The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) Read online

  Varius stepped closer to the class. “A common false belief about healing is that it comes from the healer. That’s not really what’s happening. You are a facilitator, guiding resources that exist within the patient to reestablish the Order that was present prior to the injury or illness.”

  Varius stopped to scan the room, ensuring that she had everyone’s attention.

  “However, there are limits to what healing can do. First and foremost, you cannot heal the dead. Healing requires energy. It requires life to feed it. The dead have nothing left to work with, thus it’s impossible.”

  “Second, severed appendages cannot be healed. There’s not enough energy in a person’s body to regrow a missing limb or even a finger. The best you can do is heal the wound closed, but the appendage will remain incomplete. In fact, injuries involving large broken bones must be properly set prior to healing. If you heal bones that are broken at an odd angle, they will heal at that angle, leaving the person crippled.”

  “Third, you cannot heal yourself. Try as you might, you will find it a fruitless pursuit.”

  “Lastly, a broken mind cannot be healed.”

  Confused, Brock raised his hand. “What do you mean when you say a broken mind?”

  Varius spoke directly to him. “It means you cannot heal someone who has become depressed, mentally unstable, or completely insane. Nobody knows why. We only know that it cannot be done.”

  The bell rang, and Varius held her hands up, indicating for the class to wait.

  “When you come to class tomorrow, the healing schedule will be posted. On the days you are in this classroom, you will be learning about the human body. In order to heal, you must understand what you’re healing. Class dismissed.”

  As the others filtered through the door, Brock approached Varius at her desk.

  “Master Varius?” Brock began, “It’s now been two weeks since Amber’s death. Can you share anything from your investigation?”

  “Well, Brock. The only thing of interest we have found is that a male student was seen in the hall earlier that evening. However, we’ve no evidence of who he was or if he was in her room.”

  He couldn’t hold back any longer.

  “I need to tell you something.” He glanced around the room, verifying that they were alone. “On the eve of the first day of school, Corbin Ringholdt assaulted Amber in the woods near the lawn. He tried to rape her, but I showed up in time to stop him,” Brock said. “She approached me the next day, asking for support. She planned to press charges. Before she could do so, she was dead.”

  Varius sat back with fingers tented, held to her lips. After a moment, she responded, “Brock, what you’re insinuating is quite serious. I’m sure you’re aware of who Corbin is? Who his father is?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I cautioned Amber for that very reason. She knew it would be difficult, but I don’t think she considered her life might be in danger.”

  Varius sat upright, placing her hands on the desk. “Do you have proof for any of this?”

  Feeling his bubble of hope deflating, he shook his head.

  “Without proof, this can go nowhere. It would just be your word against Corbin’s. Even if you were able to convict him with the attempted rape, it doesn’t prove he had anything to do with Amber’s death. It would only prove that he had motive. You cannot convict someone purely on motive, even if he wasn’t the son of the most powerful man in the Empire.”

  Brock was crestfallen. He realized where this was going but had no other path to take.

  Varius stood, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to have to stick with the findings of our investigation. We will officially rule Amber’s death as an accidental overdose. I’m sorry.”

  She lowered her hand. Brock nodded and turned to leave as the bell rang. His stomach twisted in a knot as he realized he was late for his Hierarchist class. Again.

  CHAPTER 54

  With a swipe of his forearm, Brock wiped the sweat from his forehead. He grabbed the next dirty pot and gave the pump three good strokes, filling it with hot spring water. After rubbing soap onto the scrub brush, he scrubbed away the baked-on food. He dumped the soapy water into the floor drain, rinsed the pot, and held it to the glowlamp for examination. Deciding it was clean, he placed it on the dumbwaiter. That was the last one.

  After a quick rinse of the scrub brush, he set it and the soap on a shelf and ran up the stairs. Once back in the kitchen, he grabbed the rope and began pulling, hand-over-hand. The pulley at the top squeaked with each pull, protesting at the weight loaded on the dumbwaiter. When the platform cleared the opening, he tied off the rope. He grabbed a dry towel and began unloading the platform, drying each piece as he placed it on the shelf where it belonged.

