The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1)

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Brock groaned at this news. What else had he done?

  “With your shirt off, you leapt from the table to the top of the bar. Your dancing continued until you did a handstand on the bar. Then you began walking across the bar on your hands. You made it about six or seven steps before your hand went off the edge and you fell behind the bar, landing next to James.”

  “Oh no,” Brock groaned again. “Well, now I know why my hip is killing me.”

  Tipper flashed a big grin. “When you fell, everyone gasped and the room got quiet. Suddenly, you popped up with your hands raised high and gave a big bow. The whole room clapped and cheered. You hopped over the bar, retrieved your shirt, and resumed drinking with the ladies. After your performance, women from the whole room were surrounding your table and buying you drinks.”

  Tipper reclined, swinging his legs onto the bed as he rested his head on the pillow. “It was about two hours later when I convinced you to bid them goodnight. You kept turning and waving to the room as I helped you up the stairs. I dragged you in here and dumped you onto the bed. You were snoring less than a minute later.”

  Tipper turned toward Brock again. “You were in the exact same position when I woke this morning. You never even took your boots off.” He smiled, clearly enjoying Brock’s suffering.

  Brock had already made a spectacle of himself on the very day he had arrived in Fallbrandt. Even if his head didn’t hurt so much, his behavior was warning enough that he had better watch his wine consumption.

  Brock took another drink of water, emptying the glass. He set it on the table and glanced out the window, trying to judge the time. It was far too bright outside. He closed his eyes in pain. It must be mid-morning already. He had planned to visit the Academy in the morning, but now he would have to wait until after lunch. Even then, he needed to work on his recovery. He took a breath and stood. The room swam and his stomach lurched.

  “You don’t look so good, Brock,” Tipper said, as if it was an insightful observation.

  “I know. Anyone could probably guess that,” Brock grumbled. “I have to go to the Academy today, so I need to recover soon. I’m going downstairs to find someone who can help me.”

  Tipper replied, “Go ahead. I already had breakfast. It was quite good. Not as good as last night’s dinner, but still quite good. The cook here has talent.”

  Brock washed his face in the bowl on the table and dried it with a clean towel. He dipped his fingers in the water, raking them through his hair in an attempt to tame it. When the image in the mirror looked presentable, he forced himself to walk out the door.

  Dory was alone in the dining room, sitting at the same table as the night before. With papers spread out before her, she was busy writing numbers into a ledger.

  Brock descended the stairs and approached the table. As he got close, Dory looked up and gave him a smile.

  “Good morning, Brock. I hope you’re feeling well.”

  “Well…actually, I feel awful,” he said.

  Dory smiled again. “Yes, I expected that might be the case. You certainly took to the wine last night. If you’re not careful, it can sneak up on you and leave you in a bad way the next day.”

  “Well, it has done a good job on me,” Brock replied, settling into the chair across from her. “I apologize for my behavior last night. If I offended anyone, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You were genuine, you were fun, and you were entertaining,” Dory said with a smile. “With the Academy influencing the area, most of the men here believe that they have to always be proper. It’s even worse with those who work at the Academy itself. They believe maintaining personal decorum is a virtue. However, the women here find it dull and boring.” Dory smiled again. “You, on the other hand, are not boring. You had a room full of women, many twice your age, wrapped around your finger last night. They listened, they laughed, and they had a good time. There’s no apology needed. In fact, I’d like to thank you.”

  He nodded, not knowing what to say. Dory spoke so he didn’t have to.

  “Now, how about a cup of caffe to help nurse you back to health?” She stood and made her way to the end of the bar. “Do you like it with sweet milk?”

  “Yes, please,” Brock replied.

  Dory returned, handing him the cup as she reclaimed her seat. They talked as he sipped the hot drink. By the time he was on the second cup, he began to feel better.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was refreshing to be on the road without the weight of a heavy travel pack. A cool mountain breeze balanced the warmth of the sun, resulting in a beautiful afternoon. The wind ruffled Brock’s shirt and blew his hair back as he marched uphill toward the Academy.

  The forest abruptly ended a mile beyond Fallbrandt, revealing a wide field of knee-length grass. Lines of pines, two miles apart, surrounded the field.

  An immense building stretched across the far end of the field, near the head of the valley. The center section of the structure was large and blocky. Two long outer wings bent southward at an angle, stretching out from the main building until they ended with a circular tower at the end. Scattered trees among the lawn provided shade along the road and along walking paths that were lined with occasional benches.

  As Brock neared the main entrance to the Academy, he realized the structure was made of multiple connected buildings, giving it a disjointed appearance. Above the front doors was a stone marquee that read Academy for the Ministry of Issal, Established 1055. That made the Academy nearly four hundred years old.

  He climbed the stairs and pulled hard on the heavy door. It groaned as it reluctantly swung outward. Brock stepped inside the Academy for what he hoped was the first of many times.

