The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) Page 12

After turning down another hallway, Monica stopped outside a door, speaking for the first time since leaving Ackerson’s office.

  “This is Master Pretencia’s classroom. I understand he’s expecting you. Good luck.”

  She shared a brief smile before turning to leave. Moments later, he was alone in the hallway. He raised his knuckle to the door and gave a timid knock.

  “Come in.” Brock heard through the door.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  Morning light streaming through windows made the room much brighter than the hallway outside. Rows of tables, four chairs per table, faced the front of the room where a lone desk sat in the corner. Shelves filled with books lined one wall. A black sheet of some material unknown to Brock ran along the wall at the front of the room. Words and runes drawn in glowing blue streaks marked the otherwise black wall.

  A man in a purple cloak sat at the desk, busy writing. Brock approached the desk, watching the feather on the man’s pen wiggle to the rapid rhythm of the pen scratching on the paper. The man’s black hair was slicked back from his forehead, every strand in place. The wrinkle-free skin of his pale face seemed almost made of porcelain.

  The master finished his writing, set the pen down, and sat back in his chair. His dark eyes scanned Brock from head to toe, measuring him silently. Brock wanted to shuffle his feet and look away, but he forced himself to bear the uncomfortable scrutiny.

  Pretencia let loose a grunt of disgust. “So, here is the young man who seeks to enter the holy Academy with no writ.” The man stood, eyes alight with anger. “You seek to circumvent the rules? You choose to dismiss the requirements that all students before you, for centuries, have had to endure?”

  Brock didn’t know what to say. Expecting a negative reaction regardless of the response, he opted not to respond at all.

  After a moment, Pretencia spoke again. “Ackerson has convinced the others to offer you a chance to prove yourself. I disagree, but I am forced to do the same.”

  He snatched the paper off his desk, holding it out toward Brock. “You have a half-hour to formulate responses to the three questions on this paper. You will find a pen and jar of ink at that table. Once you are seated, I will start the timer.”

  Brock took the paper and walked to the table. As he sat, the man flipped a large hourglass filled with black sand, setting it on the corner of his desk. He sat and pulled the top paper from a stack on his desk and began looking it over.

  Brock focused his attention on the paper before him, seeing three questions on it. He read the first question.

  Two landholders of adjacent properties are in a dispute. A tree located near the property line has grown so that a major branch is now touching the stable of the neighboring property. When the wind blows, the branch scrapes against the stable and damages the roof, causing it to leak during rainfall. The man with the damaged stable demands that the tree be removed to prevent further damage. The other landholder demands that you preserve the tree, which his grandfather had planted many decades prior. The tree is a major source of shade for the man’s house, greatly reducing the heat of the summer sun on his dwelling. You are the magistrate, and you must decide on the course of action. Do you require the tree removed to prevent further damage, or do you support the man who owns the tree and relies on it for shade?

  He re-read the question, trying to make sense of it. Both men seemed to have valid claims. Removing the tree caused hardship for one man; keeping the tree was bad for the other.

  After some thought, he opted to do neither. He responded by suggesting that the damaging limb be shortened to prevent further damage to the building. He would require the man with the damaged building pay for the removal of the branch, while the man who owned the tree would pay for the repair of the roof. Brock felt good about the resolution.

  He read the next two questions, finding them both to be situations in with he was a magistrate who must rule in a dispute. Each situation became more sensitive and complex than the prior one. In fact, any resolution appeared to leave one party upset or destitute. It was also unclear how empire law affected each situation. He struggled to find solid resolutions but proceeded anyway. As he finished responding to the last question, Pretencia stood.

  “Time is up. Hand the paper to me.”

  Brock held the paper out, glancing at the hourglass to see the sand in a pile at the bottom. Pretencia snatched the paper and walked away, his eyes scanning it as he read Brock’s responses.

  When the man sat in his chair, a smirk spread across his face. “You are dismissed. I will submit my recommendation, and you will have your answer this afternoon.”

  Brock stood and walked toward the door, pausing before he opened it. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to go next.”

  Pretencia looked up from the paper, letting the smirk drop. “Oh yes. You are next required in the Arena. Turn right outside the door and keep going until the hallway ends. It is a large building. I doubt that even you could miss it.”

  “Um…thank you.” He slipped out the door.

  After pulling the door closed, Brock leaned against it and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. That seemed to go poorly. For some reason, Pretencia hated him before he had even walked into the room. He needed to do better with the others.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Arena was massive, easily the largest indoor space Brock had ever seen. Standing inside the doorway, he surveyed his surroundings.

  A dirt floor was at the center of the building, three stories below where he stood. Ten-foot tall walls surrounded the floor. Those walls stood about a hundred feet apart on the shorter side, with a length that was twice the width.

  The building was shaped like a rectangular bowl. Dozens of rows of benches surrounded the room, each a foot lower than the one behind it, making it easy to see the Arena floor over people seated in front of you.

  Brock’s eyes shifted to the ceiling, trying to understand how the roof was supported in such a large open space. He noted the four large pillars stretching from the stands to the high ceiling. The center glass section of the ceiling mirrored the rectangular shape of the floor below. Sunlight poured through to illuminate the interior of the building.

