The temple of fate, p.10
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The Temple of Fate, page 10

 part  #5 of  Bander Series

 

The Temple of Fate
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“This I have to see.”

  Bander stripped off his shirt and noticed Sward’s eyes widen as the mage took in the sight of the map of scars crisscrossing Bander’s torso. He went around to the back of the wagon and pressed his hands to the rear of the bed.

  “Ready?”

  “I’ll wager that you can’t—”

  All of a sudden the wagon rocked. Bander let out a roar and threw all his weight into shoving the wagon. He used his shoulder and braced his feet, pushing with all of his might.

  The wagon lurched forward, and once he got it moving, Bander kept going, pumping his legs and maintaining the momentum. Luckily, the courtyard was flat and Eton Sward steered the wagon towards the woodshed.

  “Stop!” he called after they had crossed the yard.

  Bander let up the pressure and then caught the back of the bed and held the wagon firm.

  “Unbelievable!” Eton Sward said, circling back to where Bander leaned, breathing hard.

  “It was nothing.” But Bander was dripping with sweat from the exertion. Truth be told, it felt good. Maybe that might change in a few hours when his muscles clenched up, but for now he had nothing to complain about.

  “Do you come by your strength naturally?”

  “As far as I know.” He stretched a few times and then began unloading the wood. “How about I unload it from the wagon and you stack?”

  Working together, they transferred the firewood from the wagon into the shed. It took less than an hour. Eton Sward brought out a jug of water and Bander dragged the wagon back to its original location.

  “I’m grateful, of course, but just because you helped me with some firewood doesn’t mean I’m obligated to go chasing after some mythical temple,” Eton Sward said.

  “Think about it. That’s all I ask. We’ll be back in the morning to return the book.” Bander drank a few cups of water and took his leave.

  As he walked back to the village, the last rays of afternoon sun peeked over the tree-line, illuminating the river and making its surface sparkle like gold. He decided to strip off his clothes and wash himself off.

  The water was frigid, so he was in and out as quickly as possible. Then he found a boulder that was still warm from the sun and sat there until he was reasonably dry.

  Back at Mrs. Heffring’s place, Bander smelled the aroma of stew boiling and bread baking.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, noticing his wet hair.

  “A little dip in the river.”

  “There’s tonguefish in there. It’s dangerous.”

  “And you were going to send me fishing?” He smiled.

  “Not in the river. In the lake.”

  “Well, nothing bothered me.”

  “You were lucky. Come, sit yourself down here next to the stove. You must be freezing. Let me pour you a glass of riga, will you?”

  “Only if you join me.”

  Mrs. Heffring brought out a dusty bottle and two small crystal glasses. She poured the dark red wine and handed Bander a glass.

  He raised it to her and thanked her. The riga was potent and rich-tasting. Normally he wasn’t a fan of fortified wine, but he appreciated the warmth that rose up from his belly after drinking it.

  “Tell me, Bander, how are you finding our little town?”

  “Very nice. You were right. The river walk was beautiful.”

  “I know. The birds are fascinating. One of the things I love most about living near the river. Almost makes the spring floods tolerable.” She took another sip of riga. “And where do you hail from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Here and there. I lived for many years in Rundlun.”

  “The Luminous City.”

  “Yes. Have you been?”

  “Never had the pleasure. Always wanted to visit, but it’s a long way from here.”

  “Not too long,” Bander said. “Less than two weeks by river boat.”

  “That’s a long way for me.”

  They chatted for a half hour or so, then Mrs. Heffring checked on the stew and the bread.

  “Just about done,” she said. “Why don’t you tell Valthar to pull his nose out of that book and come down to the dining room and we’ll all have a civilized meal.”

  Upstairs, Bander found Valthar in almost exactly in the same position as when he had left him. His friend had placed the bright crystal in a candle holder and was studying the book under its glow.

  “Well?” Bander asked.

  “Well what?”

  “Does Burritch have anything to say about your temple?”

  “I haven’t gotten to that part as yet.”

  “Well, you’ll have to read faster—after dinner. Mrs. Heffring wants you to come down.”

  “Can’t you just bring me up a plate?”

  “No. It would be impolite.”

  Grudgingly Valthar marked his place in the book and slowly stood, his bones audibly creaking.

  “What did you do all day?” Valthar asked.

  “Not much. Wandered.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “Paid a return visit to Eton Sward.”

  “What?”

  “I helped him move some firewood.”

  “And?”

  “And we chatted.”

  “You are trying my patience, oaf!”

  “We discussed the Guild and what might happen when Bryn Eresthar dissolves it.”

  “You mean if he dissolves it.”

  “Likely he will. You know Bryn. He’s a willful man.”

  “Stubborn as a goat. What did Sward say?”

  “He said that he might be open to joining our expedition.”

  “He did?” Valthar turned quickly, surprise registering on his face.

  “We’ll need to speak with him further in the morning.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t know you had a mind for parlaying. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you all these years.”

  “Don’t get excited. It wasn’t much of a parlay.”

