Chasing Shadows (Saving Galerance, Book 1) (5 page)

Back inside the cave, they found Malachy and two of his
oldest Whispers with him. The two boys were checking the bags that were on the
cave floor while Malachy looked down at them in careful deliberation. Norabel
was also nearby, helping them to place some of the items she dumped out onto
the cave floor back into the bag.

“Do you have a good idea of who this stuff all belongs to?”
Logan asked, hoping to clear some of the tension away from Mason and Norabel.

Malachy’s sharp, calculating brown eyes turned to him. He
rubbed a hand over his brown beard, which was graying in places, no doubt due
to the stress of his job.

“I think we can return everything back to their rightful
owners,” he answered. “I know a family in the north that will be very happy to
see their possessions returned.”

“Not happy enough,” Mason commented from a darkened corner
of the cave.

Malachy frowned and nodded. “No, not happy enough. I’m
afraid the father was red-flagged a few months back. The Pax has been bleeding
them dry ever since.”

“Red-flagged for what?” Archer questioned. He was crouched
by the fire and was smelling a piece of stray charcoal. As he looked to Malachy
for an answer, he crushed the charcoal in his hands and rubbed the dust under
his armpits to act as a kind of natural perfume.

Malachy eyed him curiously for a moment before clearing his
throat and saying, “They say they found a painting of Lord Rodion hidden in
their house.”

“That was it?” Logan asked, feeling sorry for this
unfortunate family.

“From what I’ve gleaned, they’ll red-flag someone for just
about any reason when they’re low on supplies,” Malachy explain. “In fact, I
wouldn’t be surprised if that painting wasn’t planted by the officials raiding
their house.”

Logan felt his skin crawl upon hearing this news. He knew
the Pax was corrupt, but it never ceased to amaze him how heartless they could
be when enforcing their will.

Before Malachy could tell them anymore, Mason stepped out from
the shadows of his corner, saying, “Thank you for coming, Malachy. Now you
should get going. Your whispers have a long night ahead of them.”

Malachy nodded and then motioned for his Whispers to follow
him. As the two boys left, slinging several packs over their shoulders, they
tipped their knuckles to their heads in salute to their Harbinger team. Logan
wished them both good luck and watched solemnly as they left the cave, heading
willfully and eagerly into a dangerous, sleepless night.

The morning found Norabel sitting on her bed, staring at a
small, pale brown shell in her hands. The last of the Albatross Seeds she had
managed to smuggle from home. The two halves of the brown shell were tied
together with a delicate piece of string. Carefully undoing it, she opened up
the shell to see the perfect star pattern that had etched itself on the inside
of the shell.

Closing her eyes, she remembered the day that her
grandfather had told her about this star. She had been so little at the time. As
she walked with her grandfather in their orchard of trees, her arms could
barely reach up to touch the lowest hanging branch. Then her grandfather had
plucked a nut from the tree and had given it to her, and when she opened it up
and ate the nut inside, she found this star pattern hiding underneath. She
remembered gasping and looking up to her grandfather when she saw this. Of all the
times she had eaten an Albatross Seed, the pattern behind the nut had always
been a random and wrinkly set of lines. But the star—the star was beautiful.

“You know what that is,” her grandfather had said, crouching
down in the dirt to look her in the eye. The large brimmed hat he always wore
was silhouetted against the bright sky behind him. “That’s one of this world’s
greatest rarities. In my lifetime working here, I’ve only ever found three.”

Norabel’s eyes had widened, and she asked, “What does it
mean?”

“It’s a sign,” he had answered, giving her a smile and
tousling her pale hair. “A perfect star on the inside of this nut means that
your Guardian Albatross has laid his hand on it. So, every time you hold that
nut, it’s like you’re shaking his hand.”

Norabel kept her eyes closed as she gripped the Albatross
Seed firmly in one hand. She had loved it when her grandfather would tell her
about the Albatross. Her family’s land was located on the side of a mountain
where the butterfly called the Woodland Albatross would migrate across during
the spring and fall. He would take her to a meadow that was filled with them
and recount the story of the Albatross to her. He would point to the snowy-white
wings of the butterfly, telling her that her Guardian Albatross had those very
same wings; that her guardian was, in fact, very much like the butterfly, only,
instead of an insect between his wings, there was a man. But
he
never
migrated away. He would be there, watching her at all times, making sure that
nothing bad would happen to her.

Then her grandfather would pat her on the head and call her
special, for her hair was nearly the exact same color as the wings of the
Albatross.

“You have a connection to them,” he told her. “One that most
people will never experience. And they may not understand it, either. They may
even dislike you for it. But you should never forget how special it is,
Norabel.”

