The buried symbol, p.12
The Buried Symbol, page 12
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, walked to the table, and sat down. The man flipped the large hourglass on the corner of his desk and then began to look through a set of papers.
Focusing his attention on the paper before him, Brock found three questions on it and 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 where he was a Magistrate who must rule in a dispute. Each situation became more sensitive and complex than the one prior. 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, glanced at the hourglass, and noticed 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 am 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. His evaluation with Pretencia seemed to go poorly. For some reason, the man hated him before he had even walked into the room. He needed to do better with the others.
20
The Arena was massive, easily the largest indoor space Brock had ever seen. Standing inside the doorway, he surveyed his surroundings.
A dirt floor occupied the center of the building, three stories below where he stood. Ten-foot tall walls surrounded the floor, spaced a hundred feet apart on the shorter side, with a length that was twice the width. Shaped like a rectangular bowl, rows of benches encircled the floor below. Each bench was 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 focus shifted higher, noting 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 and sunlight poured through it 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 growing louder as he descended the stairs. When Brock reached 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, 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. He wore a vest like the others, but with purple trim bordering the white cloth and a purple symbol of Issal on his right breast, matching 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 as he held out a meaty hand, which Brock shook 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 and grabbed a staff from the rack, setting the butt of the staff in the dirt.
“I suggest you select a staff that’s the height of your brow. A longer staff may provide more reach but will be more difficult to manage.”
Nodding in response, Brock chose the shortest staff, which seemed to be the suggested length for his height. It wasn’t heavy but still felt solid - the thickness of the wood feeling 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.
Butterflies fluttered within Brock’s stomach and his armpits felt damp. “I don’t think I’m ready for this. I have no training. I’ve never used anything but a knife before, and not even that in a fight.”
“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.”
With his heart racing, Brock held his staff up and mirrored the larger man’s stance.
Budakis stepped forward, his staff snapping toward Brock. Brock swung his up to block. A loud clack sounded out.
Budakis smiled. “Good. That’s it.”
The man flipped his staff and swept it low. Brock 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. 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. Budakis spun around in a tight rotation, sweeping his staff low. Like the last time, Brock leapt in the air, and the staff passed under him. Budakis brought his staff around, swinging it 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. 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. Stabs of pain throbbed 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.”
21
The heavy door creaked as it opened, causing Brock to cringe at the echo that sounded throughout the empty temple.
The room was octagon-shaped with each wall roughly a hundred feet from the one opposite. Eight columns stretched from the base of the wall, up at an angle, to support the domed ceiling. Similar to the Arena, the floor of the temple sloped down toward the center, surrounded by descending rows of benches that faced the raised dais in the heart of the room. A glowstone altar stood upon the dais, appearing pale blue in the colored light shining through stained glass windows in the domed ceiling. A figure in a purple cloak stood near the altar, engaged in quiet conversation 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.
He stopped before the dais and waited. Now that he was close, he realized that the master was a woman, her dark hair tied back in a bun. From this angle, he couldn’t see her face or the face of the student and could only hear the murmurs of their muffled conversation.
After a minute, the student turned, descended the dais, and exited out of the far side of the temple. The master turned toward Brock, smiling when she saw him.
“Come on up. Don’t be shy.”
He circled the dais and climbed the four steps to the top.
Matching his height, the master 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.” 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 replied, sounding unsure of himself.
“Allow me to 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 and bumps arose on his arms. His stomach growled in hunger, demanding food.
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 tentatively.
“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, pulled out a hard roll, and handed 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 something 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 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 and felt the calm cool peace within her. In his mind’s eye, a rune began coalesce. It was the rune of Issal. However, 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 that he committed 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 symbols marked the paper as had seen in his mind. He handed his notes to Varius.
She examined it far longer than he felt was comfortable.
Varius lowered the paper and smiled. “Thank you, Brock. You are dismissed. Please exit the way you came in. I’ve arranged for another student to guide you to your next evaluation.”
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. The contrast of her bright blue eyes against her tawny skin made them particularly striking. Brock felt as if those eyes could see into his soul.
The girl looked him up and down before speaking. “I was asked to lead you to your next evaluation.”
“Hello.” He smiled. “I’m Brock. I’m pleased to meet you.”
She glanced down at his extended hand before turning to walk away. Still holding his hand out, Brock hesitated a moment before he gathered his wits and followed.
They left the Ecclesiast Wing and crossed the main hallway that cut through the center of the school. Without pausing or turning, she continued down the opposite wing. After passing a number of doors, the hallway ended with two massive doors in the wall before them. She opened a man-sized door that was cut into one of the two larger doors, and she waved Brock inside.
Once he was through, the girl said, “Welcome to the Foundry. Master Nindlerod is waiting for you.”
She closed the door, leaving him alone. Brock turned to examine the sight before him, trying to work it out in his head.
Pipes ran along the walls, twisting and turning in layers down the length of the building. Large vats boiled and bubbled. Fire burned in hot forges. A machine pumped out steam, its gears spinning and rods swinging up and down. Large tools leaned against the walls, while smaller tools littered benchtops. It seemed a mess, but a glorious mess.
Brock passed through the room as he searched for the master engineer. He noticed two boys looking at plans spread out upon a workbench. Another boy pounded a hot orange lump of metal, fresh from a nearby forge. A girl was blowing through a tube at a tiny piece of glass held over a flame. Two other students were connecting a heavy rope and hook to a pulley hanging from the ceiling. It all seemed quite amazing.
Finally, Brock spotted a man in a purple cloak working in a far corner. The master had a receding hairline surrounded by curly gray hair. A pair of metal tubes with glass lenses were strapped over his eyes – the strange spectacles making him look like an oversized bug. The man used metal tongs to hold a small copper tube over an open flame.
Brock approached and was about to address him when the man spoke.
“Don’t just stand there. Use those tweezers to grab that ball from the casting.”
As instructed, Brock grabbed the shiny metal tweezers and turned toward the metal block, finding a tiny metal ball half-buried in a small hole within the block. He carefully grabbed the ball with the tweezers and held it up.
