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

  A fast-approaching rumble broke him from his reverie. Turning his head, Brock saw a steam carriage roaring toward him. He dodged to the side as it sped past and continued down the hill toward Southgate.

  Staring at the rear of the coach as it rolled on, he wondered what it would be like to ride in such an amazing contraption. He would never know since only the wealthy could hope to afford one.

  He turned as a man rudely ran into him, knocking him back.

  “Watch where you’re going, you filthy Unchosen.”

  Brock didn’t want trouble. He gave a small bow.

  “Sorry, sir. It was my fault. Won’t happen again.”

  The man sneered at him as he walked away. Brock stared at the man’s back for a moment before moving along. He soon approached the wall that separated Lower Kantar from Upper Kantar. He glanced up at the brick barrier towering above as he passed through the gate. The other side of the wall revealed a district far different from the one below.

  The wide clean streets and elegant buildings of Upper Kantar were a stark contrast to the dirty streets and dilapidated buildings that prevailed in Lower Kantar. Only Center Street and Alistair Avenue largely escaped these issues.

  His gaze landed on the citadel, looming above the city. The bright sun made the stone towers appear like pale sentinels watching over the people of Kantar. Light reflected off the stained glass panels of the Citadel Temple’s domed roof. With the backdrop of vertical rock walls behind the citadel, the image was impressive.

  The idea of living in Upper Kantar seemed like a dream, but living in the citadel was unimaginable.

  He passed a blacksmith shop, slowing to admire a beautiful longsword and dagger displayed in the window. Turning at the next intersection, he approached the second door on the right and knocked. He stepped back and waited. Glancing up, he read the sign above the door, engraved with the words Miguel Guyenne, Medicus.

  A young man, a few years older than Brock, opened the door. He was tall and thin with well-kept black hair combed to one side. Bangs hanging on his forehead partly obscured the Medicus rune that marked him for his vocation. Brock assumed the young man to be Guyenne’s apprentice.

  “I’m here with a commission for Medicus Guyenne,” Brock said.

  The apprentice looked him up and down with a doubtful expression. “Medicus Guyenne is far too busy for jokes. You should run along to wherever you came from, boy,” he said with a sneer.

  Brock took a breath to keep his cool. Reaching into his coat, he removed a leather pouch and shook it. The clinking coins caught the young man’s attention.

  Brock explained, “I met with the medicus last week and he told me he’d heal my aunt if I could pay the commission. Inside this pouch are four gold imperials, which is the rate he quoted. She’s very ill and needs attention as soon as possible.”

  The apprentice grimaced before retreating into the building. Stepping inside the same room he had waited in a week earlier, Brock closed the door behind.

  The waiting room had a glossy wooden floor, a high ceiling, and wood-paneled walls. Six chairs ran along two of the walls, between the two entrances to the room. He heard footsteps approaching. The interior door opened and a man with silver-peppered black hair emerged, followed by the apprentice.

  “I understand that you have funds for a commission,” the man stated, looking Brock in the eye. A heavy brow and piercing brown eyes gave a serious weight to the man’s gaze.

  “Yes, sir. I have the four gold imperials you require to come heal my aunt.”

  He handed the pouch to Guyenne, waiting anxiously as the medicus examined the contents. Guyenne’s eyebrows lifted in surprise as he looked at Brock in a moment of consideration. The medicus handed the pouch to his apprentice and then turned to address Brock.

  “Let me gather my supplies, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Pushing past his apprentice, he stepped through the interior doorway. The apprentice grimaced at Brock before turning to follow his master through the door.

  . . .

  Brock ignored the look of disgust that Guyenne’s apprentice flashed toward him. He was used to others treating him with contempt. That is, if they even bothered to acknowledge him. When they approached Flower Street, the apprentice pinched his face, further souring his disposition.

  “What’s that horrible smell? Do we really have to be here?”

  Guyenne nodded. “That’s the aroma of Flower Street. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. And, yes, we do have to be here. I promised this boy that I’d come and help his aunt if he paid the commission.”