She lifted the Albatross Seed up to her face, cupping it in
her hands like a pool of water. The shell still carried the faint earthy and
smoky scent of the nut, reminding her so much of home. Then, lowering the seed,
she whispered out a solemn goodbye. Of course she knew that her Albatross
wouldn’t leave her just because she was about to give up the seed. But, just
the same, she felt like a fragile thread was breaking between them, and she
didn’t know how many there were left before she was cut off completely from her
guardian.

Opening her eyes, she willed those thoughts from her head
and promptly rose to her feet. She straightened her skirt and took in a deep
breath before heading out of her bedroom.

Going outside, she found Iris and her mother and father
retrieving the small Pax basket that was sitting on their doorstep. This was
called the Amias Gift. Every single household in the kingdom of Galerance
received one each morning. Normally it was filled with simple, cheap things—an
old loaf of bread, a few grains of wheat, the things that any villager would be
able to buy for themselves if the Pax didn’t constantly seize any of the excess
money they tried to save up.

Norabel had a hard time excepting even the most menial thing
inside of her Amias Gift. It was a patronizing and sneaky act. Those in the
kingdom with only half a brain would take this daily gift for benevolence and
the sign of a good leader. They didn’t realize that he was only able to give
these things away because he stole them from other villagers during house
raids. And the worst part was, those that were considered friends to the Pax
always received more, and those that had shown reluctance to it in the past
were hardly given anything.

However, as much as she hated the Amias Gift, the baskets on
everyone’s doorstep were also the perfect way to re-gift back what was stolen.

As Norabel walked up to her neighbor’s house, she could hear
Iris’s mother and father speaking in hushed, excited voices, deciding what they
should do with everything they found in their basket.

Hiding the Albatross Seed in her hand behind her back, she
knocked on their front door. It was the father that answered. He looked her in
the eye and nodded his head, as if to say he knew what she had done. Then, before
anything could be said, Iris came running over to her.

“Norabel, it isn’t…” she started to say, but stopped when
she saw the smile on her face. Iris’s eyes widened as Norabel brought her hand
forward and revealed what was inside.

“You’ll be careful with it,” Norabel told her. “Never leave
it in a place where they can find it.”

Iris carefully accepted it, turning it over in her fingers a
few times before hastily reaching out and wrapping her arms around Norabel’s
stomach. She held onto her for so long that eventually her mother came over.

“Iris, sweetheart, she has to get to work,” Vera told her
daughter. “You have to let her go.”

When she pulled away, Norabel turned to leave, but not
before taking one last look at the Albatross Seed in the little girl’s hands.

Please let that not be the last seed left in the world
,
she silently begged her Guardian Albatross.
Please don’t leave us when that
too is destroyed.

*

Hunter stared down at the breakfast bowl in his hands,
allowing a gradual smile to form on his lips. It wasn’t that his breakfast was
particularly delicious. In fact, this morning it was an exceptionally
gray-looking, mushy porridge. But what had him secretly smiling had nothing to
do with what was in the bowl, but rather, the bowl itself.

He lifted his thumb and rubbed the bowl’s rim. There was a
simple, wavy ridge on the top. Most people might miss it. Though the bowl was
an earthy brown color, it reminded Hunter of the blue waves of a lake shore.
Carefully taking it in his palms, he lifted it up to his face. There were only
a few bites of watery porridge left.

He looked around the room. Since he was a Pax official, he
lived in the Breccan stronghold like every other officer. And, though he was
free to eat lunch and dinner anywhere he pleased, breakfast was the one thing
he could not get out of. So he was forced to eat in a cold stone room with a
hundred noisy, smelly men, slurping down their breakfasts and boasting about
accomplishments made the day prior.

Though some of the guys weren’t half bad, he had chosen to
sit by himself today. That meant no one would be paying attention to him should
he raise the bowl to his lips and drink the rest of his porridge in this
manner.

However, upon putting his plan into action—closing his eyes
and placing the rim of the bowl between his lips—the obtrusive and tiresome
voice of an official named Fletcher rang out in his ears.

“Interesting way to eat your breakfast,” Fletcher remarked,
giving him a smirk as he sat down at the table across from him.

Hunter put the bowl down and tried to hide his irritation at
seeing Fletcher. Of all the officials he was forced to share a job with,
Fletcher got under his skin the most. Sure, there were men that were scarier,
more commanding. But somehow Fletcher managed to beat them all with an
unbearable amount of immaturity, greediness, and downright slimeball-ishness.
He seemed to take particular exception to Hunter, one reason being that
Fletcher’s own job ranked higher than his, yet Hunter was given better
accommodations in the stronghold because of who his uncle was.

“You think no one notices,” Fletcher continued, flicking his
eyes down to Hunter’s bowl.