  Pairs of students dressed in white vests sparred on the dirt floor. The clacking sound of wood striking wood echoed off the walls as training weapons and shields collided. The sound grew louder as he descended the stairs. Reaching the bottom of the stands, he took a second set of narrow stairs that led to the Arena floor.

  As he stepped onto the dirt floor, a man strolled over to meet him. The man’s bald head glistened with sweat, a long bead dripping from his heavy brow and onto his bold nose. A trimmed brown goatee framed his square jaw. The bulging muscles of his bare arms pulled his tan skin tight. He wore a vest like the others, but with purple trim bordering the white cloth. A purple symbol of Issal on the vest matched the rune on his forehead.

  The man stopped before him, staring with his thick arms crossed over his massive chest. His eyes scanned Brock from head to toe, measuring him. Somehow, it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as when Master Pretencia had performed a similar assessment.

  “You are Mr. Talenz, I presume,” the man said.

  Brock nodded. The man held out a meaty hand. Brock shook it in response.

  “I’m Master Budakis. I’ll be evaluating your potential to be a paladin.” The man gestured toward a weapon rack filled with wooden training gear. “If you’re familiar with any of these weapon types, you should take whichever you’re most proficient at. If you have no weapons training, I suggest you try a quarterstaff as it seems the best match for your build.”

  Brock certainly had no weapon training. The most he had done is wave a stick around, pretending it was a sword. He stepped over to the rack filled with wooden rods of various lengths.

  Budakis followed, grabbing a staff from the rack. He set the butt of his staff on the floor. “I suggest you select a staff that’s the height of your bro
w. A longer staff may provide more reach but will be more difficult to manage.”

  Brock chose the shortest staff, seeming to be the suggested length for his height. It wasn’t heavy but still felt solid. The thickness of the wood felt good in his hands.

  Budakis walked to an unoccupied area of the floor with Brock in tow. The man turned and stood with his feet apart and staff held firmly before him.

  Brock was nervous, even scared. He had never done anything like this before. “I don’t think I’m ready for this. I have no training. I’ve never used anything but a knife before.”

  “This isn’t about your training.” The man smiled. “This is about your potential. Now, get ready. Prepare to defend yourself. I’ll try not to hurt you too badly.”

  Brock’s heart was racing. He held his staff up, mirroring the larger man’s stance.

  Budakis stepped forward, his staff snapping toward Brock. Brock brought his up to block. A loud clack sounded out.

  Budakis smiled. “Good. That’s it.”

  The man flipped his staff and swept at Brock’s legs. He jumped, and the staff passed under him.

  Budakis smiled again. “Okay. I think you’re ready now. Here comes the good stuff.”

  Brock stared at the man’s hands, trying to anticipate the next move. His nerves had settled, now replaced by adrenaline. Fear had become focus.

  The master paladin snapped his staff at Brock’s head. Brock ducked, feeling the air swish against the back of his neck as the rod swept by.

  The man swung at his side. With a quick twist and bend of his wrists, Brock blocked the strike.

  The man’s staff snapped down at his shoulder. Brock twisted away, deftly dodging the blow.

  Defending a quick flurry of left-right and up-down strikes had Brock panting. He ducked, he dodged, and he blocked. Focused on defending himself, he didn’t even consider striking back.

  Another set of strikes backed Brock up. He reset, and Budakis snapped the staff at his head, causing Brock to duck again.

  Spinning his body around in a tight rotation, Budakis lowered his staff, sweeping it low. Like the last time, Brock leapt in the air, and the staff passed under him. Budakis brought his staff around, swinging it down at Brock’s head while he was still in the air.

  In desperation, Brock brought his staff up to block the blow. He yelped in pain when the staff struck his finger. The blow affected his balance, causing him to stumble when he landed. Rolling backward with his momentum, he came to his feet a few strides away. His finger was numb with pain, but he didn’t let down his guard.

  Budakis smiled again. “Good. You can relax now.” He shifted his staff to one hand, setting the butt on the ground. He then turned and shouted, “What are you slugs looking at? Get back to work!”

  That’s when Brock realized everyone had stopped to watch their duel. After the scolding, they quickly resumed their sparring.

  He took his hand off the staff, examining his finger. It was red and had already begun to swell. It throbbed with stabs of pain to the rhythm of his racing heartbeat.

  “Sorry about the finger. It’s probably broken. It’s a common injury with quarterstaff fighting. In fact, it’s happened to me numerous times.” Budakis stepped over to the weapons rack, replacing the staff he had used. “Lucky for you, we anticipated an injury to be likely. That’s why your next stop is with the master ecclesiast.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The heavy door creaked as it opened, echoing through the empty temple. Brock’s eyes were drawn to the rays of colored sunlight pouring through stained glass windows in the domed ceiling.

  The room was octagon-shaped, each wall perhaps a hundred feet from the one opposite. Eight columns stretched from the base of the wall up at an angle to support the dome. Similar to the Arena, the floor of the temple sloped down toward the center. Eight sections of benches were arranged in descending rows to face the raised dais in the middle of the room.

