider everything.”
“Right now, I’m considering which way to take.” Pushing aside her concerns, Kazuaki scanned the alleyways. He needed to find another route, and fast. If he moved quickly enough, he could avoid anyone seeing the—
“Wait one gods-damned minute!” Brack shouted, pointing an accusing finger outward as his face lit up with a delighted grin. “What in the shit is this?”
Kazuaki’s eye fell closed. Gods damn it. They saw it.
“Oh, Cap—” Brack closed the distance between his current position and the glistening statue of Kazuaki that sat in the town’s center. “—they really captured your disdainful gaze!” He laughed as he ran his hands over the smoothed surface, then turned to face his superior. “And look! The eye patch, the jacket—it’s like they dipped you in feckin’ metal and tossed you right up on the pedestal!”
Irritation spiked in Kazuaki’s blood. “Rabbit …”
Rennington placed a hand over his mouth to shield his amused snickering.
Elowyn pinched her lips together, stifling her grin.
Bermuda held a finger to her lips, hoping that was enough to hold in her mirth.
Even Revi cracked a small smile.
“Oh, come now!” Brack shifted his focus back to the statue and patted it approvingly. “You should be proud of this, mate! A far cry from you being the scourge of Panagea, aye? Seems like only yesterday the whole of the land took you for a made-up miscreant, and now look at you: a god of mettle and substance!”
Swallowing the desire to clock his comrade in the face, Kazuaki brushed past the others, making a beeline toward Bartholomew’s estate.
“Oi!” Brack cupped his hands around his mouth to help his voice travel farther. “You think the artist will make one of me? Even a smalley? I can name off about ten young lasses who’d kill to have a reminder of ol’ Brack on their mantle!”
Continuing onward with stifled laughter, Rennington motioned Brack to get down. “Come on, Rabbit.” He snickered. “You keep it up, Captain’ll burst a blood vessel.”
“Ah, I’ve seen him burst worse things,” Brack replied, giving the statue one last pat before he followed the others. “Mostly the heads of his enemies, but …”
“Yeah, that’s likely to be you, if you keep it up,” the Southern soldier cautioned with an entertained smirk.
Bermuda flashed the two a grin. She tried to hide her amusement, but it shone through her eyes. “Let him off,” she said, waving her hand to quiet the others. “He’s got enough on his plate these days.”
Wiping away a tear, Brack let out the last few of the laughs that hid in his gut. “All right, love, all right. Damned if that’s not the best thing I’ve seen all year, though.”
Nicholai smirked, watching the crew as they continued to cut their way through the rest of the town toward Bartholomew’s quarters. They swapped quiet, teasing giggles, and though their voices were not entirely audible, the former Time Father found certain tranquility in their behavior. For everything that shifted in an unpleasant direction, at the very least, their bond stayed the same. It seemed as if no amount of time or revelations could alter that.
Upon reaching the estate, Kazuaki climbed the steps. He prepared himself for more hesitation from the footmen, assuming that their experience in Eastern would mirror their situation in Southern. Before he could part his lips to order them aside, their jaws dropped open, and both men bowed their heads.
“Kazuaki Hidataka, God of Salvation!” one uttered, his gaze on the ground, for fear he’d disrespect the god if he looked him in the eye. “It’s … it’s …
”
“Right.” The captain’s expression flattened as his tensed shoulders relaxed. “We’re here to see Bartholomew Gray.”
“Of course!” Both men righted their posture, nodding their heads vigorously. “We’ll fetch him for you straight away. One moment.”
As the footmen disappeared inside the mansion to find the division leader, Bermuda walked up to Kazuaki’s side. She gently nudged him with her elbow. “See? Not all bad, being a god in Southern.”
He shifted his eye, staring at her face. Though he did not find joy in the footmen's’ blatant desire to appease him, he found happiness in the sound of her voice. For that, Kazuaki managed a microscopic smirk. “Not all bad, no.”
In minutes, the grand doorway opened. On the other side, Bartholomew stood, wearing an open-mouthed grin that showed nearly all of his teeth. Behind him, Kal Rovanas smiled, his arms resting at his sides in a pure, diplomatic fashion.