  They turned onto Flower Street and approached the tannery. Brock opened the door, holding it for Guyenne and his apprentice to enter. He couldn’t help but smile after they passed him. If the apprentice didn’t like the smell before, he really wasn’t going to like the smell inside the tannery.

  Brock’s father glanced up from his work, startled to see the well-dressed medicus and his apprentice. Dropping his tools, he removed his gloves and greeted the two men.

  “Hello good sirs. I’m Milan Tannerson, owner of this shop. What can I do for you?” Brock’s father extended his hand.

  Guyenne responded, “I’ve accepted a commission to treat this young man’s aunt. Where can I find her?”

  Confusion crossed Milan’s face. “You…I…well…she’s upstairs.” His brow furrowed. “But I don’t understand. Who paid your commission? Are you aware that she’s Unchosen?”

  Guyenne, followed by his apprentice, headed for the staircase. He turned his head to respond over his shoulder.

  “The boy paid the sum required.”

  The medicus ascended the stairs without looking back. Milan turned toward Brock, his face red with anger. Brock hesitated for a moment before bolting up the stairs.

  Arriving in the loft, he noticed that his aunt hadn’t moved since he had left.

  The medicus approached Ellie, setting his case down. He pressed his fingers to the side of her neck and then bent to put his ear to her chest. After a moment, he picked up his bag and turned to Brock.

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot help this woman.”

  Brock was stunned. “But sir, you promised you’d heal her if I paid you.”

  Guyenne retreated to the stairwell, pausing at the top to share a sympathetic look.

  “I cannot heal the dead, young man. Nobody can. Not even the most skilled healer within the Ministry.” The man then descended the stairs with his apprentice in tow.

  Brock was in shock. She was alive just an hour earlier. He rushed to her, kneeling at the bedside. Calling her name, he shook the woman as he tried desperately to wake her. He patted her cheek while tears tracked down his. He couldn’t lose her like he lost his mother.

  “Ellie! Ellie! Please wake up! The medicus is here to heal you! Ellie!”

  Her skin felt cold and clammy. How could she die when he was so close to saving her? He rested his cheek on her forehead and sobbed.

  “It was her time, boy,” his father said. “Like your mother, she’s moved on from this life. We just have to pray that she lived well so Issal will bless her with a better station in the next life.”

  Through a blur of tears, Brock looked up at his father.

  “Ellie filled the hole in my heart when mom died. What am I going to do without her?” Using his sleeve, he wiped the tears from his face.

  After a moment, his father responded, “Here’s what you’re going to do. You will fill that hole with honest work, boy.” His voice took on an edge of anger. “I don’t know how you came up with the gold needed for a medicus to break the law and come to heal your aunt, but I do know it was nothing honest.”

  His voice rose to shouting. “First, you will take a batch of hides out in the yard and clean them up. Then you’re going to march over to the stockyards for another batch. And that’s only the beginning.” He paused, pointing at Brock. “See, your hole will be filled with work because you won’t have time for anything else.”

 
His father turned and stormed down the stairs, leaving Brock with his dead aunt in his arms.

  CHAPTER 4

  The days seemed a blur. Brock’s father worked him relentlessly from dawn to well past sunset. Exhausted at the end of each day, Brock would drag himself up to the loft and fall into bed. His lone break was on the second day to attend Ellie’s funeral and then it was right back to work.

  Three weeks and two days into this grueling schedule, Milan relented and began to wrap-up the day’s work while the sun was still above the horizon. Brock ran out into the tannery yard and washed to remove the grime and smell from the day’s efforts. Entering the rear apartment, he quickly ate dinner before running upstairs to change.

  Once in his street clothes, he grabbed his coat and ran downstairs. He stopped back in the apartment and grabbed two extra biscuits while his father was cleaning the table. With a wave to Milan, he ran out the door with one biscuit in his mouth and the other in his pocket.

  He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight outside. It was still warm so he carried his coat under one arm, expecting that he would want it after the sun set.

