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.
Then her head turned, and she titled her chin up to the sky and raised her fingers above her eyes to the rising eastern sun so that the shadow of her small hand was cast across her face.
Hunter didn’t realize that he had been holding his breath until she started forward and was coming towards his checkpoint, and he found that he was practically without air.
“Morning Hunter,” she told him with a gentle smile gracing her face. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Suddenly Hunter’s mind drew a blank. What had she to apologize to him for? He couldn’t think of one thing to save his life.
“About getting clay on your hands,” she softly reminded him.
Apologize for that, he wondered. Why? He almost couldn’t bring himself to wash his hands last night.
“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t feel bad about that. There’s something oddly pleasing about the smell of clay.”
“I think so too,” she agreed, looking timidly down at her shoes. When she looked back up at him, her silver-blue eyes held in them a courage he had not seen before. “I’d like to try it again,” she told him, the faint hint of a
blush on her cheeks.
Hunter couldn’t think of what she meant, but then she slowly raised her arm, and her hand was outstretched, ready for him to shake it. Raising his own hand, he clasped hers in a warm handshake, and before she pulled away, she brought her other hand up and placed it on top. He felt something small and light drop into his palm, and when she drew away, he found a small piece of pottery inside. But it wasn’t just the shard of a broken bowl; it was a tiny figurine of a bird. Though it was so small in his hands, its wingspan made it appear majestic and important, like it was doing more than just flying when it opened its wings.
“Thank you,” she said, looking down at the clay bird in his hand, and then up to his eyes.
“What…” He gulped. “What’s this for?”
“For my friend,” she answered.
She gave him one last smile before she continued forward, and Hunter realized he couldn’t even form the words to say goodbye.
He stared at her retreating form, at how her skirt swayed and tickled the ground as she walked, and then looked back to the bird in his palm. A single dot had been placed for the bird’s eye, and he looked into it as if it could understand him, and all Hunter was trying to tell him over and over was to please tell her. Please tell her to make it stop. Please make the dizziness stop.
*
Norabel’s nimble hands ran up along the spinning bowl, and the clay morphed behind her fingers in graceful sways. Though she had been making bowls for over five years now, and had made more than she could possibly count, it never ceased to amaze her how wonderfully majestic the wet clay could appear as it transformed in her hands. How unbelievably special was it to simply picture something, and with a little guidance from her fingers, to have it appear before her.
When the bowl had finally been formed, reaching a state she liked to call “a simple perfection,” she walked to the kiln to set it in with the others. Then, since it was lunchtime, she went to the small basin of water that was placed by the window, and began to wash her hands. Yet, what was normally a time of simple enjoyment and anticipation for the lunch hour, was today weighed down by heavy thoughts.
Though her morning interaction with Hunter had cheered her spirits up a bit, the events of last night were too troubling to forget. She hadn’t spoken to Mason since he had stormed out of the cave on them. And though Logan had gone to her and told her that his brother hadn’t meant what he said, part of her didn’t believe him. She knew Mason thought of her as a child. He may have been angry when he said it, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t true. And a part of her even thought that she deserved that.
At lunch time, many of the workers in the western commons section went over to the food market that lied in the middle of the sector to buy their lunches. Washing her hands, Norabel exited her portion of the Workhouse and came out into the common area between the three stations. Delia, the potter that made the village’s plates, had just gone out the door to take her lunch. However, Wren, the potter in charge of creating the more specialized pieces of pottery, stood by the door with an expression of anxiety on her face.
Though Norabel liked to make friends with everyone she met, she could definitely say that she got along much better with Wren than Delia. Wren was older and more mature, with brown hair neatly pinned up in a bun behind her head, and olive eyes forever focused on the task at hand. She was always careful to be polite, and she put just as much effort into her work as Norabel did. Yet, at only thirty-five years of age, Wren was far too exhausted and worn out than she should have been. She had never married or had kids, and she never seemed to have time for fun.
“Is everything alright Wren?” Norabel asked, coming to stand in front of her.
“What?” Wren asked, suddenly turning away from the open door. It was uncharacteristically absentminded of her, and it made Norabel even more concerned.
“Is it your mother?” she asked, remembering that Wren had mentioned a few weeks ago that her mother’s spirits were low.
Wren gripped a few handfuls of her apron, admitting, “She’s been taken ill. Last night she was running a fever. The doctor got it to go down, but…” she trailed off, looking back out the door and to the rooftops in the distance.
“I’m sorry,” Norabel offered. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Wren shook her head, still deep in thought. For a few moments she stood there, as if in another world. Then, coming out of it, she announced, “I’m sorry, I have to go. I promised her I would stop by at lunch.” She stepped through the door and rambled onto the street.
