The temple of fate, p.14
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The Temple of Fate, page 14

 part  #5 of  Bander Series

 

The Temple of Fate
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  “That I have. At least what’s left of it.”

  “Which is?”

  “A story for another day.”

  She stood up, ready to dismiss Bander. He remained seated. “It’s only been seven minutes.”

  “How do you know that, then?”

  “I’m good with such things.”

  She sat down again. “All right. I’ll give you the one minute version. The chapel in question is basically a big pile of rubble. No wall stands more than ten feet. The tower is completely destroyed. The outbuildings are gone as well. You can’t even tell where most of them stood.”

  “Has the area been excavated?”

  “Whatever for? Didn’t you read Travels? The chapel had been thoroughly looted before Burritch set foot inside. The only thing of note I remember seeing was the altar—and it’s far too big to move.”

  Bander thought for a moment. Then he said, “Nonetheless, my employers wish to see the structure for themselves.”

  “Why?”

  “They are interested in certain architectural elements and believe that the chapel may be related to some other buildings they have been studying.”

  “Well, good luck finding it then,” Talessa Kreed said, rising from the couch.

  “How about you take us there?” Bander stood up. It would have been impolite to remain seated.

  Talessa Kreed ignored the question. “Nice to have met you, Bander. Good day.”

  “We can pay,” he said quickly. “We can pay well.” He dug into his belt pouch.

  She turned, but then hesitated. “How well?”

  He handed her one of Valthar’s aonae. “Extremely well.”

  Talessa Kreed told Bander that she needed two days to prepare, and her terms were very strict. Just him and his two employers on the boat. No servants. No guards. No weapons. She’d provide provisions and equipment, so only one knapsack each. They would have just one day at the ruins. Any longer than that and they would have to find their own way home.

  He agreed and she instructed him where to meet two days hence. Then the whistling sailor rowed him across the river.

  Back at the inn, Valthar and Eton Sward swarmed him with questions, and then as the news of Bander’s success with Talessa Kreed sunk in, they began jumping around like children, slapping each other’s backs, and whooping their heads off.

  “Quiet,” Bander said. “You can celebrate once we actually get there.”

  “He’s right,” Valthar said. He sat down on the edge of one of the beds. “This all went down too easily, don’t you think? I’m not entirely sure I trust this slapper.”

  “Why is that, Devil Dog?” Eton Sward asked. “Is it because she’s a scoundrel of the highest order? A swindler? A blackguard?”

  “No,” Valthar said. “It’s just that we don’t know why the wench has been collecting aonae all these years.”

  “Perhaps she has knowledge that we do not,” Eton Sward said.

  “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to ask her questions,” Bander said. “I’m estimating it’s over a hundred miles to Lake Horbadin. And that’s the easy part of the journey.”

  “Are you trying to scare us off, then?” Eton Sward asked.

  “Not at all. I want to make sure you understand what you’re in for.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I don’t like it here,” Keave grunted.

  “I don’t like it much, either,” Mortam Rowe said.

  “Too crowded.”

  “Agreed.”

  “The air is funny.”

  “Yes, it is, my friend. It’s quite humid.”

  “My clothes are sticky—and I didn’t even spill anything on them.”

  “Indeed.”

  Five days ago Mortam Rowe and Keave had set off from Vale on horseback. The ride wasn’t particularly arduous. The trade road was flat and wide and someone had done a decent job of keeping the underbrush cut back. Surprisingly, the vegetation was no less dense than were the forests outside of Lhawster. In fact, they hadn’t encountered much of a jungle until this morning, when they arrived on the outskirts of the Malverton Trading Post.

  Now Mortam Rowe and Keave were pushing their way through what appeared to be a haphazardly-constructed slum on the edge of a turbid river teeming with insects and smelling like a sewer. The rickety buildings were stacked one one top of another, canting at odd angles, and all looking like they were were just a strong breeze away from collapsing. Malverton was a quite a bit larger than Mortam Rowe had imagined. The trading post appeared to be the size of a small city.