  Pretencia had the right to issue punishment for Brock’s repeated tardiness, and he didn’t hold back. He likely figured that two weeks of scrubbing pots would teach Brock a lesson, maybe even break him. He didn’t know Brock grew up working in a tannery. Compared to tanning hides, cleaning pots was a pleasant diversion. Still, he wished he could be spending his time elsewhere.

  When finished, he looped the damp towel over a hook and walked to the kitchen office. The door was open a crack, blue light sneaking through. He knocked before pushing it open. The woman at the desk looked up at him, her spectacles resting low on her nose.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Shirley,” Brock said. “I wanted to let you know I’m finished.”

  She gave him a smile. “Thank you, Brock. I’ll miss your help around here. If it didn’t mean you’d gotten into trouble, I’d be wishing for you to come work for me again soon.”

  He flashed her a smile. “Sorry, Shirley, but my job right now is being a student. Working here doesn’t give me enough time to keep up with my studies.”

  “I know, dearie,” Shirley said. “But you do such a good job. It will be difficult to go back to sorry old Lonnie doing the wash.” A twinkling laugh followed.

  Brock smiled again. She was a sweet woman. “Well, good luck with that. Good night, Shirley.”

  “Good night, Brock.”

  Whistling as he strolled through the dining hall, his body was tired, but his heart was light. It felt good to be done with his time in the kitchens.

  When he reached his room, Cameron was already in bed. Hearing the door open, Cam sat up and blinked at Brock.

  “Good. You’re awake.” Brock removed the cover from the glowlamp on the wall.

  “Yeah. I just got into bed.” Cameron sounded tired. “Benny and I poured through the last of the books we pulled from the library.”

  “Find anything?” Brock asked.

  “Nope. It seems we’re at a dead end,” Cameron said.

  Brock sat on his bed, pulling his boots off. “Oh that feels good,” he said, wiggling his toes. “I’m not going to give up yet. I think there are answers, they’re just hiding.”

  Cameron stared at him. “The library archives?”

  Brock smiled. “Yep.”

  “How are you going to get into that? It has three locks with three keys held by different masters. You said it yourself.”

  “I’ve been working on that,” Brock replied, pulling his shirt off. “Scrubbing pots requires effort, but mostly physical effort. It gives you time for your mind to work on other things. I’m going to make one more trip to the library, and then I’ll tell you the plan.”

  Cameron laid back down, letting out a sigh. “Why do I get the feeling that this is trouble?”

  Brock laughed as he covered the lamp. “You just need to trust me.”

  CHAPTER 55

  The sweet, pleasant scent of Ashland’s hair tantalized Brock as a stray curl tickled his nose. However, the warmth of her hand on his leg had most of his attention. She finished speaking with the student seated in front of him and sat back, removing her hand. He stared down at his leg, still feeling the lingering affect.

  A shout echoed, followed by the loud clacking of wood on wood filling the air. On the Arena fl
oor below, paladin students swung, dodged, and struck back at their opponents. Brock’s attention settled on a skilled pair dueling in the center of the floor. A large male student armed with a sword and shield was dueling a female student who was nearly the same height. From the back of her sparring helmet, a tail of bright red hair trailed as she fluidly dodged, parried, and attacked her opponent. She wielded her two short swords with speed and precision.

  “Who is she?” he asked Ashland, pointing toward the red-haired girl.

  “Her name is Tegan. She is quite good. She was a finalist in last year’s Arena Championship.”

  Brock nodded as he watched her spar.

  Tegan ducked under a wide swing, spinning and striking. Her opponent struggled to block her assault. Blows slid off his shield, struck hard against his sword, and connected with glancing blows off his shoulders and legs.

  Tegan paused and smiled, standing straight with her weapons at her side. The boy reacted, striking at her with a wide swing meant to finish her. He overstepped when his sword met no resistance. The girl had dipped beneath his swing to spin under the strike. Using her momentum, she rose up as she spun, striking with both blades at his open side. Brock heard bones cracking when she struck the boy’s ribs as he arched his back and collapsed to the floor. The master paladin jumped forward and called the match.

