The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) (8 page)

Brock pointed down at his boots.
“
I
’
m ready for an upgrade. What do you have that
’
s stylish, yet functional? More importantly, they need to fit and not be overly expensive.
”

Melvin put his finger to his cheek as his eyes stared-off at nothing. After a moment, his eyes lit up.
“
I
’
ve got it!
”

He darted around the corner. Brock heard him digging through shelves before he emerged with black boots in hand.

“
You
’
re in luck, boy. A minister was in here last week and traded his son
’
s riding boots for a larger pair. I guess the boy outgrew them in a matter of weeks due to a growth spurt. I
’
m thinkin
’
they
’
re your size.
”

Brock took the boots, sitting to try them on. Not only did they fit, they felt good. The normal stiffness of new leather was gone, so blisters wouldn
’
t be much of an issue.

He walked around the shop to test out the fit.
“
They feel great, Melvin. Please tell me there
’
s a discount since they
’
re used.
”

“
Lightly
used that is. However, you are correct. There
’
s a discount.
”
Melvin stepped up to his desk and opened a logbook. He backed up a couple pages, reading his notes.
“
Yes. Just as I thought. The man purchased them from me new for four silvers, but I can resell these to you for as little as two silvers and five coppers since they
’
ve been used.
”

Brock nodded
“
Done.
”
He withdrew his pouch, handing the coins to Melvin.

Melvin pocketed the coins and pointed at Brock
’
s old oversized boots.
“
Don
’
t you want to sell those now?
”

Brock shook his head.
“
No. I have a friend who needs them.
”

“
Why, that
’
s mighty kind of you, Brock. Are you needin
’
anything else today?
”

“
Nope. That
’
s all I need. Thanks again, Melvin.
”
He waved goodbye, carrying his growing pile of goods with him.

Brock stopped outside and counted through his remaining coins. The journey to Fallbrandt was likely quite far, and he would need coins for food and lodging along the way. Deciding that he wanted to know how long the trip would to take, he headed toward Upper Kantar for his next stop.

.   .   .

A bell on the door rang as he stepped inside the shop. An old man
’
s voice called out from another room.

“
I
’
ll be right with you!
”

“
Okay!
”
Brock yelled back.

After setting his things on a chair, he began examining the various maps displayed on the walls. Detailed maps of various locations covered the wall. When the cartographer appeared, Brock was studying a map of the entire Issalian continent.

“
She
’
s a beauty, right? A true rendition of the whole Empire.
”

Brock turned to the see an old man with spectacles leaning against a service counter.

He nodded in response.
“
It
’
s amazing. Kantar is so small on this map. It makes me wonder how big the Empire is.
”

“
It
’
s nearly three million square miles, of course,
”
the man said, as if it was well known. He nodded, and his thin white bangs dropped over his
Artifex Altus
rune, causing him to push them back.

“
Um
…
OK. That
’
s big, I guess.
”

Brock had no idea what that meant. He wasn
’
t sure how big one square mile was. He couldn
’
t fathom millions of square miles. Brock stepped closer to address the man.

“
I need a map.
”

The cartographer cackled.
“
You wouldn
’
t be in my shop if you didn
’
t need a map.
”
He cackled again and then pointed at Brock with his gnarled finger.
“
The question is,
which
map do you need?
”

Brock shrugged.
“
I
’
m traveling from here to Fallbrandt soon, and I need a map to guide me.
”

“
A traveler
’
s map! Okay, then. Now, we
’
re talking,
”
the old man responded, rubbing his wrinkled hands together.

He turned and began searching through a wall of slotted shelving behind his desk. Various sizes of round tubes filled the slotted shelves. He pulled a few tubes out, mumbling to himself as he read the labels before sliding them back into their slot. After a minute of searching, he held one of the tubes high.

“
Here it is!
”
The old man cackled in laughter.

He slid a rolled paper map from the tube and then spread it out on the counter that separated himself from Brock.

Brock looked down at the map, trying to get his bearings. The man pointed to the lower left area of the map as he spoke.

“
We are here in Kantar. When you leave, you follow the Great West Road heading east into the Brimstone Mountains.
”
He slid his finger to the far corner of the map.
“
Fallbrandt is here, nestled in the Skyspike Mountains to the north. You take Greenway Road north to Fallbrandt from Sarville.
”

There were mountains to cross, but the trip didn
’
t look that bad.

