The temple of fate, p.6
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The Temple of Fate, page 6

 part  #5 of  Bander Series

 

The Temple of Fate
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  “Came here?”

  “Yes, of course they came here. I’m in no shape to travel to lost isles.”

  Bander nodded. “I was hoping it might all work out.”

  “It didn’t all work out,” Valthar said. “The Witches took in the girl. They didn’t want anything to do with her mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was too old. Too uncontrolled. And they probably sensed her true nature.”

  “Wylla is a good woman.”

  “Maybe a good lay.”

  “Watch it.”

  Bander took a sip of his moxa. Wylla was completely devoted to Jillen. He had seen that with his own eyes. It must have been very difficult for her to surrender her daughter to the Witches. A big sacrifice. But she probably knew that it was just a matter of time before the Guild found Jillen. And between the girl’s abilities and what she had witnessed with Haddon Fane, Jillen was looking at spending the rest of her life in a relorcan prison cell. At least now she had a chance to live free.

  “Where’s Wylla?” Bander asked.

  “How should I know? Do I look like a locestra? Besides, the snakes were coming out that week. I was a bit distracted.”

  “What snakes?”

  “The snakes that live in the old cairn. Redbelly and his ilk.”

  “Redbelly’s a snake, I gather?” Bander asked.

  “He’s their king.”

  “And what does this have to do with anything?”

  Valthar’s eyes narrowed. “When the snakes emerge from the rocks, it means the sun has shifted. Enough to make a difference at least. Redbelly is a harbinger.”

  Bander had been through this before. Valthar sometimes would go off on weird tangents. Half the time he didn’t know what his friend was talking about.

  Neither of them spoke for a minute or two, then Valthar struggled to rise from his chair.

  “Help me, you cur!”

  Bander grabbed Valthar’s arm and gently pulled him to his feet. His friend was so light it was like he was made out of paper.

  “I need a nap,” Valthar said. “I had a long night.”

  “Tell me what happened to Wylla.”

  Valthar reached for his walking stick. “She stayed around for another few months. I think she was waiting for you. Then, one day, I woke up and she was gone. No note. I have no idea where she went. End of the story.”

  With that, he shuffled off towards the stairs. “If you go out,” Valthar called. “Stay within sight of the house. I can’t be responsible if you don’t.”

  Bander did go out. He needed to be out in the sun. Valthar’s house was cold and dark and drafty. It was souring his mood.

  He walked east along the wide path leading away from the lodge, then turned south where Valthar kept a vegetable garden and some chickens. Or at least he used to. There was no sign of them now.

  The land was fairly clear around the lodge, but a hundred yards away was a dark forest that provided firewood, mushrooms, and the occasional deer.

  Halfway between the garden area and the edge of the forest, Bander spotted the old cairn that Valthar had mentioned. He didn’t bother walking over to the cairn. It was much too cold for snakes.

  Instead he strolled to the north end of the property where a small twisty brook rambled. Bander picked out a good sitting boulder nearby and made himself comfortable. The sound of the brook was comforting, but his memories of Wylla weren’t.

  Normally, regret wasn’t something that Bander ever felt much of. He had always tried to live his life a certain way. He did his job without complaining, was naturally inclined to look after the people who needed some help, and he had no problem standing up to those who tried to take advantage of others. His life was about what was right and what was wrong.

  But still…

  He had made some decisions that turned out to be not so clear cut. He thought back to Wylla.

  Had she loved him?

  Maybe.

  But maybe she had just needed a protector. And he had done that job. No question about that. At the end of the bad business at Hytwen, she was safe and sound. So was Jillen. And they were together. That was the important thing to Wylla. It had always been the important thing.

  Bander looked at the brook, watched as the sun glistened off the water.

  He had offered. He remembered that.

  She’s the one who had said no. Called him a vagrant, but said it with a smile. Wylla made it clear that she didn’t want that kind of life for her daughter.

  So they parted.

  And being a vagrant or a wanderer—or whatever he was—meant that his eyes were on the road in front of him. Not the road behind him.

  He could take comfort in knowing he was being true to himself.

  But it still hurt.

  Chapter Twelve

  When he pushed open the red door to the lodge, Bander smelled bread baking. He made his way to the kitchen where he discovered Valthar hunched over the table, his hands and forearms white with flour.

  “What are you making?” Bander asked.

  “Stuffed bread.”

  “Stuffed with what?”

  “That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” Valthar cackled.

  “That witticism has seen better days.”

  “So have I, my son, so have I.”

  “I trust your nap was productive?” Bander asked.

  “Quite. I dreamt of my uncle in Laketon.”

  “I assume this was one of your ancient uncles who has been dead for a thousand years.”

  “Show some respect for a legendary king, you savage. I don’t know when Krili died or if he died at all. For all I know, he is still striding this land, a giant among gnomes. He was always a god to me.”

  From the very first moment Bander and his team had rescued him from some sort of stasis trap in a temple deep in the Wilderlands, Valthar had maintained he was from the year 729—which was nearly 1,000 years ago. He also claimed that he was of the House of Forn and his father was none other than the fabled hero Klothar.

