Chasing Shadows (Saving Galerance, Book 1)

by Reid, Natalie

“Not for long.”

  Auberon raised his hand and brought it back down on the part of the map near Breccan. Then he traced his finger up along the dotted line of a path, saying, “You will travel this route. Take the main road as far as here, and then cut across to the mountain path. I’m told it’s a little worn, but you shouldn’t have any problems if you’re the horseman Lorcan says you are.”

  Hunter nodded and waited for him to continue.

  “This new route will cut your travel time by a few good days. Once you reach the borders of Liadrel, Amias’s men will find you and give you instructions from there. Make sure you tie a white flag around your horse’s tail before you get there. Otherwise you might be shot.”

  Clearing his throat, Hunter asked, “I take it I won’t be travelling with a cart?”

  Auberon shook his head. “The cargo is small, but it is precious. I’ve been lax on a lot of these Harbinger attacks, but this is something we can’t afford to lose.” He looked up at Hunter as he added, “You understand the price should you return here without it.”

  Hunter gulped and clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes sir.”

  Glancing at his uncle, he shot him a look as if to say this wasn’t the way he wanted to start his assent up the ranks.

  Lorcan just gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and then turned to Auberon. “Everyone thinks it’s very commendable the way you handled the incident in the square last night. All the villagers I’ve talked to are calling you a hero.”

  Auberon did not seem to appreciate Lorcan’s praise, for he merely glanced up at them, saying, “You two may go now.”

  “Very good,” Lorcan said, clearing his throat.

  When they were both outside and walking down the hallway, Hunter turned to his uncle, asking, “Why are you praising him? There wouldn’t have even been an issue last night if he had kept his men in the village square like there normally is. But they were all along the perimeter, watching their shadows and doing a fat lot of good!”

  Lorcan harshly jerked back on Hunter’s arm, giving him a stern look. “Never talk like that,” he warned in a low voice. “Especially not now.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked, staring down at where his uncle held onto his arm.

  Lorcan released him, saying, “All you need to know is that it’s important for you to do well. Now get to the stables and get saddled up. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you.”

  Hunter sighed and started to walk back through the hall. “Goodbye uncle,” he called out, taking a glance behind his shoulder, but Lorcan had already turned away. Though he knew his uncle had his best intentions at heart, he was never very good at affection.

  Turning away from his uncle’s retreating form, he saw there was a window cut into the stone hallway where he had stopped. He took a step closer to it and could see, in the distance, the very tops of the homes that rested up against the side of the western rock mountain.

  “Goodbye,” he whispered, before turning away and starting back down the hall once more.

  *

  Norabel awoke suddenly that morning, gasping for breath as she came out of a nightmare. When she was little, she would constantly have nightmares about dying from a Jotham attack. The threat of death by suffocation was so real and inevitable that the thought was forever at the back of her mind. As she grew up, she learned to forget by concentrating on little things—the beams of sunlight in the morning, the cool feel of cotton in the summer, the warm smell of bread. However, no matter how good she got at mastering these fears during the day, she could never stop them from ruling her dreams.

  As she laid stiffly in bed that morning, trying to catch her breath, she decided to occupy her mind on other things. The sun coming in through the window cast the shadow of her bed on the western wall, and she turned to it, focusing on its outline.

  Good morning, she greeted her guardian. Did you sleep well? There was silence. Do you even sleep? Is that a silly question?

  A bird flew by her window, causing its small shadow to flitter across her room.

  What’s your name? She quieted her breathing so she could better listen. Please tell me your name.

  However, instead of hearing the sacred whispering of an Albatross, the sound of approaching hoof-beats pounded in her ears. Her heart shot to her chest, and she immediately rushed to get changed out of her night clothes. The second she was ready, she ran to the front room of her house, peering out the window. Outside, a Pax official trotted up dust in the morning air and stopped in the road between her house and Iris’s. She held her breath as he dismounted and then paused in the road, as if deciding which way he should turn. As he looked in her direction, she recognized the young man as Fletcher, the official that had been part of the house raid on Iris’s home.

  Fletcher took in a large sniff of air and patted his horse on the mane. Then, finally making up his mind, he turned away from Norabel’s house and marched up the street to Iris’s. She watched with dread as he wrapped loudly on their door, the harsh sound biting into the sleepy morning air like a starving wolf catching its prey.

  Iris’s father, Keaton, opened up, offering the young man a stiff greeting. The proper thing would have then been to let the official into the house, but Keaton stood fixed in the doorway, refusing to let Fletcher in.

  Norabel knew that there was trouble brewing, and so she quickly raced towards her front door and out onto the street. As she crossed the road, she could hear the two men’s conversation.

  “Are you aware of what we found in your house not too long ago?” Fletcher asked, leaning his arm against the door post. “I thought you might like to know that I chose not to report it.”

  “You’re a very forgiving man,” Keaton commented tersely, clenching his jaw.

  “I’m not that forgiving,” Fletcher said, putting his hand on the door and opening it up wider. “But maybe I can be made to forgive again.”