“Good luck,” Norabel called out after her, but she doubted that Wren heard her, for she seemed so overtaken with worry that a whole fleet of horses could have passed by in front of her, and she might have just walked straight through without noticing.
Heading over to the food market nearby, Norabel had a hard time deciding what she wanted for lunch that day. Wren’s current situation, coupled with the stress of what had happened last night in the cave, made her stomach churn in anxiousness. She knew she wouldn’t be able to eat much, and so ended up leaving the food market with only an apple in her hand.
Her favorite place to eat lunch was underneath a tree that stood across from the Potter’s Workhouse. It provided the perfect balance of shade and light, and smelled faintly of a green herb that her grandfather used to steep in his tea. However, this time, when she came upon the tree with her apple in hand, she found someone waiting for her.
“Mason?” she asked in confusion. She looked about her for a moment to see if anyone else had come with him, but he was alone.
He had been sitting in the dirt before she found him, but when he heard his name, he promptly stood up.
“Norabel,” he said with a curt nod. “Logan said he spoke with you last night.” He rubbed a hand on his cheek and had to squint his eyes as he looked at her, for the sun was behind her back.
“He did,” she replied, glancing down at her apple before going to take a seat on the ground.
“Good.” He nodded, bending down to sit next to her. He took in a sniff of air before asking, “So, how are you today?”
Norabel rubbed her apple on her skirt apron. “I’m fine,” she replied, letting no anger or sadness sneak through her words.
There was silence between them, but then she felt a tug on her arm, and she looked over to see Mason holding her wrist.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Norabel stared down intently at her apple, avoiding where his hand held onto her arm.
“Yes,” she said, giving a simple response, as if someone had merely asked her if the lunch hour had come yet.
“Good.” He nodded his head again.
When he took his hand away, she finally turned to look at him.
“Logan isn’t eating with you today?” she asked, trying to make polite conversation that would draw their thoughts away from last night.
“Nah. He wanted to eat with Aleta today.”
Norabel smiled. Aleta was Logan’s girl, and she was one of the sweetest people she had ever met in Breccan. She worked as a tailor and a dress maker. In fact, she had been the one to sew the white and light blue dress Norabel was wearing right now. She was glad that someone as kind as Logan had found a girl like her.
“It is a nice day to share your lunch with somebody,” she remarked, turning her face up to the leaves of the tree.
Mason scratched an itch on his head, making no comment. Though he had been the one to seek her out, it was clear that he wasn’t in the mood for talking. At least, not about something as frivolous as the weather conditions for lunch.
“Mason,” she asked slowly, deciding on a topic of more importance. “Why didn’t you want to tell Logan and Archer about the arrow?”
He shifted in the dirt as he thought about this.
“Because I didn’t want to worry them,” he answered. Then he glanced over at her, giving her the barest of smiles, and added, “And I didn’t want to let you down. They might hav
e wanted to drop the load if they’d have known. Get rid of the evidence before we snuck back into Breccan.”
“Aren’t you curious as to who shot it? And why?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Of course.”
“Then I think we should go back to Valor Wood. See if we can find any clues as to who was hiding in the trees last night,” she suggested.
“I suppose you’re right.”
She rubbed her thumb across the top of her apple. “So, should we go then?”
“What? Just the two of us?”
She scrunched her brow, wondering why that should be an issue. “Well, invite Logan and Archer if you want,” she said. “But then you’ll have to tell them what happened.”
He cleared his throat and rubbed at a speck of dirt on his hand. “I guess it would make sense to only have two people. Too many and we might trample over any trace that the bowman left behind.” Standing up from the ground, he loomed larger than life over her, saying, “Meet me in the woods after you get off from work.”
He turned to go, and as she watched him walk down the dirt path, she felt an unescapably charged and anxious feeling welling up in her stomach and pushing against the fragile tissue of her lungs. Mason had never made her feel like this when they were younger. He was a different person back then, a gentler boy that somehow seemed much wiser than the man now. But Norabel was sure she would find him again; she just needed to wait a little longer to see that inquisitive boy with bright blue eyes and a beaming smile…
…Mason wiped the charcoal off his hands and stepped back from the cave wall to proudly stare at the large, arching set of wings he had drawn. From outside the cave entrance, Norabel happily hummed a tune as she waited for him to call her inside.
“Alright Norabel, you can come in now,” he called out. He furiously rubbed his hands on his pants, trying to get all the dirt off, and ran a hand down his mop of black hair. At fifteen years of age, he never thought about brushing his hair, but preferred it to stick out in tuffs like that of a carefree boy that spent all his time chasing rabbits in a meadow.
Chasing Shadows (Saving Galerance, Book 1) Page 5