  On the dais was a glowstone altar, pale blue in the daylight. A figure in a purple cloak stood near the altar, having a quiet discussion with a student.

  While descending the slope toward the dais, Brock examined his throbbing finger. Now twice as thick as his thumb, the finger had turned an ugly purple.

  Stopping before the dais, he waited patiently. Now that he was close, he realized that the master was a woman. Her dark hair was tied back in a bun. From this angle, he couldn’t see her face or the face of the student. He could only hear the murmurs of their muffled conversation.

  After a minute, the student turned and descended the back side of the dais to exit out of the far side of the temple. The master turned, smiling when she saw him.

  She waved Brock forward. “Come on up. Don’t be shy.”

  He circled the dais, climbing the four steps to the top.

  The master matched his height. She had large brown eyes and olive skin. He guessed that she was perhaps thirty-five years old. She gave him a warm smile.

  “You must be Brock.” He nodded in response. She extended her hand. “My name is Meryl Varius. I train academy novices in Ecclesiastics. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Brock reached his hand out to shake hers, wincing when she squeezed his broken finger.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She pulled his hand closer to examine. “It appears broken.”

  Brock nodded. “That’s what Master Budakis said. It got smacked pretty hard by his quarterstaff.”

  Master Varius looked surprised. “You sparred against Budakis with staves, and your only injury is a broken finger?”

  “Um, yeah,” he said, not sure what she meant. “We only sparred for a couple minutes though.”

  “He’s a master paladin. In a couple minutes, he can maim or kill numerous men with a quarterstaff,” she said, looking at the finger.

  “Um, okay,” he replied.

  She looked him in the eye. “I can heal that for you. Just stay still. You’ll feel a bit of a chill.”

  She held Brock’s wrist, not even touching his injured finger. Her eyes closed and a wave of icy cold washed over him, constricting his chest and making it hard to breathe. Moments later, it was gone. He sucked in a deep breath, gasping for air that had eluded him for mere moments. An involuntary chill shook his body, bumps rising on his arms. His stomach growled in hunger, demanding to be fed.

  Varius opened her eyes and smiled. “How does it feel?”

  To his surprise, he felt no pain at all. He lifted his hand for examination and found that his finger looked healthy, the color and size back to normal. He flexed it and it felt fine.

  “That’s amazing.” Brock stared at his finger. “It feels great.”

  Varius smiled. “The power of Order can do wondrous things.”

  She reached into her pocket, pulling out a hard roll and handing it to him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I believe it’s a roll, Brock. You know, something you eat?” she replied with a smile.

  “Um…I know. But why are you giving this to me?” he asked.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Well, I am starving. But, how did you know?”

  “Healing requires energy from your own body. It leaves you hungry. You need food to replenish the energy that gets used,” she replied. “And that’s your first lesson in the arts of Order.”

  Brock nodded and took a bite of the roll, trying to chew quickly.

  Varius turned and began pacing the dais. She clasped her hands behind her back, appearing to be in deep thought. As he finished the roll, she stopped and nodded as if she had made a decision.

  She stepped close, looking into his eyes. “Brock, I want you to place your palm on my forehead.”

  He lifted his hand and put it on her forehead, covering the rune of Issal.

  “Now, close your eyes and calm yourself. Try to find peace within.”

  Brock nodded and closed his eyes. He was calm, relaxed.

  She spoke again. “Try to absorb so
mething from my mind through the connection of your palm on my forehead. Concentrate and try to discern what runes reside within my head. They will come to you as images. Remember them all, in order. You’ll need to write them down when you’re done.”

  Taking a breath, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. Just beyond, he could sense the hot energy that he had felt the night Hank had died and again with the boulder in the cave. However, within himself, he felt a cool and calm peace.

  He pushed his mind toward Varius, feeling the calm cool peace within her. In his mind’s eye, a rune began coalesce. It was the rune of Issal. However, that wasn’t all. He sensed other runes beyond the first. Probing deeper, he saw the rune of Medicus just beneath. Further down, he could make out the rune of Cognitio. Further yet, two additional runes. He committed them to memory.

  Opening his eyes, he removed his hand. Varius gestured toward the altar where a piece of paper, a bottle of ink, and a feather pen lay waiting.

  “Please write down what you saw, in order.”

  Brock stepped up to the altar, picked up the pen, and began recording the runes. When finished, five runes marked the paper as had seen in his mind. He handed the paper to Varius.

  After examining the paper longer than he thought was comfortable, she lowered it and smiled.

  “Thank you, Brock,” she said. “You’re dismissed. Please exit the way you came in. I’ve arranged for another student to guide you to your next evaluation.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Brock stepped out of the temple, still unsure of what had transpired. He had no idea if he had done well or failed miserably.

  A figure in a blue cloak stepped from the shadows, startling him. It was a girl about his height. Her brown hair was tied back, a few stray curls dangling against her cheeks. She had a pretty face--not particularly delicate, but definitely female.

  Her eyes were her most striking feature. The contrast of those bright blue eyes against her tawny skin made them even more striking. He felt as if those eyes could see into his soul. She looked him up and down before speaking.