  Most of the inhabitants on the streets were pale white Tengans—skinny and stunted to Mortam Rowe’s eye. Despite the fact that they were packed together as close as the buildings, but no one seemed to care much. They just jostled and squeezed and swarmed like so many ants on an anthill.

  “Can we leave now?” Keave asked.

  “I’m afraid not, my friend. We have business to attend to.”

  “Where?”

  “Why, here, of course. Well, in another neighborhood, to be certain. They call it ‘the Elbow,’ apparently.”

  The Elbow was a residential district to the southeast. According to the merchant who had given him directions, the neighborhood jutted out like the elbow of a woman with her hand on her hip.

  It was slow going through the noisy, crowded streets. Even with Keave forging a path through the throngs, it took them a half hour to make their way to the Elbow and then another ten minutes to find their destination, a three-story house on the edge of a circular park.

  Mortam Rowe made a face. The park looked completely out of place in this jumbled mess of a city. And what was the purpose of it? It made no sense. The whole of the Wilderlands was a park.

  Oh well.

  He consulted the book where he had scrawled notes about how to find their contact. Harnotis Kodd had not provided them with transport down to Malverton, but he had provided them with a name and a location.

  The location turned out to be a cramped apartment that smelled like cooked fish and the man turned out to be tall and skeletal. His name was Dartminter Rigg and it appeared that he was willing to sell out his mistress for exactly thirteen uncut cloud diamonds and whatever else Kodd had promised him.

  “And did you see the aona with your own eyes?” Mortam Rowe asked.

  Dartminter Rigg shook his head. “I did. He dangled it like a worm in front of a fel fish.”

  “But it was enough to hire the boat?”

  “And mistress herself.”

  Mortam Rowe thought for a moment. They could seize Leocald Grannt before he boarded, drag him away, and take the aona—which he’d certainly have on his possession in order to pay for the expedition. Then slit the sellsword’s throat and teleport back to Lhawster. In and out. That would be, by far, the most expedient course of action.

  But something nagged at him. Curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps something else.

  “And you don’t know where exactly they are going?”

  “No,” Dartminter Rigg said. “All I know is that Talessa Kreed asked me to fetch her some maps of the Lower Crantochs.”

  “The mountains?”

  “Aye.”

  “And how does a boat sail into the mountains?”

  “It doesn’t. The closest she could get is Lake Horbadin. They will have to proceed on foot.”

  A trek through the jungle. But why?

  “Are they meeting someone?” Mortam Rowe asked.

  “Not that I know of. To be honest, I have only been her adjutant for less than half a year. I don’t think she fully trusts me.”

  “With good reason, it appears.”

  Dartminter Rigg went silent.

  Mortam Rowe looked up at the ceiling, which appeared to have a ring of mold growing on it. Rigg had told him that the entire expedition was expected to take a week. That meant three and a half days there and three and a half back. Or three there and four back if sailing upstream took a bit longer. In any case, it wasn’t particularly far. Especially if he and Keave didn’t have to actually make the journey.

  He couldn’t pass up this opportunity. There was something bigger going on here. He felt it.

  Mortam Rowe reached into his pack and withdrew a gem and placed it on the table. “This isn’t for you,” he said and tapped the gem for good measure.

  Dartminter Rigg’s eyes narrowed. “Sir?”

  “I need you to hide this in Talessa Kreed’s bag. Preferably sewn in. It must be with her at all times. Do you understand?”

  “I think so. There is a map satchel from her father. A prized possession. She’ll take it for sure.”

  “Good.”

  Dartminter Rigg picked up the gem and examined it. “Waypoint gem?”

  “Yes. It will allow us to find them once they arrive at their destination. We will be able to teleport directly there.”

  “But you will not harm Talessa Kreed? That was our deal.”

  Touching.

  “No, we have no quarrel with your mistress. Only with the sellsword.”