  They had a pleasant dinner with Mrs. Heffring, then Bander helped clean the dishes while Valthar returned to the Burritch book. He was still deep into it when Bander came up and stretched out on one of the beds.

  Bander knew better than to interrupt his friend, so he closed his eyes and within thirty seconds he was asleep.

  Bander awoke to a sun-filled room. Valthar was still at his desk, nose in book.

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  “What? No.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet,” Valthar said. “This is my fifth reading and, I have to confess, things are blurring together.”

  “You need a break.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “When you get to the point where you can’t even remember what you’ve just been reading, you need a break.”

  “I am a little hungry.”

  “Good,” Bander said. “Let’s get some food and then go fishing.”

  “My old ears must be failing,” Valthar said. “You didn’t actually say ‘fishing,’ did you?”

  “Mrs. Heffring needs tornat.”

  “Well, you can go catch her some, then. I need to crack this thing.”

  Bander eased himself out of bed and began his morning stretches. “I can’t fish. No talent for it. But I’ll row. Come on. It will be fun.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It turned out that the village Harnotis Kodd wanted Mortam Rowe and Keave to visit was called Irfals and it was an hour or two east of the Steading—which was easy to get to and easy to find a mage in. His source mentioned an old archeological site on the edge of the village. Some tower or temple. Exactly the sort of place where the Guild might shunt someone like Eton Sward.

  Early the next morning, Keave opened a portal to the Steading, and they secured some horses from a livery on the edge of the city.

  “I’m hungry,” Keave announced as they began riding east.

  “We had a sizable morning meal, already. Have you forgotten, my friend?”

  “That was in Lhawster. We’re in the Steading now.”

  Long ago Mortam Rowe had come to accept the fact that Keave’s odd habits and quirks were something he would never fully understand. He just had to accept them.

  “I’ll tell you what, this village we’re traveling to is only an hour and a half away. And I understand that they have a wonderful inn there.”

  “Will they have aebols?”

  “I’m nearly certain that they will. Everyone loves an aebol, do they not?”

  The tree-lined road was straight and flat and they made good time, riding past fallow fields and pastures dotted with sheep. The weather was much milder down here in the Steading, so after a half hour or so, Mortam Rowe stowed his jacket in his saddlebag.

  They rode past a few wagons on the road and reached the village without incident. Although he had never been to Irfals before, Mortam Rowe had passed through hundreds of villages just like it. There was a crossroads with everything you might expect: a livery, a wheelwright, a blacksmith, a cobbler, a general provisioner, and a tavern. Everything except an inn.

  “It smells wonderful here,” Keave said. “Is that the aebol?”

  Mortam Rowe took a deep breath. The smell of baking bread filled the cool morning air.

  “I believe someone is baking bread. Perhaps that shop over there. That might be even better than aebol for us. Nothing beats a loaf of bread right from the oven.”

  The baker was a man so very thin it was obvious that he did not partake of his own creations. Yet he was agreeable enough and sold them a loaf of oat bread and then some pebblecakes for later. He also was happy enough to furnish them with the whereabouts of Eton Sward. Apparently the mage lived in the ruins of an old temple on a hill overlooking the lake. The hill was no more than an hour away, the baker told them. If they followed the river road, they couldn’t miss it.

  Mrs. Heffring was delighted at the prospect of her larder being refilled with tornat. She packed Bander and Valthar a lunch and then Langer set them up with a clinker skiff, fishing equipment, and some bait.

  “You remember the spot, don’t you?” Langer asked Valthar.

  “It’s the only island in the lake. How could I miss it?”

  “It’s actually not the only island, but it’s the first one you’ll come to.”

  Valthar waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll find it.”

  “Keep right around the big snag. Keep going until you reach—”

  “I remember, you scrunt!”

  “Very well,” Langer said. “Just trying to help.”

  “You can help by fetching me an oilskin pouch!”

  Langer nodded and disappeared into one of the outbuildings. When he returned, he handed Valthar the pouch.

  Earlier Valthar had wrapped Eton Sward’s book in a piece of cloth and now he carefully placed the bundle in the pouch and tied it up.

  “Are you sure you want to bring that with us?” Bander asked.

  “You’ve obviously not familiar with the art of angling. Most of the time you are twiddling your thumbs. I intend to put my time to good use. You’d be wise to do the same.”

  A few minutes later, they set off upstream, with Bander paddling and Valthar sitting in the bow. The river was slow-moving and the skiff sharp and narrow so Bander barely broke a sweat paddling. It actually felt good to stretch out his muscles.

  Within an hour they had made it past the hill with the temple and down to the lake which was a misty serpentine body ringed with vast reedy marshes. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at their destination. It was a muddy little island no bigger than Eton Sward’s cottage. A long time ago someone had built a little dock and a fishing bench. Bander imagined it would be comfortable enough to spend a few hours here.

  Valthar stepped out of the skiff and climbed up on the dock, complaining of his aching joints all the while. They tied up the skiff and transported the gear up to the dock.

  On the dock Bander stretched out his arms and shoulders and took a look around. There wasn’t much to see on the island itself. Besides the dock and bench there was a little stone ring fire-pit filled with burnt branches and some fish bones. But, as he turned to take in the vista, he saw that they had a good view of the Temple of Dreams, three hundred feet up on the hill overlooking the lake.