  Tegan squatted to talk to her downed opponent before helping him to his feet. He appeared to be fighting for air as his face contorted in pain.

  Ashland nudged Brock’s leg.

  “This is your chance, Brock. They’re heading over for healing. I have no doubt she broke his ribs, maybe worse. “

  Brock took a breath and stood. He slid a flask over his shoulder and lifted the bread-filled basket.

  “Brock.” He turned back toward Ashland. When his eyes locked onto hers, he felt the intensity of her gaze. “You can do this.”

  He nodded again, feeling more confident. Stepping into the aisle, he began descending the stairs

  During their first two sessions as healing support crew, he had watched the nine classmates in his group attempt to heal injured combatants. One by one, they had tried. One by one, they had failed. Each time, Ashland had to step in and heal the wounded. She continued to encourage them not to give up, that it often took weeks or months for a breakthrough. In the back of everyone’s mind was the fact that the ability was exceptionally rare.

  Now it was Brock’s turn to try.

  When he reached the Arena floor, Tegan and the wounded boy were waiting. His thickly muscled arm was over her shoulder; hers around his waist, supporting him.

  “Hi. I’m Brock,” he said to the pair. “I’m here to heal you.”

  “Funny. I thought you were the baker trying to sell me day-old bread,” Tegan said with a grin.

  Brock ignored her, focusing on his patient. He looked pale as he struggled for air.

  Placing his hand on the boy’s bare arm, Brock closed his eyes. He pictured the symbol for Order in his mind as he tried to relax, searching for calmness.

  In the classroom, Master Varius had only been able to teach the principles of healing. She stated numerous times that the actual method was different for everyone, that the visualization was a matter of personal perspective. You had to figure it out yourself, so Brock was trying to figure it out.

  After a minute, he relaxed and found the calm, blue-tinted presence of Order within himself. Extending his awareness, he found the sense of Order within his patient. He could also feel something else. Something that felt wrong, out of place.

  He searched with his mind, seeking the cause of the wrongness. In his mind’s eye, he found what looked like symbols, pulsing with a red energy in the surrounding blue calmness.

  Repulsed, Brock pulled at the Order within his patient, using it to smother the red symbols. He encountered the pressure of resistance, so he pushed harder. The symbols began to unravel as if made of cloth, wisps of thin red threads falling away. The affect accelerated as the symbols unwound until they were gone.

  Brock’s eyes opened when he felt the arm in his grip shudder. His patient’s eyes were wide as he gasped for air. A fountain of blood blasted from his mouth, drenching Brock.

  Brock let go, jumping backward in surprise. He looked down at his shirt, covered in red splotches and sticking to his torso. He looked at the boy, who was now gasping deep breaths. His color had already returned to normal. Tegan stared at Brock in shock.

  Hearing laughter from behind, Brock turned to see Ashland standing on the stairs a few steps away. Despite the laughter, she got a few words out.

  “Good job, Brock.”

  He then heard laughter from the other direction. It was Tegan.

  “Um. Sorry,” the boy said to Brock. “Do you have something to eat? I’m starving.”

  Still in shock, Brock nodded and bent to scoop the basket from the second step. He held it out to the boy, who grabbed a chunk of bread and took a bite.

  Brock pulled the water flask off his shoulder, noting the streaks of blood on the strap as he handed it over.

  Ashland’s laughter had calmed enough to allow her to speak. “It’s a difficult way to learn, but you should have guessed he had a punctured lung.”

  Brock looked at her, confused. “Okay. So what?”

  “Punctured lungs can fill with blood. When you restore Order to the body, that blood has to go,” she replied, chuckling again. “Apparently, all over you.”

  Ashland spun, returning to her seat. Brock didn’t see what was so funny. He was still amazed. He had healed someone. I did it. A smile crept onto his face. He felt thrilled at his accomplishment.