  The lie seemed to satisfy Dartminter Rigg. They spent a few more minutes finalizing their arrangements and then Mortam Rowe and Keave took their leave—heading back into the stinking city.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bander spent the next couple of days making preparations. While he saw to the details of gathering maps and supplies, getting boots stretched, and cloaks patched, Valthar and Eton Sward were content to remain back at the inn. Every time he returned to their room, Bander found the two men endlessly discussing the minutiae of everything from whether the columns of the time temples had more Gaosic signifiers or Serlion signifiers—to speculation about the specific knowledge required to erect comparable temples.

  It was a relief to get out of that room. In between errands Bander walked the city and let his mind wander. One afternoon he was surprised to come across a bookseller’s shop amidst the buttonmakers, old-clothes dealers, spicers, and basketmakers.

  It was a small shop, but the proprietor was a friendly looking man with a well-trimmed beard and clever-looking eyes.

  “Welcome, traveler. My name is Dunegan. May I help you find something?”

  “How do you know that I am a traveler?”

  The bookseller grinned at him. “By the look of your tawny skin, mostly. Spend any length of time in the Territories and a man’s skin pales like a ghost.”

  Bander nodded. “I am from Rundlun.”

  “Sellsword?”

  “Yes. Minding a few moldy old scholars down here.”

  “Ah, the best kind. Yet you are a learned man, I see? More apt to visit a bookstore than a gambling den?”

  “My entire life is a gamble. I have other ways to amuse myself.”

  “I feel the same way. That’s why we have art. And literature, of course. Are you a reader?”

  “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  “Good, good. I have the latest Darkin book, The Broken Pentacle. Just came in. You like Darkin?”

  “Never read him.”

  “Oh, but you must. It is a wondrous saga. I just wish he wouldn’t take so long between books.”

  “Actually, do you have anything by Jinton Holm?” Bander asked.

  “Ah, a man fond of the classics, are you? Quite admirable. Especially in this day and age. Not many people bother with the greats. Everyone wants the lurid tales of impossibly wealthy lords who fall for lowly barmaids, or the lucky lad who finds himself with a veritable harem of young wenches.”

  “That’s not to my taste.”

  “Nor mine,” Dunegan said. “Sadly, however, to keep my doors open I must cater to the whims of the book buying public. I’d wager you are the only soul in Malverton with even the faintest interest in old Jinton Holm. Wouldn’t make sense to carry his books, I’m afraid. Not good for business.”

  “So you don’t have any?”

  “None for sale, I fear.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, good sir, that the only words penned by Holm are the three volumes in my private library. And they are, sadly, not for sale. However, might I recommend The Girl Who Became Lost in Herself by Alders Menn. The language is quite poetic.”

  “Thank you, but no.” Bander turned to leave. “Are there any libraries here where I might find some Jinton Holm books?”

  “The Slears keep a well-stocked library, but they are not very friendly to strangers. And most of their books are just for show. They pay a bookbinder in Vale to replace the spines of popular books with the classics in order to impress their guests. You may well find what appears to be a volume of Jinton Holm’s poetry, but when you open it, you’ll be reading the lusty tale of a morose young girl who falls in love with both a vampire and a werewolf.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Out of curiosity, which of Holm’s books were you interested in? Eternity Undone, maybe?”

  “I’m not exactly sure of the title,” Bander said. “I was reading Burritch’s Travels and he mentioned Jinton Holm.”

  “You have a copy of Travels? I’m impressed. There must be only a dozen copies in the entire empire.”

  “It wasn’t my book, of course.”

  “Still,” Dunegan said. “If you happen to still have access to the book, I know some buyers who would pay dearly—”

  “It’s not mine to sell. In any case, reading Burritch made me think of Jinton Holm.”

  “Well, reportedly the two men were as thick as thieves.”

  “I just wondered if Holm was inspired by his explorations of the Wilderlands—”

  Dunegan’s expression brightened. “Holm was indeed inspired. He wrote The Masque of Ornecal upon returning to Rundlun after his year-long journey with Burritch.”