“
How far would you say that is?
”
Brock asked

“
Well, you see this here?
”
The cartographer pointed at a bar drawn at the bottom of the map.
“
This is the scale of the map. The length of this bar equals fifty miles.
”

Brock eyed the route.
“
So, the trip from Kantar to Fallbrandt is
…
about six of those bars?
”

The man nodded.
“
I would say so. That makes the trip roughly three hundred miles.
”

Without a sound, Brock
’
s mouth repeated the distance. Having never been away from the city, he had no idea how long it would take. At least the map showed the route and would help to track their progress.

“
Okay. How much for the map?
”
Brock asked.

“
Let
’
s see here.
”
The man put a finger to his mouth as he considered the price.
“
One mid-size traveler
’
s map. You can have it as-is for eight coppers. It
’
s one silver if you want the storage tube.
”

“
No tube needed. I
’
ll just take the map.
”

After handing eight coppers to the man, Brock took the map and stepped outside.

He took a deep breath as he headed toward the next shop. The trip to Fallbrandt was further than he thought. He hoped he had the coin needed to get them there.

.   .   .

It was early evening when Brock returned to the tannery, lugging two heavy packs filled with supplies. Milan was cleaning up from the day
’
s work when Brock arrived. Rather than interrupt, Brock ran upstairs to store the heavily loaded packs. When he returned, his father had gone into the apartment at the back of the shop.

As he entered the room, Brock found his father removing the soup kettle from the fireplace. Milan set the steaming pot on the end of the dining table and removed his thick leather gloves. Without looking at Brock, he used a ladle to scoop soup into two bowls.

Following some unwritten script, they sat on opposite sides of the table and ate in silence. Ten minutes later, both bowls were empty. Only crumbs remained from the half-loaf of bread that had accompanied their meal. Brock cleared his throat to steady his nerves before breaking the silence.

“
Pa, I
’
ve got to tell you something.
”

His father said nothing, merely looking at Brock with one brow raised.

“
I
’
m leaving Kantar, first thing in the morning.
”
Brock considered what more he could say without lying.
“
I
’
m going to try to make something of myself, make a new life somewhere else.
”

His father nodded.
“
I expected this day would come. Since Ellie died, I figured it
’
d be coming soon.
”
He sat back and looked Brock in the eye.
“
Whatever you do, make sure you do it honestly. Do right by Issal and you
’
ll see yourself blessed in the next life.
”

That was it. No sadness. No begging him to stay. No emotion at all. Brock knew he shouldn
’
t feel surprised, but he was anyway. He didn
’
t realize how much it would hurt: the indifference.

Brock kept his emotions under control as he asked,
“
What about the tannery? Will you be okay without me around to help? I feel bad leaving it all on you.
”

His father grunted.
“
Oh, no problem at all. It
’
s time for me to get an apprentice anyway. Things will be fine here.
”

Milan pushed himself from the table and began to clear the remains of dinner as if nothing had happened. Well,
that is that
. Leaving Kantar will be easier than he thought. Feeling heartbroken, Brock stood and left the room.

CHAPTER 11

The day felt full of possibilities. After a night of tossing and turning, Brock should have been exhausted. Instead, he had never felt more alive. Charged with anticipation, he was ready to begin his new life.

With a heavy pack and cloak over each shoulder, he strode down Flower Street toward Eastgate. Rounding the corner, he spotted Tipper among the small crowd waiting for the gate to open. Tipper noticed Brock and walked over to meet him.

“
You look fancy in those clothes,
”
Tipper said with toothy grin.
“
It
’
s about time you showed up. I
’
ve been here for thirty minutes already.
”

“
What are you talking about?
”
Brock smiled back.
“
The gate
’
s not even open yet.
”
He swung one of the packs around and tossed it.
“
Catch.
”

The pack hit Tipper.
“
Oof,
”
he stumbled backward from the weight.
“
What
’
s this?
”

Brock threw him a cloak, which landed on Tipper
’
s head.
“
That
’
s for the journey. You
’
ll find new clothes along with my old boots. I figured they
’
d fit you since they were always too big for me.
”

Tipper yanked the cloak off his head, leaving his hair even messier than normal.
“
Great. I
’
ll be right back.
”