  “Well, I’ve got something that might take your mind off your dreams for a bit,” Bander said. He took one of Valthar’s kitchen knives and went to work on the secret pocket at his collar.

  “So you are going to slit your throat right in front of me? That is your distraction? I knew you were a miserable wretch, but—”

  “No, I brought you a present,” Bander said.

  “What?”

  “This.” Bander handed Valthar the crescent pendant.

  Immediately, his friend’s eyes widened.

  “Oh my!” he gasped. He frantically flipped the silver crescent over and squinted at it. “My cursed eyes,” he muttered. “Follow!”

  Valthar hobbled out of the kitchen, moving faster that Bander had ever seen him move. They ended up in the cluttered library off the main office, where Valthar frantically lit a candle and then demanded that Bander help him by lighting all the other candles in the room in addition to two large lamps.

  While Bander set up illuminating the room, Valthar busied himself at the cold fireplace. He reached one bony hand up into the chimney.

  “What are you doing?” Bander asked.

  It looked like Valthar was hunting around for something. After several minutes of cursing, Valthar let out a deep breath of relief and made his way over to the work table. He swept away papers and books and bits of bone and shell to make room from what he had extracted from the chimney. It was an ornately carved wooden box, no bigger than a man’s hand, and inlaid with a maze of decorative metal lace.

  “What is that?” Bander asked.

  “My collection. The box shields it from those who would pry or pilfer.”

  Valthar blew off the dust and cobwebs from the box and traced his fingers around its edges. He turned it over and pressed various points of the carved design. Then he returned the box to the table and took a step away from it.

  “You may want to avert your eyes. Just in case.”

  Bander didn’t know if his friend was mocking him, but he didn’t take any chances. He moved away from the table and turned his head.

  A loud click echoed throughout the library and when Bander turned back to the table, Valthar was removing three small cloth bags from the box. From each of the bags, he withdrew a small object and placed it on the table beside the crescent Bander had given him.

  As Bander drew closer, he saw what exactly Valthar had kept in the box.

  They were silver crescents, three in all, identical to the one he brought. Not exactly identical. Bander noticed that some of the crescents curved to the left while others curved to the right.

  “What is this collection?” Bander asked.

  “Aonae,” Valthar said as he rifled through a cabinet beside the desk.

  “And what is an aonae?”

  “Aonae is plural. Singular is aona. And it’s what you brought me.”

  “You are speaking in circles, my friend.”

  “No, I am speaking in crescents,” Valthar cackled. He found a large brass magnifying glass and used it to study the crescent Bander had brought him.

  “Even a cursory explanation would be welcome,” Bander said.

  “Stop your prattling. Can’t you see I am trying to concentrate?”

  Valthar muttered to himself and continued to peer through the glass. He jotted down notes on a wax tablet as he examined the crescent—or aona—as it was more properly called. His excitement grew moment after moment until finally he clapped Bander on the shoulder with a big grin on his face.

  “You did it, you oaf! You brought me something I’ve spent the last quarter century looking for! I can’t believe it! We must celebrate! Fetch some wine from the cellar while I verify the markings.”

  “Only if you tell me what exactly these things are.”

  “Yes, yes.” Valthar waved him away. “Of course, I’ll tell you. After all, I will require your assistance on the next phase of this adventure.”

  It was only later, after Valthar had completed his study of the aona, that Bander received answers to his questions. Some of his questions.

  “It’s a map of sorts,” Valthar said, taking a celebratory gulp of wine.

  Bander thought about the minute markings on the back of the amulet. “A map to what?”

  “For me, the way back. To my own time.”

  Valthar was starting up with his time travel story again. Even though it was tiresome, Bander decided to let his friend proceed.

  “From my research, I’ve gathered that the temples have a room—the Nave—which is like a path,” Valthar said. “A path through time. If one possesses the correct aona, one can traverse the temple path and walk out in another time. If not, one becomes trapped in the temple in another time. Stuck. Like you found me.”

  “Temple?” Bander asked. “Like the Temple of Tamoa?”

  “Exactly.”

  Thirty years ago, Bander, Bryn Eresthar, Tobin Leroth, Hirbo Thrang, and Vala had been hired to recover a statuette from its resting place in the jungle city of Tamoa in the Tenga Wilderlands. There they came across Valthar, trapped in an underground chamber.

  Bander sighed. That was such a different time in his life. It was odd to think about it now.

  Valthar rummaged through his bookshelves until he found a scroll case. From it, he unrolled a parchment map of greater Harion and spread the map on the table.

  “Over the years, I’ve found references to four temples throughout the land. The one in Tamoa was called the Temple of Curses. Three hundred miles north of that, near Vale, is the Temple of the Ages, and three hundred miles north of that is the Temple of Dreams.”

  “Four. You said there were four.”

  Valthar nodded. “No one knows much about the forth one: the Temple of Fate. Supposedly it lies deep in the jungle, somewhere southwest of Tamoa. That’s where we need to go.”

  Bander snorted a laugh. “Impossible. The jungle is too dense south of Tamoa.”