  Bander fixed the title in his mind. The Masque of Ornecal. “Do you have it?” he asked.

  “Matter of fact, I do. But I told you. It’s not for sale.”

  “What if I don’t buy it?”

  Dunegan took one step back, nervous.

  “No, I mean, what if I borrow it from you? For a fee, of course.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I just need it for a day. Not even a full day. A few hours most likely.” Bander named an amount that was particularly generous.

  The bookseller’s eyes drifted up as he thought about it. Then he said, “I’ll do it under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You may read the book right here in my shop. I’ve got a chair in the back room where I do all my own reading—especially when business is slow. I’ll even throw in a mug of Squire's Choice.”

  Bander was more of a moxa drinker than a tea drinker, but it was so incredibly damp out that anything warm would be welcome.

  “Agreed. The only thing I need is a writing kit so I may make a note of my favorite passages.”

  “You’re not intending to copy the entire book are you, because that is certainly not permitted.”

  “Of course not.”

  Dunegan told him where he could purchase writing supplies nearby. “The tea will be ready and The Masque of Ornecal set out by the time you return.”

  Bander took his leave, found the mercantile where he bought what he needed. Then he returned to Dunegan’s shop and was escorted to the back room, which was its own small library. A compact desk and a few chairs where the only thing in the room besides the many shelves groaning under the weight of Dunegan’s collection.

  The bookseller had set out a thin leather-bound volume with the embossed title The Masque of Ornecal—as well as a cup of tea.

  Bander paid the man and eased himself behind the desk.

  “I’ll check on you in a few hours. Mind you don’t splatter ink on the book, will you?”

  “I’m an exceptionally careful man.”

  “As am I, sir. As am I.”

  Once Dunegan departed, Bander examined the slim volume of poetry. According to the Introduction, this book was an exact reprint of the original which had been published in 1211. He scanned the contents: The Song of Daunas the Elder, On the Vanishing of a Fair Lass, A Morning Sonnet, The Fourth Ring of Cyriac, Light Denied, Ode to Morrice Redbeard, On the Shift of Storms, Dorica Through the Ages, Venir, Apologies of a Rustic Hero, My Hand in Effigy, Do I Mourn Jonam on the Arcade of Radiance, and The Masque of Ornecal.

  Nothing jumped out at Bander, so he started at the beginning and read through each of the poems. He stopped when he got to Venir. The poem very well could have been about Jinton Holm’s experience spending the night in the temple.

  In the hall of blood, I lay on a stone hewn of night

  And the shroud of sacred sleep enveloped me

  Athwart shadows foul and blight

  Enfolded me to a wailing world

  ’Twas Venir, an isle lost and dark

  Where raging storms are born

  And mindless winds blow stark

  Scattering hope across a sunless sea

  There I saw a fane grown blighted and tall

  Like a sicklebush with poisoned blossoms

  And inside a woman wearing a purple caul

  Her eyes hard and cold like emeralds

  She walked me through a measureless cave

  And decreed fragments of her lost prayer

  While a mazy path through a vaulted grave

  Beckoned like a seething maw

  Beneath the starry threshold of Wanden’s dome

  She did meander, the night creeper, beckoning

  Along the dusty hall, engraved in the loam

  A shining track to the palace of eternity

  And when she leaned close to speak her name

  I saw upon her breast a silver moon

  Casting its gleam as a tempting flame

  Then she whispered, Ahania, Ahania, Ahania!

  It was all there, the account in Travels. The hall of blood—referring to the blood-red rock the temple was made of. Falling asleep on the altar. Some very odd dreams. And, most significantly of all, the woman in the poem was wearing a silver crescent necklace: an aona to be sure.

  Bander quickly began to transcribe the poem, and as he wrote, he pondered who this Ahania might be. While he was waiting for the ink to dry, he read through the remaining poems in the book, but none seemed to have any connection to the temple and there was no further mention of Ahania.

 
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