The Temple of Fate, page 7
part #5 of Bander Series




Bander knew that years after Valthar had been rescued, his friend reluctantly scoured histories and accounts for some mention of himself. There hadn’t been much; just a few mentions of Klothar’s unnamed son being lost in the Tengan Wilderlands. Of course, Valthar had offered up these accounts to Bander and his team as proof that he was the son of Klothar, but no one really took him seriously.
In fact, Bander had never given a lot of credence to Valthar’s time travel story at all—until now.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
They talked well into the night and Valthar seemed more energetic and lucid than Bander had seen him in a long time. But it was clear that his friend had become fixated on a singular quest.
Valthar wanted to return to the Wilderlands and find the remaining temple. Then he wanted to use the aona to travel a thousand years back in time. And, of course, Valthar expected Bander to aid him in this quest.
“Certainly I will help you,” Bander said, draining the last of his wine. “You make preparations and once I return from Rundlun in the Spring, we will put together an expedition south into the jungle.”
Valthar’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “It’s clear that your brain has become addled, my son. Likely due to all those years of brawling.”
“What?”
“That is the only explanation for why you might suggest such idiocy as waiting until Spring before we go. That’s it, isn’t it? A brain injury.”
“I need to go to Rundlun and see Bryn.”
“Why? To recruit him? I doubt the Viceroy will have time to accompany us to the Wilderlands.”
“No, that’s not what I was thinking,” Bander said. “You’ve heard the heralds. You know what is transpiring.”
“The dissolution of the Mage Guild? Good, that’s long overdue. Reining in the city-states? Likewise. The man is doing his job. What’s your complaint?”
“Something’s not right and this isn’t like Bryn. He’s a wise man—maybe the wisest I know—”
Valthar cut him off. “Then stop second-guessing him. Eresthar knows what he’s doing and from where I stand, this clean sweep is long overdue. The Imperial Council was a morass of corruption. Asryn. Chiran Hemmig. Tad Stircas. Villains and traitors all. We should laud Eresthar for clearing the blight from Rundlun.”
Bander was tired, and he didn’t want to debate Valthar about the complexities of Imperial rule. “Why don’t we continue this in the morning?”
“Are you addled, or not? I really need to know if you suffered a head injury since the last time we spoke? No, we must resolve this at once. You think I will be able to sleep not knowing my fate?”
“Listen, we can’t just stroll into the Wilderlands. We need guides, supplies, and most of all, we need to know where we are going. Do you even know where this supposed fourth temple is?”
Valthar grew quiet. “Not exactly.”
“How not exactly?”
His friend shrugged. “As I said, the Temple of Fate is reportedly somewhere southwest of Tamoa. I can’t get more specific than that.”
Bander stood up and headed for the door. “I rest my case. By the time I return from Rundlun, I’m confident that you will have researched the exact location of the temple.”
Chapter Fourteen
When Bander awoke the next morning, he thought the hour was much earlier than it actually was. He peered through the window. The sky was dark and cloudy and a watery sun fought to break through the solid wall of grey. The wind was up as well, shaking the old house and making all sorts of crackling, creaking, rustling noises—probably from the thick vines right outside of Bander’s bedroom window.
His head was thick from last night’s wine and he longed for a hot mug of moxa. But judging from how still the house was, it seemed he would have to prepare the beverage himself.
Bander slid from the bed and dressed, then splashed his face with some cold water from the basin. As he pulled on his boots, he thought of last night’s conversation with Valthar.
The quest seemed straightforward. Locate the Temple of Fate and escort Valthar there. Yes, the temple was situated deep within a dense, no doubt dangerous jungle. Yes, it was impossibly distant. Yes, they had no idea of the temple’s exact location. But despite all this, it was the type of quest Bander had readily accepted hundreds of times over the years.
So why was he so hesitant now?
Could it really be that he was too old? Too tired? Too set in his ways?
Bander pushed the notion from his mind and began the routine of stretches he tried to keep to every morning. It was a ritual he had instituted years ago to help keep the ravages of time at bay. More often than not he woke to some new ache or pain. But luckily his body still responded to the array of slow extensions, twists, and stretches to which he subjected it.
Once he felt a little more alive, he walked down the creaking staircase, down the hall, and outside to the privy at the corner of the property. Then he returned inside and made his way to the kitchen where he set about preparing a kettle of moxa. He tried not to think of what he’d tell Valthar when his friend finally came downstairs. But when he looked up from the kettle, he saw his friend in the doorway.
“I’m dying,” Valthar said without emotion.
“What?”
“I’m dying.”
“We’re all dying.”
“Some quicker than others, though. That’s what I am trying to tell you.”
“Dying, how?” Bander asked.
Valthar hobbled closer and took a mug of moxa. “You must have noticed, all these years.”
Bander didn’t reply.
“Look at me,” Valthar said. “I appear to be twice my age. And I feel like a man who has one foot in the grave.”
“You’re not that old.”