  Brock strolled down Alistair Avenue, turning south onto Center Street. Just prior to reaching Southgate, he spotted a teenage boy sitting on the ground, leaning against the outer wall of a butcher’s shop. The boy had unkempt blonde hair and a dirty face. His blue eyes looked forlorn as he begged passers-by for coin or food. Long, thin fingers shook as the boy held out a dented pewter cup. A dirty gray blanket covered the unmoving legs stretched-out before him. It was a pitiful sight.

  Brock walked up to the boy, who happened to be facing the other direction, and gave him a swift kick.

  “Ouch!” The boy yelled as he grabbed his leg.

  “I guess you can feel those legs,” Brock said with a smile. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

  “Brock!” the beggar exclaimed. “Where’ve you been? I was afraid you’d gotten yourself thrown into jail.”

  Brock smiled. “Sorry, Tipper. My pa figured I’d been stealing again, and he set me to a grueling work schedule. I think he finally got tired of it himself after three weeks. I’m sure he thinks I’ve learned my lesson so he let me off early today.”

  Tipper smiled. “You got here just in time. I was about to close up shop and head over to Sally’s. That is, unless you’ve got other ideas.”

  Brock tossed the biscuit to Tipper, who snatched it with his free hand. “I’d rather sit and talk for a bit. How ‘bout up on the wall?”

  Tipper put the biscuit in his mouth, grabbed his blanket, and stood to dust the dirt off of his pants. A half head taller than Brock, Tipper smiled down at his friend while he chewed. While Brock was thin, his short frame carried a fair amount of muscle from many hours of carrying hides. Tipper was just thin, with long wiry limbs.

  Tipper darted down the adjacent alley as he yelled, “Let me put my stuff away, and we can head up there.”

  After a minute, Tipper re-appeared while stuffing the last bite of the biscuit into his mouth.

  They headed toward Southgate, turning west just before the wall. Looping around a guardhouse along the wall, they climbed onto an old crate. Tipper grunted as he boosted up Brock until he could reach the eave of the guardhouse. Brock pulled himself onto the roof and then crossed to a ladder standing near the trap door to the guardhouse below. He lowered the ladder to the ground for Tipper to climb, and then he hoisted it and placed the ladder back against the wall. Without hesitation, Brock scaled the ladder with Tipper following close behind.

  The wall, which surrounded three sides of the city, was about four strides deep. The outer rim of the wall was waist-high at the low points and was lined with merlons just above Brock’s head at the top.

  Brock and Tipper turned and walked toward the bay. At the midpoint between the gate and the western wall, they each climbed onto neighboring merlons.

  They sat with their legs dangling three stories above the ground. Palms swayed in the wind, their movement synchronized as if dancing to the slow song of the ocean.

  The cool breeze ruffled Brock’s hair, causing him to squint and blink as it dried his eyes. Looking to the west, Brock saw the last rays of the sun reflecting on the water at the distant horizon. The low evening sun cast a red hue on the clouds above. In mere minutes, it would be swallowed by the ocean. The last ship of the day was nearing the docks, its sails down as it drifted into port. Workers scurried around the docks in an effort to finish the day’s business before the last remnants of light gave way to the black of night.

  To the south was the majesty of the Southgate Bridge, rising over the Alitus River. The blue stone bridge appeared purple in the reddish hue of the fading sunlight. One lonely wagon rolled over the peak of the bridge before disappearing from sight on the downslope. Beyond the river were the straight lines of farm fields stretching into the hazy distance.

  Brock sat in quiet, relishing the peaceful view as the light of the setting sun continued to fade. He tried to internalize the tranquility of the moment, hoping to mend his broken heart. After ten minutes of silence, he finally spoke.

  “Ellie died,” he said without looking at Tipper.

  Tipper knew how much Brock’s aunt meant to him. He also knew she was quite ill.

  “I’m sorry, Brock.”