  The sound of his boots on the marble floor disturbed the silence of the hall, echoing off walls standing over one hundred feet apart. Light streamed in from the windows above him. He glanced up at the high ceiling, supported by two rows of pillars that interrupted the otherwise open space. Closed doors lined the interior walls. Each of the upper two stories had dark wooden rails lining a terrace overlooking the room below. At each corner, a stairwell connected one level to another. The main level had three wide hallways at the far end, one leading to the left, one to the right, and the third leading straight ahead.

  Brock stood alone in the hall, gawking at his surroundings when a bell tolled. Doors burst open and blue-cloaked students emerged to fill the hall. Some exited the building, some disappeared down hallways, and others entered another room in the hall. Minutes later, only a few stragglers remained. Another bell rang, and Brock found himself standing alone again, the hall eerily quiet.

  He crossed the open room to stand where the three hallways met. Not knowing what else to do, he randomly picked a direction.

  As he strolled down the quiet hallway, he passed numerous glowlamps lighting the corridor. Between each lamp was a set of doors. He noticed a plaque inscribed Hedgewick Knowledge Center near a set of doors. He kept walking, coming across two more sets of doors marked the same way.

  The hallway connected to an open space, this one with a two-story ceiling. To his left was another set of doors to the knowledge center. The next wall had a set of doors that appeared to lead outside. Ahead, the hallway continued toward an outer wing.

  Two sets of open doors were to Brock’s right. The nearest had a plaque labeled Office of Admissions. Somehow, he had found what he was seeking.

  He stepped into a small room with four chairs to one side, a desk to the other, and a closed door at the back. The blonde girl sitting at the desk glanced up from her writing. She pushed her spectacles in place as she addressed him.

  “Can I help you?”

  His whole mission hinged on the next few minutes. Ignoring his fluttering stomach, Brock put on his best smile and responded.

  “Hello. I’m here to be admitted to the Academy”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. My name is Monica. I’m the admissions assistant,” she replied with a nod and a smi
le. “First, what’s your name?”

  “My name is Brock.” He paused, mind racing. He couldn’t use Tannerson as his last name. No tanner would have a son entering the Academy.

  Monica finished writing his first name and looked up at him. “And, your last name?”

  “Sorry. Yes, my name is Brock Ta…” He cleared his throat and coughed, buying time as he thought about a last name. A plaque on the wall with the word talent inscribed on it inspired him. “Brock Talen…z. Talenz, with a z.”

  Monica nodded and recorded the name on a form before looking up expectantly.

  “I need your papers as well.”

  Oh no. A surge of panic struck him, twisting his stomach.

  Brock smiled again, trying to be engaging. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any papers.”

  “No papers? No official writ? I can’t help you then.” She shook her head, sitting back. “The rules are quite clear. You must have official documents in order to be admitted.”

  He wasn’t about to give up. “Isn’t there someone I can see to resolve this? I must be admitted.”

  She glanced toward the closed door at the back of the room. “You’ll have to speak with the master of admissions.” She stood, walking toward the door. “Let me see if he’s available.”

  She knocked, cracking the door open. After a brief conversation, she opened the door wide and waved Brock inside.

  It was a large room with beautiful wood-paneled walls, interrupted by a bookcase on one end and a row of windows along the back. A table with six chairs was to Brock’s left, a big wooden desk to his right. Behind the desk was a man in a purple cloak.

  The man looked up at Brock, his brown bangs hanging over the rune on his forehead. He had a chiseled face and squinting blue eyes. A short-cut beard framed his young face. A small block of wood on the desk displayed the man’s name: Ackerson.

  As Brock took a seat, the man spoke, “Mr. Talenz, is it?” Brock nodded and the man continued. “I hear that you’re requesting admission without the proper papers.”

  “Yes...um…Master Ackerson,” Brock replied.

  “So, you expect us to just accept you without a recommendation from a master minister?” The man had a smug smile on his face.

  Brock’s mind raced. He had to figure this out. “Well, you see, the minister I was training with died before he could write the recommendation. I’m from a small town, and he was the only master in the area.”

  Ackerson’s smugness softened, looking unsure. “I guess that makes sense. Where did you say you were from? Who was the minister?”

  When he realized that these questions were coming, Brock’s mind had been racing to prepare a response.

  “I grew up in Port Choya, in south Kantaria. His name was Master Snod. He was old and died this past winter.” Brock remembered hearing the name from an old master minister who had visited Kantar last summer. He remembered it because he thought the name was funny at the time.

  Ackerson’s confidence appeared to be waning. “Um, yes. Well, this is still highly irregular.” He shook his head. “Even if your story checks out, I can only accept applicants with an official writ. I’m sorry.”

  Brock was not about to be denied. “But I traveled all this way. I’m here and am ready. Isn’t there something you can do?” He pleaded.

  Ackerson sat back again, his arms crossed. “The rules are clear. No writ, no admission. I’m sorry.”

  His brain raced, trying to come up with a solution. What could he say or do to change things? Having the mark of Issal was supposed to solve his problems. Requiring a writ was not in the plan. He had come all this way for nothing, dragging Tipper along with him.

  Heartbroken, Brock stood and walked out.