“Exactly! Chronologically, I’m a half-dozen years younger than you. Yet even the dimmest soul would judge me older than you by a far toss. I’d wager that if we two walked over to the Lion and the Lamb and queried the patrons there, a full half would mistake me for your father.”
Bander shook his head. “My father was a big man. No one who knew him would mistake you for him.”
“And where is he now, your old dad?”
“Dead. Long gone and dead.”
“Proving my point,” Valthar said.
“It doesn’t prove anything. You are spouting nonsense.”
“I am not, you lout! I am dying, like the flowers in autumn. Like a grizzled squirrel who’s too blind to find his nuts—”
“You are not dying,” Bander said firmly. But deep down he wondered. The truth of the matter was that Valthar did seem older, and more frail. But that could be for any number of reasons.
Valthar must have seen the doubt play across Bander’s face. “You know it to be true. I am fading from this world. My only chance is to go back to where I belong. I cannot wait until Spring. You must help me now.”
They didn’t speak of it further, just ate breakfast in silence. Then Bander walked into the village to get provisions for Valthar. As he walked, he mulled the problem over in his mind. He still wasn’t convinced that the silver crescent he had brought Valthar was some sort of key to traveling through time. But Valthar certainly was convinced. And Bander knew his friend well enough to know how obsessive Valthar was. If Bander wouldn’t aid him, Valthar would try to find the temple on his own. And he wouldn’t stop until he located it—or died trying.
When he returned to the lodge, Bander found Valthar in his study. His friend’s worktable was now cluttered with beakers, jars, and a mess of jeweler’s tools. A thick iron plate about one foot square was set near the center of the table and on it were small piles of various colored powders and drops of congealed wax
“The aona you brought is not a fake, for what it’s worth,” Valthar said. “I’ve tested the silver.”
“For what?”
“Age, composition, similarity to the other aonae.”
Bander eased himself into a chair. “Suppose I agree to help you…”
Valthar’s face lit up.
Bander continued, “If I did decide to change my course and accompany you on this quest, even though it is almost certainly a fool’s errand—”
“It is not!”
“Even if it were, my question to you, my friend, is… where would we begin?”
Valthar turned to Bander, a faint smile forming on his lips. “I have given this much thought, and I believe I have found a means of locating the Temple of Fate.”
Bander didn’t say anything.
“There is a man I know who lives just outside of the Steading,” Valthar said. “A fellow collector.”
“Collector of what?”
“Of miniature painted puppets—”
“What?”
“Of aonae, you scrunt! What have we been talking about? If anyone can help us identify the location of the Temple of Fate, he can.”
While Valthar gathered what he needed, Bander made dinner, and they discussed logistics. The first matter was deciding about how to get to the Steading. A protracted argument ensued about whether they would take the public portal in Hamwick to the Steading.
“You act like an old woman,” Valthar chided.
“I was warned about portal sickness.”
“Portal sickness? That is a myth. I travel by portal twice a month at least. I have had nary a problem.”
“It’s not a myth. Going through a portal nearly killed me last spring.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Valthar said. “You are like a great moose. Nothing could kill you. If you are worried about the cost, I have plenty of gold and I am planning on completely funding this expedition.”
“It’s not about the gold.”
“Then do not fret.”
That didn’t make Bander feel any better. It was true that he had traveled by portal several times since Wegg had warned him, but the healer’s words still haunted him.
But he eventually acquiesced. The alternative to the portal was riding to the Steading—which would take them a better part of a fortnight. That wouldn’t be acceptable at all.
“The Steading has plenty of people who might minister to you,” Valthar said. “If you so much as sneeze after going through the portal, I’ll make sure you’re attended to by the best healer coin can buy.”
It turned out that Bander’s fears were unfounded. The next morning—after a journey to the outskirts of Hamwick—he stepped through the portal to the Steading with no ill effects.
“Well?” Valthar asked, as they departed the waystation.
Bander took a breath. “I seem to be unaffected.”
“What did I tell you? You need to listen to those who are older and wiser.”
“You are neither.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Their destination, a village named Irfals, was six miles east of the city, on the edge of the vast meadow known as the Underfoots. Bander was content to walk, since it was fairly early in the day, but Valthar refused, claiming his knees would never survive a six-mile hike—especially after this morning’s walk to Hamwick. So Valthar bought them horses, and they rode along a narrow farm road lined with hedgerows past a patchwork of fields, pastures, and a handful of farms. The air was warm and still, and the road flat.
“Pretty country,” Valthar mused.
Bander had to agree. Even though the gravetrees along the road had lost their leaves, their tall forms were striking—like giants keeping watch. And the climate here was milder than Hamwick’s, which was welcome.
By the time they arrived at their destination—a charming little village nestled among some gentle hills—the sun was low in the sky.
“Is there even an inn here?” Bander asked.
“There’s a tavern, the Polestar. And a woman who lets out a room in her house. Over by the mill.”