Hunter didn’t know why, but he felt the unexplainable urge
to cover the bowl with his hands, and he even felt a little queasy at the
thought that, every day, this childish oaf ate from the same kind of Breccan
bowl. Maybe even put it to his lips as he did.

Trying to keep a level head, Hunter cleared his throat,
asking, “What are you talking about?”

Fletcher smirked, a trait that looked more like a tick than
a sign of happiness. “I’ve seen you nicking bowls from the kitchen. You’ve
probably got a whole stash of them hidden under your bed. Maybe you even sleep
with a favorite?”

Hunter hunched his shoulders forward and rested his arms on
the table, trying to look formidable. “Do you have something to say to me,
Fletcher? Or are you just here to accuse me of bowl thievery. Because you’re
one to talk. Everyone knows that you’re the biggest leacher in this village.”

Fletcher’s face reddened in anger before he forced an
expression of composure back over his features. “Oh, that reminds me,” he
commented coolly. “I was at a house raid yesterday, and when I got out, there
was a pretty little girl waiting outside. And you know, it was strange, but she
had clay on her lips.”

Fletcher’s smile widened as he leaned across the table and
stared down at Hunter’s bowl. “I guess you know what that means,” he whispered.
“If you find the right bowl, well, that’s practically as good as a kiss from
your precious bowl maker.”

The harsh sound of a screeching chair grated on Hunter’s
nerves as Fletcher suddenly got up from his seat.

“If I were you, Hunter, I’d claim my territory fast. You
never know when someone might try to leach off of that.”

Hunter’s blood had been boiling the moment that Fletcher had
taken a seat across from him, but that last comment did him in. He slammed his
fist on the table and rose to his feet. He was about to charge forward at him
when his name was called out across the room.

“Hunter! You will come here now!”

Hunter balled his fists in rage and looked across the stone
room to see his uncle, Lorcan, motioning over to him. He gave one last glare to
Fletcher, who seemed to find great amusement in Hunter’s heated reaction,
before stalking off to obey his uncle.

Though he dearly wanted to hit Fletcher, his uncle Lorcan
was the second highest ranking Pax official in the village of Breccan, so there
was no denying him. He was Chief Auberon’s right hand man, and if you didn’t
show him respect, you paid for it dearly. Thankfully, things were much
different when they were in private, and Hunter turned from being an
under-ranking official, to Lorcan’s nephew and charge.

As they walked through the stronghold, his uncle led him to
the old war room, which acted as the main Pax meeting room. His uncle opened
the door for him, but before he stepped inside, Hunter looked up to read what
was inscribed in the stone over the door.

Do not tempt the beast, for the beast will answer. You do
not live in war, but provoke it, and war will be your answer.

Guardian Amias had this inscribed on nearly everything in
the kingdom—official buildings, the money, even on the sign posts on the roads
leading into Galerance. He did it to remind the people what they had been saved
from, how they no longer had to worry about going to war and losing sons and
fathers and brothers. But more than that, Hunter realized, he did it to scare
the people. The beast referenced in the inscription didn’t just refer to the
metaphorical beast of war; it was also a reminder of The Torrent, the actual
beasts Amias used in battle while he was conquering the kingdom.

Somehow feeling charged by the inscription over the door, he
walked inside the meeting room, exclaiming, “I thought you told me to stand up
for myself, uncle!”

“I did,” Lorcan said with a nod. “What I didn’t say was to
do it in the mess hall, where every senior officer could see you making a
display of yourself. It’s very important that you don’t draw any negative
attention to yourself right now.”

His face softened, and he stepped up to his nephew and
placed his hands on his shoulders. “A good Pax official choses his time wisely.
Every action should be a strategy, Hunter. If you have an enemy, don’t let the
whole world know about it. Because, when he shows up dead in a ditch, you’re
the first person they’ll suspect.”

“I don’t want to kill Fletcher!” Hunter whispered hurriedly.

“I was just using an expression,” Lorcan reassured him. “You
have to take what you can from it. Now,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder
and leading him out of the room. “I trust you will find a way to deal with your
problems discreetly.”

“If at all,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing at the back of
his neck as he walked somberly through the halls.

The melancholy mood plaguing Hunter’s mind did not last long
as he was soon at his post in the western Pax checkpoint and could see that
familiar pale halo of hair, shining in the morning sun. Hunter looked around
the street leading up to his gate and inwardly smiled. There was no one else
coming. Though his checkpoint was the least busy in the village, it was still
rare to get a moment completely alone with her.

Before she came up to his gate, she paused a moment in the
middle of the road and glanced behind her on the ground. Hunter couldn’t see
anything there besides her shadow, but she was looking at that small patch of
dirt as though it meant so much more than what mortal eyes could see.