The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) (15 page)

She helped Emily across the room. As they reached the bed, Emily collapsed into it.

Tears ran down Emily
’
s face.
“
Ellie, I feel so horrible. Everything hurts. I feel so weak.
”

Emily coughed. The hacking cough continued for a couple minutes before subsiding, leaving her gasping for breath.

Brock didn
’
t understand what was happening, but he was concerned for his mother. He jumped off the bench and crossed the room. He sat on the side of the bed to give his mom a hug. Her arm wrapped around him limply, not any sort of squeeze like normal.

“
I love you, mommy,
”
Brock said.
“
I want you to get better. I don
’
t like seeing you sick.
”

“
I love you too, dear,
”
Emily said.
“
Don
’
t worry, though. Mommy
’
s going to be okay.
”

He lay there, hugging her for another minute. When he sat up, she was fast asleep.

As he stared at his mother, the image warped and changed again.

.   .   .

Brock stood in the bright sun, holding Ellie
’
s hand. The minister finished his prayer and reached out with the candle. The flame ignited the kindling, the fire soon becoming a raging inferno. The pyre cracked and sizzled as it burned.

The minister lit a small white lantern and held it up before the fire. He let it go and it floated upward, toward the flame. Once over the pyre, it rapidly rose into the sky. Moments later, it was but a white speck against the vast blue background.

The minister said some final words to the small group before him. He then turned to climb the stairs back to the city.

Brock turned toward the flames. They were hot and hurt his eyes. He looked up at his father. Tears ran down the man
’
s face. He was in bad shape. Broken.

He turned the other way to look at Ellie. She also had tears on her face. She looked down at Brock and began crying in earnest. Bending to give him a hug, she sobbed on his shoulder.

Eventually, the fire began to die down. Brock
’
s father turned and ascended the stairs toward the city. Ellie followed behind, dragging Brock by the hand. Nobody said a word.

Brock took one last look back toward the dying fire. Silently, he waved goodbye to his mother. His toe hit the edge of a step and he stumbled. Falling face first, the stairs gave way to become a deep canyon. He was over the edge, and the bottom was racing toward him. Panic struck. He tried to scream, but fear
’
s grip only allowed a weak squeak.

.   .   .

Brock jerked awake and sat up, his body covered in sweat. Sand poured off his cloak. He blinked, trying to get his bearings.

The dream had been so vivid. So real. It was as if he had relived those precious, yet difficult memories. They reminded him of how much he missed his mother. Now he missed Ellie as well. Thinking about the dream, he was surprised to find that he missed his father too. He missed the man his father used to be, before Brock
’
s mother had died. Brock had forgotten the man his father had been, so loving and passionate, so different from the distant, bitter shell that remained.

Breaking from his reverie, he took in his surroundings. The sun was low, with long shadows cast along the canyon walls before him. It would be dark soon. The wind had stopped sometime while he was sleeping. The sandstorm was over.

CHAPTER 21

The view began to widen as the road emerged from the narrow mountain pass. When the cliff walls fell away, the vista revealed sharp mountain peaks from horizon to horizon. It seemed like the continent were stretching upward, reaching toward the sky. Though it was summer, bright white snow covered the north face of the taller peaks.

In contrast to the barren desert behind them, the valley was teeming with life. The deep green of the pines filled the valley, running up the mountains until they gave way to bare peaks covered with grey rock and white snow. The Alitus River meandered along the valley floor until disappearing around a bend south of them, where the river turned westward.

The road they were following twisted its way down the mountainside until it came to a bridge crossing the river, far below. Beyond the bridge, the road split with one branch becoming a series of switchbacks leading to another pass between peaks to the east. The other branch turned south down the center of the valley. Just north of the bridge, a town stretched along the riverbank. It was a thin strip of civilization cutting through a sea of green wilderness.

“
It
’
s amazing,
”
Tipper said, breaking the peaceful moment.

“
Yeah. It
’
s hard to believe we were in that desolate desert just hours ago.
”
Brock remarked.
“
The weather on this side of the mountains must be quite different. It
’
s like another world.
”

While enjoying the view, they broke out their water skins.

“
That was the last of it. I
’
m out.
”
Tipper capped his skin.
“
That river down there looks awfully good right now. I wish it were closer. I
’
m still thirsty
”

“
I
’
m empty too,
”
Brock replied.
“
That town down there must be Sarville. We can drink our fill there.
”

They started down the road. Motivated by the lure of water at the bottom, the boys broke into a run, letting gravity pull them down the mountainside. Pines and undergrowth enveloping the narrow road created the feeling of running down a tunnel. Birds and rodents scattered from the road as the boys sped past. Dust from the dry gravel flew from the rapid shuffle of their boots, leaving a trail in the air behind them.