Valthar led the way through Irfals, which was basically two perpendicular dirt roads lined with a dozen or so buildings—some stone, others wood. In addition to some cottages and houses, Bander saw a blacksmith’s shop, a bake house, the tavern, and a handful of other shops. He guessed that the village didn’t have more than a few hundred residents. The ones he spotted on the road seemed friendly enough, waving at them as they rode past.
The Aedre River ran slowly along the edge of the village—just north of the main street. Situated on its bank was a mill building. Nearby stood a scattering of houses and storage buildings.
Valthar rode over to the largest of the houses, a two-story stone building with a spacious veranda. They dismounted and Valthar knocked at the front door.
The woman who opened the door was handsome, but clearly someone who had not had an easy life. At first glance her lined face and hardscrabble expression made Bander think that she was his own age, but as he drew closer, he saw that she was probably twenty years younger.
“Mrs. Heffring,” Valthar greeted her. “This is my friend Bander.”
Bander winced at the use of his real name.
“Nice to meet you, Bander and good to see you again, Valthar.”
“Apologies for our late arrival, but we were hoping you might have a room for us,” Valthar continued.
“Of course. Bring your horses around back. Langer will attend to them. Will you be wanting dinner?”
“Not necessary, madam. This is Bander’s first visit to Irfals, and I was going to treat him to the local stout at the Polestar.”
“Well, I won’t try to compete with that, then.”
“We won’t be too late.”
They dropped the horses off with Mrs. Heffring’s hired hand and then started walking back to the main street.
“Local stout, eh?” Bander asked.
“Indeed. The best I’ve ever tasted. You’ve probably even heard of it. Irfals Stout.”
Bander had indeed heard of the brew, but he hadn’t made the connection between the name of the beer and this village.
“So where is this fellow collector you spoke about?”
“We’ll ride over there in the morning. It’s not far.”
Valthar was unusually reticent over dinner, but the food was exceptional: potato soup, grilled tornat, roasted vegetables, and plenty of flatbread. The beer was dark and rich and foamy and just as good as advertised.
Afterwards they returned to Mrs. Heffring’s house. She had retired, but Valthar knew his way up to the room.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, after a breakfast of eggs, toasted bread, berries, and sausage in Mrs. Heffring’s dining room, they retrieved the horses and set out along a narrow track that ran along the river.
They rode away from the clearing around the mill, past stands of willows and marsh grasses that crowded the riverbank. The morning sun felt good on Bander’s face, his belly was full, and he was in a picturesque little village. He had nothing to complain about. Nothing at all.
A quarter hour later, they crossed the river on an ancient, but sturdy-looking bridge. The road switchbacked up a tall hill and it took them another quarter hour to ascend three hundred feet or so, but then Bander was rewarded by a glimpse of their destination. Or what was left of it.
The ruins of the large stone building stood at the center of a low-walled courtyard up on the top of the hill. Bander could see that at least half of the structure had been toppled, with colossal stone blocks scattered everywhere. Archways canted at odd angles, and elaborately carved pillars now lay like fallen trees after a hurricane.
The part of the building that remained intact was covered with thick vines which obscured most of the structure.
“Behold!” Valthar said. “The Temple of Dreams.”
“So I gathered.”
They stopped at a gate in the courtyard wall, dismounted, and Valthar pulled a chain which rang a bell hanging from the wall.
“The gate doesn’t appear to be locked,” Bander said. In fact, it stood partially open. The wall was only up to Bander’s waist. Probably more ornamental than anything else.
“The gate’s not locked,” Valthar said. “But there are other wards in place. Best to wait on our host.”
Bander surveyed the courtyard. Set around the temple stood a handful of much newer, much smaller buildings, most made of timber. There was a neatly kept cottage with a compact garden, several sheds, a small barn, a chicken yard, and a few other outbuildings.
“Your man lives here?” Bander asked.
“Indeed he does.”
“Why?”
“Ask him yourself.”
Bander turned to see a disheveled man emerging from the cottage. He ambled towards them, muttering to himself. He looked to be in his 40s, portly with the pasty complexion of someone who spent too much time indoors. He had a mess of brown hair shot with grey and a scraggly half-beard that looked like it had been pasted onto his face. But his eyes lit up when he saw Valthar.
“Devil Dog! Still smarting from my last thrashing, are you? You’ve returned for a rematch?”
“No, something even more interesting,” Valthar said.
“Really? Then who is that hired killer at your side? He here to make sure I don’t cheat?”
Valthar laughed. “Eton Sward, this is Bander—a mannerless brute who knows nothing about the game of kings, but also an old friend. He is helping me with a matter that’s rather important.”
Eton Sward looked Bander up and down. “So this visit really isn’t about revenge at the pone table?”
“Indeed not.”
“Well, welcome, Bander. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours, sir,” Bander said.
“Ooh, and he has manners as well. Come in, come in, both of you. Are you hungry? Mrs. Alchary brought me some walberry pie and there’s about half remaining.”
“No, we just ate at the good widow Heffring’s place. Perhaps later.”
Eton Sward beckoned them to enter, and Bander noticed that, again, the man muttered something under his breath.
And then it all made sense.