The Temple of Fate, page 9
part #5 of Bander Series




Bander examined the map. The location Eton Sward had marked lay at the end of a range of mountains known as the Crantochs. It was not far from a lake on a large river that wasn’t identified on the map. The Urfantis River that ran southwest from Malverton flowed into this unmarked river a hundred or so miles away from Malverton.
The problem was that the area that the coin covered was quite expansive.
Valthar drew closer to the map, but he blinked and moved his head closer and then farther. “Damned eyes. Do you have a glass?”
Eton Sward brought him a magnifying glass from another table and then Valthar leaned over and studied the map.
“How accurate is this map?” Bander asked.
Eton Sward shrugged. “How accurate is any map—especially one that purports to have charted the Wilderlands five hundred years ago?”
He was right. Bander moved from the table and walked around the room, trying to clear his mind.
Eventually, Eton Sward approached Valthar and said, “I am truly sorry I could not have been more helpful, Devil Dog.”
“It’s right here.” Valthar stabbed his finger down on the map. “I know it.”
“Yes, if it exists, the temple is somewhere there. But the tip of your finger on that map represents at least a hundred square miles of jungle. And, as I said, any structure older than a century or two is likely buried underground.”
Valthar didn’t reply—just stared forlornly at the map until Bander took his friend’s shoulder and steered him towards the stairway out.
“Let us think on it,” Bander said. “I believe we’ll be staying in the village for a day or two more.”
“Come by tomorrow.” Eton Sward smirked. “We can look at another map that will tell us the same thing.”
Bander nodded, and they left the office the way they came. The light spell still illuminated the underground passage back to the main part of the temple and the way out.
“Wait!” Eton Sward called after them. He jogged quickly over, breathing heavily. “I feel bad, Devil Dog. Take this.” He pressed an ancient-looking leather-bound book into Valthar’s hands.
Valthar’s eyes lit up as he flipped the book open to the first pages. “Burritch’s Travels!”
“Yes, I wager the only way to shut you up is to let you read it for yourself. You may have the book overnight, but you must return it in the morning. Do you understand?”
Valthar clasped Eton Sward warmly, his eyes wet with tears of joy.
“Thank you, Sward. Thank you! You’re not half the villain, I thought you were.”
“Guard it with your life and don’t think of running off with it. The book may be useless, but it is extremely rare. If you fail to return it, I shall engage a team of battle mages from Whill to hunt you down! Then you’ll see what kind of villain I am.”
“Of course.”
“Oh and take this as well.” He handed Valthar a bright crystal. “No candles. Understand?”
Chapter Seventeen
“You might be wondering why I sent for you, Mortam Rowe,” Harnotis Kodd said. “Especially after your somewhat lackluster performance in Gilweald.”
“But Master—”
“Water under the bridge, my boy. Water under the bridge.” He paused to slurp his tea. “Sit down, won’t you? You are making my neck crick gazing up at you.”
The hefty mage was in his usual position, sprawled on the patterned cloth-upholstered divan and looking like a rather large slug swaddled in a garish robe. He stared mockingly at Mortam Rowe.
But Mortam Rowe didn’t care. He had been excited to receive the summons to Kodd’s estate and was still eager to redeem himself in his employer’s eyes.
“Where is your reticent friend?” Harnotis Kodd asked.
Mortam Rowe had left Keave back at their home. His partner became easily bored and didn’t comport himself properly in front of the fussy mage.
“Training,” Mortam Rowe lied. “Keave is fanatical about training.”
“No matter,” Harnotis Kodd said. “He doesn’t really add much to the conversation, does he? Sit down, Rowe. You are making me nervous.”
Mortam Rowe settled into the carved wood chair opposite the mage.
“Since we last spoke, an interesting development has arisen,” Harnotis Kodd said. “Two of my men were able to infiltrate Prichard’s in Gilweald and gain access to their vaults.”
“Did they locate the aona?”
“No, they did not.”