  Keaton blocked him once more from coming inside his home. “If you…”

  “Good morning Keaton!” Norabel called out pleasantly, stopping him from saying something that would have most certainly gotten him in trouble.

  Keaton’s eyes flashed to her, and he gave her a little nod, saying in a voice quieted by worry, “Morning, Norabel.”

  “Well, good morning,” Fletcher said, throwing her a smirk as he spun around to face her. “I remember you from before.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice from shaking as she addressed Keaton, saying, “I have some left-over breakfast rolls, and I was wondering if you and your family would like some.”

  “Ooh! Breakfast rolls,” Fletcher commented, trying to bring the attention back on him. “That does sound tempting.” His dark eyes seemed to pierce through her skin as he stared down at her, peeling through layer after layer the longer he stared.

  Trying to swallow down the resentment she felt for the Pax, she reminded herself that Fletcher was just a person with feelings too. He even had his own Guardian Albatross, just like her. So a little kindness wouldn’t kill her.

  “You’re welcome to them too, if you’d like,” she told him politely.

  “Hey, just show me the way!” he said, waving his arm.

  She nodded, silently relieved that she was able to distract him from Keaton, and gladly turned around, saying, “It’s just right across the street.”

  Fletcher stepped away, making like he was about to follow her, when he suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, but wait! I forgot. This man here was just about to give me something.”

  Norabel closed her eyes and clenched her jaw at her near victory. Turning back around, she gave Keaton an apologetic look, as if to say sorry it didn’t work.

  “If you’ll just wait right there,” Keaton said, struggling to control his temper.

  He came away from the door, leaving Fletcher to happily drum his fingers against the wood as he waited.

  “It…it’s a lovely morning, don’t you think?” Norabel ventured
, silently hoping that she wasn’t making things worse by being there.

  Fletcher seemed a little surprised that she was trying to make conversation with him, but he tried to act as casual as ever. “I suppose so.”

  “I,” she pointed up to the east where the sun was coming up over the rooftops. “I just love how the sun comes up in the summer. It’s just north enough that it comes through my kitchen window in the morning and casts a big warm square of light at the center of my table.”

  “Sounds charming,” he muttered, looking back into the house for any sign of Keaton.

  “Do…do you ever watch the sunrise from where you are?” she asked timidly.

  “Hmm?” he mumbled, showing more interest in watching the house.

  “Well, it just seems a shame to me, is all.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, finally giving her his attention.

  “Well,” Norabel said, looking down to her hands and linking them together in nervous energy. “There you are, up in the stronghold, up on top of the world. In the morning, you’re even taller than the sun. I just wondered,” she shook her head. “I thought it must be beautiful, seeing that and knowing that no one else can greet the sun from above like you can.”

  Fletcher studied her intently as he thought about this. Sending her a smirk, he commented, “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  The sound of creaking footsteps came from inside the cold, dark house, and a moment later Keaton appeared at the doorway. He had a small pouch of coins in his hands, and he shoved it roughly towards Fletcher.

  “Here. My family would be honored if you would take this,” he said. His voice sounded dead and emotionless. Norabel knew it was the only way Keaton could keep from outright exploding.

  “Well tell your family,” Fletcher said, taking the pouch in one hand, “that they are very hospitable, and I look forward to seeing them again soon.” Then, turning away from him, he looked to Norabel, saying, “Now, how about those breakfast rolls?”

  Twenty minutes later, Norabel was hurrying down the street, trying to make it to the Potter’s Workhouse as fast as she could. She should have been there five minutes ago, but Fletcher had kept her at her house so long, eating roll after roll until nearly the whole batch was gone.

  When she rounded the street corner and saw the checkpoint, a small flutter of anxiety rose in her stomach. She had almost forgotten about her and Hunter’s interaction yesterday. It had seemed like so long ago when so much had happened in between. She didn’t quite know what she’d say to him.

  Stepping up into the checkpoint, she decided on a simple and cheery, “Good morning!”

  “Name,” the emotionless voice on the other side of the checkpoint greeted her.

  Norabel paused in confusion, looking at the face of the man in front of her. He had dark hair, hard eyes, a frowning mouth, and was most certainly not Hunter.

  Trying to get over her shock, she stuttered out, “Oh, uh, Norabel. It’s Norabel.”

  She almost made the mistake of telling him her full name, Norabel Grove. That would have certainly gotten her red-flagged. All surnames had been outlawed under the Pax. According to Amias, surnames could start wars; they were dangerous familial ties that made people do stupid things. Technically, Norabel wasn’t even supposed to know her last name. Her father had told it to her the night before they left for home, saying that it had been their family’s name for centuries because of the plot of trees they had looked after.

  The man looked gravely down at his ledger and ran his quill down the list. “No number?” he asked gruffly.

  “No,” she answered quietly. Since the Pax outlawed everything except the use of the first name, numbers had to be employed to keep everyone’s names straight. Mason, for example, was actually titled Mason the Eighth on the ledger book. Norabel, on the other hand, was a name unique to her, and so required no number to distinguish her from others.

  Finding her name, the man scrawled the time next to it. He didn’t bother to look up as he commanded, “Go.”