As they neared the valley floor, the forest thinned and the ground began to level. The boys slowed to a walk, trying to regain their breath.

The area along the road had been cleared, leaving an open glade filled with long grass and flowers. Butterflies flitted about in the afternoon sun. The buzz of bees travelling from flower to flower hummed in the air around them.

They rounded a bend, and the bridge again came into view. It was now less than a mile away. Energized by the idea of water ahead, they quickened their pace.

The open area south of the road revealed a few scattered farmhouses among fields of crops. Pines were still scattered here and there, but far less dense than in the forest behind them.

When the bridge was less than a quarter mile away, Tipper broke into a run. Brock laughed and ran after him, quickly passing the taller boy and running past the split in the road. Slowing when he reached the steep bank, he scrambled down until he was at the river
’
s edge. He dropped to his knees, scooping water into his mouth. It was ice cold and refreshing. Panting between scoops to regain his breath. Tipper scrambled down the bank and knelt beside him.

After a dozen scoops, Brock
’
s thirst began to quench. He sat back to watch Tipper feverishly scooping water into his mouth. He looked down at his own shirt, the whole front wet. His knees were wet, sunk a couple inches into the muddy riverbank.

He began to laugh. Tipper stopped and looked at him in confusion, water dripping down his face. He was even wetter. Brock laughed harder. Tipper broke into a grin, laughing.

They had made it to Sarville. Life was good.

CHAPTER 22

They paused inside the doorway, their eyes adjusting to the dark interior of the inn. The place was busy, and the air buzzed with conversation. Followed by Tipper, Brock crossed the room and sat at an open table. A plump woman with curly blonde hair slowed as she walked past them.

“
I
’
ll be right with you boys.
”

She deposited four full mugs on the table next to theirs and continued to a table further down.

Tipper sighed.
“
My feet are killing me. I can
’
t wait to take my boots off. I say we get a quick dinner and go relax in our room.
”

Brock nodded.
“
I couldn
’
t agree more, Tip. I
’
m exhaust
…”

Brock jumped when two meaty hands slammed down on their table. He looked up to find a large, burly man with curly black hair and a shaggy beard. The rune of
Silvas
marked him as a woodsman, likely a lumberjack or a hunter. Looming over them, the large man seemed like a mountain about to become a rockslide.

“
You need to leave,
”
he said, looking at Tipper.
“
We don
’
t want your kind
‘
round these parts.
”

Tipper swallowed, fear reflecting in his eyes.

Brock broke in,
“
Sir, he
’
s with me. He won
’
t trouble you, I promise. We just want some dinner and we
’
ll be away, in our room for the night.
”

The large bear of a man turned his gaze on Brock, his demeanor softening when he saw the rune of Issal.

“
Sorry, minister.
”
The man stood upright, removing his paws from the table.
“
We
’
re good, god-fearing folk here in the Greenway. But we can
’
t have the taint of Unchosen among us. Ain
’
t right.
”

Brock had seen people avoid and ignore Unchosen. He had seen them belittled and treated as less than human. However, this level of outright hostility was uncommon.

“
Surely you have other Unchosen in town,
”
Brock said to the man.

“
No. We
’
re pure in Sarville. Ain
’
t got no tainted Unchosen here,
”
the big man said.
“
Heck, I ain
’
t seen one in five years, and that was down in Wayport.
”

Brock didn
’
t want a fight. Not only was this man huge, but he likely had friends in the room.

“
I see. In that case, we
’
ll be going.
”

The man nodded and stepped away. They grabbed their packs and left the inn.

It was darker outside than when they had entered, the sun now obscured by the tall peak to the west.

Brock turned to Tipper.
“
You
’
d better put your cloak on and use the hood to hide your face. We don
’
t want more trouble.
”

Tipper nodded and donned his cloak as they began walking through town. They passed numerous buildings before coming to another inn, but found it just as crowded as the last. Brock decided to find a quieter place to stay.

They came to a shop with a sign saying
Sarville General Goods
. Brock gestured toward the building.

“
We better restock. Give me your pack, and I
’
ll go see if I can buy what we need.
”

Tipper handed him the pack, waiting with his hood up and face down.

Brock emerged five minutes later with two full packs. He handed one to Tipper and they continued on.

At the north end of town, they came to an inn called
the Horned Frog
. This place was their last hope. Steeling himself for another poor reception, Brock stepped inside.

Even with far fewer patrons in this inn, Brock thought it best to keep a low profile. He paid the woman working the bar and headed upstairs with Tipper a step behind. Using the key to open the door, they slipped into the small room.

Inside were two small beds with a narrow table between them. A bucket of water, two towels, and a bar of soap lay on the table.

Brock sat on a bed and yanked his boots off, rubbing the soreness out of his feet with his hands.