“Captain Kazuaki Hidataka.” Bartholomew beamed, shaking his head, “As I live and breathe.”
Pleased that the scholar addressed him as a captain, rather than a god, Kazuaki relaxed his stance. He held out a palm and shook his old comrade’s hand. “Always a pleasure, Bartholomew.”
“The last time I saw you, you were on your way to find—” Standing on the tips of his toes, Bartholomew peered beyond Kazuaki’s shoulder, his eyes landing on the quartermaster. “Bermuda.” He grinned, sliding past Kazuaki to grasp the woman’s hands. “You have no idea how relieved I was to hear that you were all right.”
After an exchange of smiles, Bermuda tucked some hair behind her ears. “Thank you, Bartholomew. Gods,” she said, looking him up and down, “it’s good to see you too.”
The pair shared a quick embrace until Bartholomew pulled out of the hug and squeezed her shoulders. When his eyes found Elowyn standing behind the quartermaster, he laid a hand over his chest. “And Elowyn—to find an Eastern soldier at my door, bringing word that you were alive … I do believe I still owe that Wulfgang fellow my sincerest gratitude.”
A blush and a smile filled the medic’s face. “I’m happy to be alive, myself.”
Bartholomew straightened his posture, cheerful as he gazed at the others. “Well, let’s not stand outside all day. Come in, come in.” He motioned them inside, and when Rennington trekked past him, he planted a hand down on the soldier’s shoulder. “And you …” He gave the man’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Southern has missed you greatly, my friend.”
“Happy to see you too, mate.” Rennington smirked, patting the side of the Time Father’s arm. “I’d love to stay, chat, catch up and all that … but, I’ve got—”
“—to go see your brother,” Bartholomew finished, offering a nod of understanding. “Of course. As promised, his stone has been well taken care of. Please, give Iani my regards.”
Rennington nodded, grinning as he turned to head out the door. The sound of Kazuaki’s voice halted him in his tracks.
“Rennington.”
The man paused, struck with sudden paralysis. He turned slowly, apprehensive that the captain would tell him he could not go. That he wished to leave Southern as fast as humanly possible.
Kazuaki studied the man’s face. After several long, drawn-out seconds, his expression softened. “Make it quick.”
Relief flooded through Rennington’s veins. He said nothing, only nodded, and dashed out the door toward the cemetery before Kazuaki had a chance to change his mind.
Bartholomew finished shaking hands with Revi and Granite while Kal endured one of Brack’s infamous hugs. Content that his lover absorbed the brunt of Brack’s affection, Bartholomew turned to Nicholai. A look of apology sat on his face. “I was very sorry to hear about your father,” he said, lowering his tone. “Edvard Addihein had his flaws, but he was a capable leader.”
Nicholai swallowed. His throat suddenly felt dry. It was still difficult to think of Edvard. He had a hard enough time processing the loss of Umbriel without throwing the death of his estranged father on top of it. Ever the representative of composure, he formed a polite smile. “Thank you, Bartholomew.”
“And”—the scholar’s expression grew more grim—“my heart shattered for you … for everyone … when I received word of Umbriel’s death.” He clasped Nicholai’s hand and squeezed it once. The full force of his sympathy lived in that short grip. “Losing someone like that … it is something I would not wish on my worst enemy.”
Nicholai arched his back suddenly. It felt as if the oxygen fled from his lungs. He hadn’t grown accustomed to the feeling yet. The man turned away. “Nor I, my friend.” His words came out sharp and quick, for fear his voice might break if he thought of her too long. “Thank you for your condolences.”
Witnessing the pain in Nicholai, Bartholomew abandoned the subject swiftly. He glanced over his shoulder, checking to be sure Kal survived Brack’s suffocating affection before he continued. “Well”—he clasped his hands together—“it does not take a wise man to know why you’re here.”
A brow sprung up on Nicholai’s face. “It doesn’t?”
With a grim laugh, Bartholomew nodded. “Yes. Kal and I have already started the necessary preparations for our departure from the estate. We were only waiting for your arrival before we made the formal announcement.”
Nicholai pressed his lips together. Why did the statement surprise him so much? Bartholomew always was one of the most perceptive men he had the pleasure of knowing. “So,” he uttered, his gaze falling to the ground, “you really do know why we’re here.”