Mortam Rowe leaned forward in his chair. He suspected who had the aona. “The sellsword must have it then.”
“Indeed. And you must find him, this Leocald Grannt.”
“The trail is long cold, Master. It has been weeks since he left Gilweald.”
“Precisely why I am calling on you, Mortam Rowe. The aona has no intrinsic value to most people. Even the so-called experts at Prichard’s were ignorant of its worth. Were the sellsword to offer the aona to a jeweler, he would likely be told that the crescent is but a cheap bauble. My sources tell me that there are only a handful of people who might buy an aona—and none are especially easy to locate.”
“That might work in our favor, Master.”
“Yes, it might. Just outside of the Steading, in some pitiful excuse for a village, is a mage named Eton Sward. I use the term ‘mage’ loosely, of course. By all accounts, the man is a feeble excuse for a practitioner—a fact which was not lost on his superiors. I understand he was all but cast out of Delham, exiled to the hinterlands to immerse himself in research.”
“What type of research?”
Harnotis Kodd fixed him with a look. “Does it matter?”
“No, Master.”
“Indeed not. What matters is that this Eton Sward is a collector of aonae. Thankfully for us, the man is as dutiful as he is stupid. Every aona he comes across is studied, catalogued, and sent to Faran Marr who, of course, sends them all to us. But since time is of the essence…” He let that last phrase hang.
“Of course, sir. We will find this mage at once and determine if he’s been contacted by Leocald Grannt.”
“That’s what I like to hear, Rowe. Initiative. Good man. I have a good feeling about Sward. Despite his failings as a mage, he is well-known in certain circles. I’d wager your left nut that Grannt will seek him out.”
“Thank you for your confidence, Master.”
Harnotis Kodd continued, “However, there is another figure in all of this. A trader down south with an interest in aonae.”
“Trader?”
“Yes. A woman—and a bit less straightforward to deal with. Her name is Talessa Kreed. She has a riverboat down at the Malverton Trading Post. Do you know it?”
“I’ve never had the occasion to travel that far south, Master.”
“Well, let’s hope you don’t have to. Just planting the seed, my boy. I trust that your visit with this Sward fellow will prove to be fruitful and I await your good news, Mr. Rowe. That is all.”
Back at his own house, Mortam Rowe shared the news with Keave.
“Malverton? That’s in the jungle.”
“It is indeed, Keave. Far to the south.”
“Beyond Vale.”
“Well beyond Vale. But if we’re lucky, my friend, the farthest we’ll have to travel is the Steading.”
“I can get us to the Steading,” Keave said.
“I know you can.”
“But not to the Wilderlands.”
“Oh really?”
“Never been there. Nothing to bind to.”
Because he had worked with Keave for so long—and another locestra, Bailor Fenn, before him—Mortam Rowe was very familiar with the limitations of of the type of portals that Keave could open. Locestrae did not have the same abilities as mages. They didn’t attend a university to learn the magical arts. Their powers were innate. And certainly less controllable. Keave could open a portal to certain places he was very familiar with.
Most locestrae could bind to a dozen or so places, but Keave was remarkable in that there were nearly a hundred locations fixed in his mind that he was bound to.
Unfortunately teleportation sapped a lot of his friend’s energy. Keave would be hard pressed to open more than one portal a day—which meant that they would have to plan this mission well.
“Come along, Keave. We’re going to the Vulgar Raven.”
“It’s early for lunch, though. Isn’t it?”
“Quite right, Keave. But not too early for a sweet. Which we will obtain on the way to the Raven.”
“And why are we going to the Raven if it’s not lunchtime?”
“Information, my good friend. Information.”
Chapter Eighteen
Bander and Valthar returned to Mrs. Heffring’s house, Valthar giddy with excitement. He raced up to their rented room and set himself up at a writing desk near a bright window.
“I can tell you will be occupied for an hour or two,” Bander said.