  “I wonder if Eton Sward can see you with his book out here,” Bander mused. “If he could, I doubt he would be happy.”

  “Knowing Sward, he’s probably still asleep. He’s a bit of a night owl.”

  Valthar set up his fishing rod, baited the hook, and cast the line out in the water.

  “There you go, my friend. Watch that bobber. If it moves, pull the fish in.”

  “What?”

  “Now you know everything I know about fishing. Don’t bother me. I need to read.”

  With that he removed Burritch’s Travels from the pouch, along with his journal book and a writing set, and began to study.

  Bander made himself comfortable and alternated keeping an eye on the bobber with watching a pair of kosherds winging low over the lake’s surface, hunting for their next meal.

  He got his first fish nibble less than an hour later—the quick tug on the line surprising him. He yanked back, but the fish obviously was more savvy than Bander and released the bait without hooking itself.

  Valthar told him to check the end of the line, and sure enough the bait was gone.

  Score one for the tornat.

  He reapplied the bait and swung the line out. The bobber landed considerably closer to the dock than Valthar’s cast.

  “It’s fine,” Valthar said. “Just keep your eye on that bobber. If you get a bite, let the fish hook itself.”

  “How’s the book?”

  “The same as it was yesterday. The same as it was last night. And the same as it was this morning.”

  “Maybe it would help to discuss it.”

  “I doubt it,” Valthar said.

  “What could it hurt? Describe what you are reading.”

  Valthar sighed. “You know who Burritch was?”

  “Famous explorer.”

  “More than that. Rodan Scarfin Burritch was also an adventurer, cartographer, spy, and diplomat. He was the first Imperial citizen to reach Querrin by an overland route. He spoke twelve languages, including several Tengan tongues—and lived with two tribes for many years. He founded the Malverton Trading Company and the trading post, of course.”

  “Busy man.”

  “A man who made something of himself,” Valthar said.

  “And I gather this book, his Travels, is about his discovery of Querrin?”

  “No, that is another—called Querrin or The Road to Querrin or some such.”

  That made sense to Bander. Querrin was a large ancient city at the southern tip of the continent. Until Burritch, the only men who had visited Querrin were sea explorers. The discovery of an overland route certainly merited its own book.

  Valthar continued, “Travels is about his first foray into the Wilderlands in 1210, when Burritch was a young man.”

  “That’s when he found the Temple of Fate?”

  “Apparently so. He didn’t mention it by name, of course.”

  “Then how do you know he found the temple?”

  “He described it, of course. Burritch was very detailed in his accounts. Almost pedantic.”

  “My kind of man,” Bander said. “Go on.”

  Valthar thumbed through the book until he located the proper place. “So it appears in the spring of 1211, Burritch and his expedition were looking for a western route through the mountains west of Lake Horbadin.”

  “Which mountains?”

  “They hadn’t been named yet, but it was the Crantochs. They found a valley and near the mouth of the valley were a group of structures up on the hillside.”

  “And?”

  “And, I believe one of those structures is the Temple of Fate.”

  “Because of the description?”

  “Judge for yourself.”

  Valthar read aloud:

  At last we dismounted and saw before us a tall cliff, with exposed marra rock, green and sand-colored.

  Wabsel and Jinton Holm exhibited some excitement at the prospect of the cliffs producing targastine, but as we drew closer and studied the striations more intently, it became clear that the marra was more of the same rock we had seen in the foothills. Worthless.

  Seeking water for the horses, one of the bearers entered a canyon offshoot from the main valley. With a great cry he called for us. I was the first to arrive and immediately spotted a group of manmade structures on the ridge.

  An ascent led us over a jagged hill with a precipitous face and steep drops, but we were able to gain the summit in less than an hour. There I began to survey the structures, of which there were three in number.

  The largest of the edifices was situated at the top of the ridge in a general east and west direction, with its entrance positioned to the east. It reminded me of the Chapel at Aravat.

  Bander interrupted Valthar. “That seems like a big clue right there.”

  “You would compare what Burritch found to this chapel at Aravat?”

  “Yes. If this Aravat—wherever it is—resembles any of the existing temples, that would be significant.”

  “It certainly would be,” Valthar said. “Alas, Aravat is no more. Neither the village nor the chapel. It was destroyed during the Great Earthquake of 1403. Slipped off the side of the cliff it had been built upon.”

  “Perhaps that is why I don’t remember it. Any paintings exist?”

  “I doubt it. By all accounts, it was a rather unremarkable village. Just an overnight stop on the road between Old Lausk and Dredmath.”

  “Still good news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If this is the right temple, it’s not buried under fifty feet of jungle. Because of the elevation. It might have been destroyed by lightning or scattered by winds, but something should be left—even after two thousand years.”

  Valthar’s eyes brightened. “You’re right. I never thought of that.” He held up the book. “Next Burritch’s expedition explores all the buildings. The two smaller ones were storehouses for grain or some such. I’m going to skip to the most the interesting part now.”

 
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