  Despite the summer warmth, Norabel felt unexplainably colder as she walked away from the checkpoint. It just didn’t seem to be a good way to start the day. And, if she was honest, she missed the triangle smile and sparkling green eyes that normally greeted her every morning.

  Shaking her head, she reminded herself that she had to hurry quickly to work. Hunter was probably just given the day off, she reasoned. Since he had to work during the festival. It made sense, really.

  That day, Norabel had to work through lunch in order to fulfill her boss’s orders for the day. When she had shown up to work seven minutes late, her co-worker, Delia, cheerfully informed her that their boss Braj had been in earlier. When he found that Norabel was not there, he told Delia to tell her that she was to skip lunch in order to make up for the lost time. Delia also added that, as punishment, she would need to take over part of her workload.

  Norabel did not try to argue with her. The truth was, it was pointless. Even though Delia made only half as many plates in the day as she made bowls, she was an untouchable worker. The reason was because she had won the heart of a Pax official, and if Braj wanted to stay in good with the Pax, then he was required to treat Delia with a certain degree of leniency. This meant that Norabel and Wren did most of the work coming from the Potter’s Workhouse, frequently having to take over the rest of Delia’s workload on days where she just didn’t feel like “pottering.”

  Wren had come back halfway through lunch that day, bringing Norabel something to eat as she worked. Norabel had been extremely touched at her kind gesture, and even felt a bit guilty that she bought her lunch despite all the hardships she was going through. She tried asking Wren about her mother and about her red-flag status, but Wren refused to talk about it. “You’re young,” she insisted. “You don’t need to worry.”

  Though Norabel didn’t find a grain of truth or comfort in that statement, she didn’t want to upset Wren by continuing to bring it up. So instead they chatted about little things as Norabel worked away the rest of the lunch hour. The best technique to wedging clay before working with it, the squeak of the window shutters whenever the wind blew them, the scent of brown earth that was permanently saturated in both of their hands.

  At one point, Wren offered to take over Norabel’s work, having noticed the bandage on her wrist and how she would silently wince in pain every-so-often, but Norabel refused. Wren worked hard enough during the day, she needed to be able to relax at lunch.

  By the time the end of the work day came, Norabel was thoroughly exhausted, and her wrist was throbbing in pain. Normally she found fulfillment in a long, hard day’s work, but the sore state of her wrist had turned something pleasing into a long and painful battle with each bowl and plate she faced.

  When a knock came at her window at the end of the day, she was immensely glad to see a familiar face smiling at her.

  “Meet at our place when you’re ready,” Logan said, popping his head into her window.

  “Sure,” she smiled. Then he turned to leave, and she raced over to the window to call out, “Aren’t you coming?”

  Logan gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m off to see Aleta first. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Then, throwing her a wave, he was off, leaving her once more to herself.

  Norabel’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. She wanted to tell someone what had happened to her this morning with Fletcher. Even though there wasn’t much someone could do about being leached off of, telling Logan would have at least made her feel better. And, not just that, but she didn’t want to go to Mason’s by herself. Being alone with him had become such an uncomfortable experience.

  Sure enough, when she entered their small, north-end home a few minutes later, she found Mason all by himself, hunched over a map on the kitchen table. He didn’t acknowledge her when she came in, but she was sure he could hear her slow footsteps across his floor.

  “Uh, Mason?” she said, twisting her fingers together and wonderi
ng how to tell him about Fletcher.

  “Hmm?” he asked, continuing to stare down at the map, deep in thought.

  “I…I think I’ve got leacher problems,” she admitted.

  She waited for him to look up in anger, but he did not. Instead he muttered half-heartedly, “Try a bucket. I hear that helps.” Then, without missing a beat, he pointed to a spot on his map, saying, “Will you look at the stables here. I wonder how accurate this map is, because it looks like they are a fair distance away from the stronghold.”

  Norabel felt a twinge of pain in her heart. He was too busy to even hear what she was saying.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, walking towards the table.

  “I’m thinking it would be a good place to strike next.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth in thought.

  Norabel gently grabbed the edge of the table and peered down at the map, keeping a careful distance between them.

  “Hey,” Mason said, looking down to her bandaged wrist. “Your arm okay?”

  “Oh, uh…”

  Before she could finish, Mason’s eyes rose to a spot behind her, and he suddenly called out, “Ashlin. What do you think about hitting the stables next?”

  “I think it’s brilliant,” the young woman replied, confidently striding across the room to stand next to him. “It sends the right message. Only Pax are allowed on horses, so we take that away, we’re stripping them of one of their powers over us.”

  She pointed down to the map of Breccan on the table and frowned. “We’ll need to get a more accurate map than this, though. And we’ll need to know what the guard postings are like. That shouldn’t take too long. And I think we should do it as soon as possible. Let ‘em know we aren’t stopping anytime soon.”

  “Won’t it be dangerous?” Norabel asked. She thought the two would ignore her, but she was surprised to look up and see both of them staring at her.

  “What do you mean?” Ashlin asked.

  “Well, everyone knows what you look like now,” she pointed out. “I know you’re good at sneaking around, but in the day, it’s hard to hide your face. Especially right in front of the stronghold.”