  “It’s the only one that could have an intact Nave. Besides, I don’t have a choice. I’ve been looking for an aona like this for decades.”

  “They all look the same to me—except some point left, and some point right.”

  “Yes, that is the obvious difference. But the more important difference lies in the markings on the back. Come look through the glass.”

  Bander did so, and Valthar showed him what to look for. What appeared as almost random scratches to the naked eye were revealed, under the magnifying glass, to be a complex and very much ordered design. Bander couldn’t make sense of the symbols, but apparently Valthar could.

  “This was the first aona I acquired. If I used it within a time nave, I would emerge in the year 1888.”

  “The future…?”

  “Yes, the future. But that’s of no interest to me. I want to return to my own time. These other two are keyed to the past, but one would take me to the year 445 and the other 1026. Useless.”

  “And the one I brought you?”

  “You did well, my friend,” Valthar said. “This aona will return me to the year 752. That’s a few decades after I first ventured into that accursed temple. Close enough so that I might lay eyes on my family again before I die.”

  “You believe this pendant will send you back nearly a thousand years?”

  “I know it will.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Thirty years of poring through ancient libraries, hunting down shreds of information about the aonae. Wandering the Empire, looking for stories or legends about time travel. Finding, buying, and stealing the aonae I have collected. And seven years of study to decipher their markings.”

  “That’s where you’ve been off to when you’d disappear for weeks at a time?”

  Valthar nodded. “My life’s work has been to find a way home. And now I’m right at the edge of victory. Thanks to you, you oaf!” He grinned.

  Bander still had a million questions, but Valthar wanted to get back to his bread.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After a dinner of capon, fried potatoes, and chestnut-stuffed bread, Valthar became even more talkative regarding the subject of the aonae and the time temples. There, sitting in front of the large fireplace in the hall, Bander asked about the origin of the time temples and the aonae.

  “I have no idea,” Valthar said. “The Temple of Curses was ancient when I found it in 729.”

  “How ancient?”

  “How should I know? I was a sniveling brat when I stepped foot into that accursed place. I had no sense of history, no knowledge of architecture or folklore. I was just an arrogant child, out to prove himself to his father.”

  “You said that the temple in Tamoa pre-dated that city. How do you know?” Bander asked.

  “Because Tamoa was being built when I entered the temple. It had been uncovered while workers were clearing the land. That’s why they sent for Tantelard. Surely you remember me telling you this?”

  “It’s been a long time since I heard that particular tale,” Bander admitted. He hadn’t paid much mind to Valthar’s ramblings after they pulled him from the temple. “Refresh my memory. I’m no longer a young man.”

  “Feldon, a young knight and a friend of mine, was a ward of my uncle’s at Laketon,” Valthar said. “His grandfather was Tantelard of Neotha, the arch-cleric.”

  The idea that Valthar had been alive back when people still worshipped gods struck Bander as exceedingly strange.

  “When Tantelard was called to the Wilderlands to investigate the excavated temple, Fenton, and I accompanied him. Neither of us had been so far south, and we thought we were going on a grand adventure. That first night at the camp, we snuck into the temple site, and ventured farther and farther into its depths. While Fenton was marveling at a treasure in a man-sized coffer we had found, I made the mistake of walking into what I thought was an empty room with murals painted on its walls.”

  “Yes, the murals ring a bell.”

  “They were landscapes of a rocky island. I’ll never forget them. But the room was not really empty. Not at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a Nave of Time. A path, like I told you.”

  “A literal path?”

  “No, you dolt. If you had stepped in the room, all you would have seen were the murals and the silver rails in the floor.”

  Bander vaguely remembered something about what appeared to be mine cart rails, two parallel strips of metal, set flush against the surface of the floor in the mural room.

  “Right,” he said. “So if you had held one of these aonae when you stepped into the mural room, you would have traveled through time? Is that correct?”

  “Yes, of course. Have you not been paying attention?”

  “I want to make sure I fully understand the mechanics here,” Bander said. “So since you did not have an aona, the Nave of Time, or the rails, or the mural, or whatever source of magic there was just held you there, like an ox caught in the mud?”

  “I feel like I am speaking with a child.” Valthar shook his head. “A dim one at that! Listen, if the Nave had just held me there, Tantelard would have rescued me and I wouldn’t be stuck in this forsaken time, would I? You know what happened.”

  Bander nodded. “Of course. You were propelled forward in time and then stuck like an ox in the mud.”

  “More like quicksand,” Valthar said. “If you hadn’t pulled me out, I’d still be there, no doubt.”

  The details were hazy, but Bander remembered using a combination of ropes and the spells of Hirbo Thrang and Tobin Leroth to extract the young Valthar from the mural room.

  It was a miracle that they had even found the room to begin with. After they had escaped from the pit trap, someone—he couldn’t remember who—had been checking the walls for more triggers and they had discovered a hollow section of wall. It was only by breaking it down did they discover the mural room and Valthar.

  When he reminded his friend of that particular detail, Valthar shrugged. “Who knows what Tantelard did after I had gone missing? Likely Fenton showed him the room and the arch-cleric ordered it sealed so that no one else might befall a similar fate as mine.”

 
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