  CHAPTER 30

  Brock somehow found himself on a bench on the Academy lawn. A solitary bird in a nearby tree chirped a lonely tune. The sad melody matched Brock’s mood as he sulked, his spirit beaten and broken.

  Eventually the bird took flight, soaring in circles as it continued to rise on the mountain breeze. He watched the bird disappear into the woods at the western edge of the lawn, noticing the trees now covered in the shadow of the mountains to the west. Deciding he should return to the inn before nightfall, he forced himself off the bench to begin his trek back to Fallbrandt.

  . . .

  When he entered The Quiet Woman, dinner was underway. Like the night before, the place was packed. The room buzzed with the conversation and laughter of the women who had gathered.

  Brock spotted Tipper at the bar, talking to James. An empty plate sat between them. As he approached, he noticed that Tipper’s scruff was gone.

  “I see you decided to shave,” Brock noted as he claimed a stool.

  Tipper grinned, rubbing his face with one hand. “Libby doesn’t like the facial hair,” he explained. “How was the trip to the Academy?”

  Brock’s head dropped in dejection. “It was a dead end, Tip. They require a written recommendation from a master minister. I don’t have one, so they sent me away.” He stared down at the bar, feeling hollow inside.

  Tipper’s smile slid away. He put his hand on Brock’s shoulder and glanced at James, who shrugged.

  “There has to be something you can do, Brock,” Tipper said. “You’ve come this far. You can’t give up now.”

  Brock looked at Tipper, his frustration boiling over. “I don’t know what to do, Tip. I tried. I made my case, but they have rules.” He stood and shouted. “I’m sorry I had to drag you here for nothing! I tried and I failed! Ackerson said there was nothing he could do!”

  Anger exhausted and feeling empty again, Brock sat and stared at the bar.

  Moments later, he felt a tap on the shoulder. He looked up to find a pretty brunette waiting. He remembered her from the prior evening.

  “Hi Annabelle.” Brock smiled weakly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hi Brock.” She smiled, her long eyelashes fluttering. “I’m so glad you remembered me. You were…um…entertaining last night. I want to thank you for the wonderful evening. Now I think there’s something I can do for you.”

  Brock raised an eyebrow, allowing her to continue.

  “I heard you mention the name Ackerson. Are you talking about Abe Ackerson? A minister at the Academy? Has brown hair and a short trimmed beard?”

  Brock nodded. “Yes. I met with him today about admission to the Academy. He denied me, saying it wasn’t possible because I don’t have the necessary papers.”

  Annabelle nodded as she twisted her hair with a finger. Her other hand remained on his shoulder.

  “That’s what I thought. Well, Abe is my husband. When he gets home tonight, I’ll set him straight. There has to be a way. There’s always a way.” Her face was firm, and she nodded again. “Return to the Academy in the morning, and the answer will be different. Get yourself ready. I’ll worry about Abe.”

  Annabelle removed her hand from Brock’s shoulder and walked away. She stopped to say something to Dory before departing, looking like a woman on a mission.

  Brock turned to see Tipper flashing toothy a grin.

  “See, Brock. There’s always hope.” Tipper hoisted his cup. “Would you care for some caffe? I love this stuff.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Brock waited in the Office of Admissions while Monica sat at her desk. Whenever he glanced at her, he would catch her looking at him. She would look down at the desk, shuffling papers in an attempt to look busy. Eventually, her eyes would shift back to him. He found himself feeling self-conscious, sensing the heat of her gaze as he tried not to look at her.

  Approaching footsteps echoed in the hall outside. Ackerson strolled into the room, greeting Monica. He paused when he saw Brock waiting. With a grunt, he walked past and opened the door to his office.

  “You can come in,” Ackerson said from beyond the open doorway.

  Brock scrambled to his feet and followed the man inside. Closing the door behind him, he took a seat in the same chair as the day pr
ior.

  Ackerson put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his squinty eyes fixed on Brock.

  “You’ve apparently convinced my wife to offer support. While I find that utterly annoying, I admit your resourcefulness displays some promise.” The man lowered his hands and leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “I’ve arranged for you to undergo some evaluations. They’re a simple set of tests designed to measure your potential. If you truly were to be recommended for the Academy as you claim, there should be no issues.”

  Brock couldn’t believe it. He had hoped that Annabelle might be able to help, but he hadn’t dared to believe it.

  Before he could respond, Ackerson spoke again.

  “I hope you don’t embarrass yourself because I stuck my neck out to get you this evaluation. On the other hand, if you succeed and show promise, it will be a feather in my cap.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Brock said. “I appreciate the consideration. I won’t let you down.”

  “See that you don’t.” The minister stood, walking toward the door. Brock stood to follow.

  The man opened the door. “Monica, would you please escort Mister Talenz to Master Pretencia’s classroom?”

  Monica stood, pushing her spectacles up. “Yes Master Ackerson.”

  She stepped into the hallway with Brock following along. His stomach began to flutter as anxiety set in.

  He walked beside Monica, her blue cloak making a swishing sound in time with their footsteps. She led him to the Main Hall and turned left into the center hallway. Brock was too nervous to pay attention to any details. It all seemed to flow past in a blur.