  A hand clapped onto his shoulder. Brock turned to see his patient smiling at him.

  “Again, sorry about the blood.” He handed the water skin back. “And thanks for the healing. My ribs feel great now.” He turned and walked away.

  Tegan was still chuckling as she turned to follow her sparring partner.

  CHAPTER 56

  As usual, Master Nindlerod cackled away, laughing at his own joke. As usual, his humor was lost on almost everyone in the class. Benny smiled and nodded, seeming to understanding the humor. Karl Jarlish, the other brainiac in the class, chuckled as well. Everyone else just looked confused.

  Two weeks earlier, they had moved from the classroom into the Foundry. Today, Nindlerod was conducting a demonstration of yesterday’s lesson on casting steel. The master engineer walked them through the process, heating thin metal rods in the forge until they were red-hot. He then poured the liquefied metal into the casting block. The block was set into a shallow tub of water, which hissed and steamed. Nindlerod grabbed a pair of tongs and lifted the top half of the casting away.

  “Behold, our creation.” Using the tongs, he held up a large bolt with a blob of metal on the end. “Now, we just need to clean it up.”

  The man stepped to a large stone wheel, pumping a foot pedal that caused the wheel to spin. He held the blob end of the bolt to the wheel, and sparks began to fly. A minute later, he stopped and held the bolt up for everyone to see. The blob was gone, leaving a clean, flat end.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” the old man asked, cackling again.

  He dipped it into the tub of water for a moment before flipping it toward Brock.

  By instinct, Brock snatched the bolt out of the air. Realizing what he had done, he was surprised to find that he hadn’t been burned. While it was still warm, it wasn’t too hot to hold.

  “Got you, sonny!” Nindlerod cackled again. “You see, the heat from the bolt dissipates when it’s removed from the heat source. First, it cools as heat is conducted into the casting, then through the casting into the tub of water. Finally, it cools even faster when placed directly in water.” He held up a finger. “However, the rate of cooling should be managed for best results to prevent it from becoming brittle.”

  Brock stepped closer to hand him the bolt.

  “No, you keep it. You might use it for what’s next,” Ni
ndlerod said, cackling again before he addressed the class. “We’ve covered the basics of physics, woodworking, metal smithing, and casting. You’re now ready for the Catapult Challenge!” He ended the last sentence with a finger pointed high in the air.

  Nindlerod waved for them to follow. Like a herd of cattle, the group of sixty students trailed along as he strode toward the huge double doors at the end of the building. Nindlerod’s chunky assistant flipped the lock open and began pushing on one of the doors. The small wheel that supported the door squeaked as it rolled. As the door opened, sunlight began to stream-in. Nindlerod swept through the open doorway with his herd of students in tow.

  They stepped into a holding yard filled with stacks of raw material resting in the shade of slanted awnings. Nindlerod stopped as the group filtered into the yard, students fanning around the small master engineer. Satisfied that everyone was present, he addressed the class.

  “This is the Foundry yard. Here, you can find the raw materials you will need to build your catapults. Treated wooden beams over there.” He paused and pointed to the side. “Wheels of different types and sizes over there.” He pointed again. “Metal rods, ropes, pulleys, and more.”

  “In addition, you have access to any of the casting blocks and tools I showed you in the forge area. This will allow you to cast bolts, nuts, hooks, levers, gears, and other components you might need, depending on your design.”

  Nindelrod paused a moment, scanning the faces before him. “You may be wondering what the Catapult Challenge is all about.” He stepped over to a large cart loaded with metal balls, each about a foot in diameter. “These will be your projectiles, each weighing as much as I do. Your objective is to launch one of these balls as far as you can. Each team only gets two attempts, so make them count. The team who builds the machine that launches a ball the furthest, wins.”

  He paused again, rubbing his palms together in anticipation. “I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see what you come up with this year!”

  The crowd of students parted to create a path as Nindlerod headed back toward the Foundry. Just before entering the dark building, he turned to face them.