“News of Western’s freedom from the Chronometer spread like wildfire,” Bartholomew explained as he walked over to a shelf that housed an assortment of fine liquor and glasses. “After Southeastern followed suit, and now, with Elowyn standing here in front of me,” he said, motioning a hand to the medic before he uncorked a bottle housing an amber-colored liquid, “I surmised that Southern would become next in line sooner or later.”
The former Time Father tilted his head, watching as Bartholomew’s barely shaking hand poured the liquor into eight separate glasses. He bore witness to a small reluctance in the scholar’s eyes … scarcely visible, but undeniably present.
When Bartholomew finished pouring, he and Kal started handing the glasses out to their guests. The scholar held the last one out to Granite before he turned to Nicholai. “I’d offer you one as well, but as I recall, you’re not much of a drinker.”
Nicholai smiled as the others took sips of their beverages around him. “Your memory serves you well.”
“Yes.” Bartholomew coated his tongue with another thoughtful sip before he smacked his lips. “Just as my body and mind have served Southern as well as I was able. But”—he raised his glass, a distant, unreadable sentiment hiding in his eyes—“such is life.”
The others raised their glasses in unison, each taking silent drinks.
Bartholomew set his beverage down on a nearby table and adjusted his tie. “So,” he turned toward Nicholai, “how soon do you need me to make the announcement? If you’re not in a hurry, you’re welcome to stay and refresh yourselves, of course.”
Kazuaki stepped forward before anyone else could get a word in. “We’re leaving as soon as possible.”
Amused laughter followed as Bartholomew turned to face him. “Do the people annoy you that greatly, Captain?”
How did he know? Kazuaki arched a brow, but as soon as memories of Bartholomew’s observant nature returned to him, the god no longer questioned it. “Is it that obvious?”
“If it’s any consolation,” Bartholomew said, rubbing a hand over his head, “they speak very highly of you. I can’t say that all of your efforts to answer their prayers have been … hm … ‘orthodox’ … but …” He shrugged, chuckling. “I’ve spent enough time with you to know that would be the case.”
The captain cringed internally. He wondered just how much money his efforts had cost the Southern division in building reparations and environmental damage. He
shrugged it off. “With respect, Bartholomew, the less time we waste here, the better.”
A measured look of acceptance flourished on the scholar’s face. “Of course,” he replied, a sliver of sadness in his tone. He brushed it away before it had a chance to bloom. “In a few hours, I can have all the necessary journalists here to be sure that the word spreads well in the newspapers.”
Kazuaki nodded his approval. “Good. We can be back on the ship by sundown.”
“Did you know,” Bartholomew announced, laying a proud hand on his lover’s shoulder, “Kal will be running for the position of Southern’s overseer. He’ll be expressing the voices of the people.” He turned an affectionate gaze to the man he adored, his wide smile portraying his pride. “We heard that Western and Southeastern will be leaning toward a participatory democracy, but we’re hoping to invite a more representative approach. I’m sure by the time I get back, he will have made all kinds of positive strides for our division’s people.”
Nicholai smiled at the sight of Kal and Bartholomew’s tender exchange of affection, but the man’s choice of words made him tilt his head. He had surmised that given the happiness Bartholomew had found for himself in Southern, he would have no desire to leave. “What do you mean, ‘by the time you get back’? I’m just here for the Chronometer. There’s no need to uproot yourself entirely. You’re under no obligation to come with us.”
“Well,” Bartholomew drew in a deep breath and sighed, “I assume you wouldn’t say no to an expert navigator. Much of Panagea’s landscape has changed, what with the gods returning and all.”
“Ah, that’s right, mate!” Brack pranced around the room, unabashedly flapping his wrists. “The whole gang back together again, just like old times!”
Nicholai pulled his brows together as he took a step forward. “Won’t you miss it, Bartholomew? The peace? I mean … you found a life here. A good one too.”
The scholar wore a sad smile as he weaved his fingers with Kal’s. It was true. He had not expected such a gracious welcome from Southern. Bartholomew never expected a gracious welcome from anyone anywhere, given his history with such things. It was only ever with Kazuaki, and the crew, that he found complete, unadulterated acceptance.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 133