  Brock turned to look at his friend. “Tip, I had the gold needed to pay a medicus to come help her. I got the last bit I needed from that dirty apothecary and I went straight to the medicus the next morning.” He looked down as emotion welled up inside. “But when we got back to my pa’s place, she was already dead.” He paused as a tear dropped off his cheek, carried away by the breeze. “Why couldn’t she hang on a little longer? Why did she have to die?”

  A quiet moment passed before Tipper spoke. “You did your best, Brock. She was very ill. What else could you do?”

  He turned toward Tipper and shouted. “I could have saved her if I knew how!”

  Tipper glanced around. “Quiet! Do you want them to catch us up here?”

  Brock turned toward the ocean. His mind drifted back to his last conversation with Ellie. After a minute, he spoke again.

  “I can’t live this way, Tipper. I want to make a difference. I need to do something.”

  Tipper responded, “What can you do? We’re stuck with the lot we’re dealt in this life. We just have to ride it out and hope for a better one in the next life. That’s what the Ministry tells us, right?”

  Brock turned toward Tipper. “I’ve decided I won’t accept that line of thinking any longer. I want to do something more. I need to try to make my own life, a better life. I don’t want to live like this.”

  Tipper stared back intently, nodding. “Okay. I assume you have a plan. I know you don’t do anything without a plan.”

  Spinning around, Brock jumped off the merlon onto the wall. He waved Tipper down as he started toward the gate.

  “Let’s go. We have to visit a man at the Aspen Inn.”

  . . .

  Stars were appearing through the dim light of dusk as dockworkers and sailors streamed through the gate. Like two leaves caught in a swift stream, Brock and Tipper were swept along with the crowd.

  The glowlamps lining Center Street provided an inviting path through the heart of the city. The further they walked, the thinner the crowd became as groups peeled off to their evening destination. By the time they neared the Lower Wall, only a few stragglers remained.

  Brock continually scanned the signs of the shops and inns as they passed. Spotting a sign with a single tree carved into it, he and Tipper broke from the crowd and entered the inn.

  The common room was buzzing with loud conversation. The air carried the aroma of spiced lamb. While some patrons were consuming bowls of stew, most simply had a tankard of ale in hand.

  Brock stepped to the bar and signaled for the barkeep. The man had a round face and bushy black mustache. With sleeves pushed up to his elbows, he wore a dirty apron around his portly mid-s
ection. After handing a fresh ale to a patron, the barkeep slid over and gave them a stare.

  “What do you boys want?”

  Brock addressed the large man. “We’re looking for a fellow named Alonzo.”

  The barkeep snorted. “Is that so? Well, you’re in luck ‘cause he’s right over there.”

  He nodded toward a man at the end of the bar, his balding head sporting less hair than his beard-covered face. The barkeep stepped away to help another customer.

  Brock traversed the bar, claiming the stool next to the man as Tipper sat at another.

  “I’m looking for Alonzo. I hear he can help me with something. Are you the man I’m looking for?”

  The man glanced over, squinting to assess Brock before responding. Brock noted the rune of Mercator on the man’s forehead, marking him as a trader.

  “Might be. It depends on why you’re asking,” the man responded.

  Without taking his eyes from Brock, he took a swig of ale.

  Brock replied, “My aunt suggested I seek out Alonzo at this inn. She said he could help improve my situation.”

  Brock brought his hand up to his forehead to ensure Alonzo understood his meaning. Alonzo’s eyes followed his hand, obviously noting the lack of a rune.

  “Might be that I can be of assistance, but it ain’t free.” Alonzo took another drink, setting the mug back on the bar. “I’ll be needin’ five imperials.”

  Brock sighed. He only had two imperials and nine silver marks left. The rest had gone to pay the medicus for Ellie.

  Brock responded, “Okay, but I need a little time to pull that much together. Where can I find you?”

  Alonzo smiled. “I’m right here every night. When you get the gold, come see me and we’ll do business.”

  Brock slid off the barstool, motioning for Tipper to follow as he headed out the door. Once outside, he began walking back toward Southgate.

  Tipper caught up to him. “What was that about? What did you mean when you said he has a way to improve your situation? What situation?”