“An hour or two? Are you addled? This is an opportunity of a lifetime. Old Sward must be going soft in the head to have lent this to me. You know I’ve badgered him for years to let me take even a glance at a single page of Travels and he has denied me every time.”
Valthar placed the book carefully on the desk and rummaged through his bag for his notebook and pens. “His humanity finally got the better of him.”
“Perhaps,” Bander said. “Or perhaps he just doesn’t care anymore.”
Valthar turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“If Bryn Eresthar is successful in dissolving the Guild, a lot of things will change.”
“You’re probably right. Still, I must make the most of this opportunity. Will you sit with me? We can discuss what I discover as I read.”
“I’d sooner plunge knitting needles into my eyes.”
“I forgot that you are an illiterate brute. Very well! Bring me some supper in a few hours—when you return from your wanderings. That is what you plan to do, isn’t it? Wander, I mean?”
“I thought I might ask Mrs. Heffring if there’s anything she needs help with.”
“Very kind of you. Now begone!”
Bander found their hostess in her kitchen, teetering on a wooden stool, trying to reach something on a tall shelf.
“Mrs. Heffring?”
She turned so quickly she almost fell off the stool. “You startled me, sir!”
“I did not mean to, madam.”
She took a deep breath and patted her chest. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Bander?”
“It’s just Bander, and—no. But I was wondering if there is something I might do for you.” He went on to explain that Valthar was occupied with scholarly pursuits and he had some time on his hand.
Mrs. Heffring nodded in agreement. “That one. He comes to visit four or five times a year, and he always has his nose in a book. Bah, books. They’re no substitute for actually living!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Bander said. “So is there something I might assist you with?”
“Thank you, but no. I have enough to keep Mr. Langer busy and no more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite.” She hesitated. “Unless you happen to be a fisherman, sir. And if that is the case, you may certainly help me.”
“You need a fish?”
“My stocks of tornat are low and since Tarr Holt left for his apprenticeship in the city, I’ve had to rely on Langer. He’s a piss-poor fisherman, and if you ask him, he’ll admit it to your face.”
“Well, however piss-poor Langer may be, I assure you I am five times worse.”
“Are you sure about that? You seem like a capable gentleman.”
“Not when it comes to fishing.”
“Well, perhaps you can enlist Valthar’s aid. I know he has been out with Tarr Holt during some of his previous visits. I can provide the boat and the gear. You can row and Valthar can fish.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’d be much obliged. In the meantime, if you have nothing to do, I might suggest a walk by the river. The birds are beautiful. We’ve got kosherds, marsh warblers, all sorts. Wonderful plumage.”
“Maybe, I will, Mrs. Heffring. Thank you.” Bander turned to leave, but before he made it to the kitchen door, Mrs. Heffring called out.
“Oh, there is one thing you can help me with, dear sir.”
“What’s that?”
She pointed up at a tall shelf cluttered with dusty baskets, jars, baking racks, and other kitchen equipment. “Can you fetch that jam pan? One of the handles fell off my other one, so I need a substitute while it is being repaired.”
“Which?” Bander extended his arm up and felt around on the shelf.
“Well, you don’t even need a stool. They must grow ’em big from wherever you come from, sir. That copper, if you please.”
Bander found the proper pan and handed it down to Mrs. Heffring.
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
“Happy to oblige.”
Bander left the kitchen and strolled into the heart of the village. He treated himself to a mug of Irfals Stout at the Polestar. Besides a pair of elderly gentlemen engrossed in their game of pone, he was the only patron. The barkeep wasn’t particularly talkative either, so Bander finished up his beer and walked back towards Mrs. Heffring’s house. He kept going, hiking along the river, taking his time, looking at a few birds. Eventually he found himself back up on top of the hill at the ruined Temple of Dreams.
“Sward!” he called at the gate. Then he rang the bell for good measure.
A minute later Eton Sward huffed over. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
He opened the gate and said, “Bander! Long time, no see. Where’s that old bag of bones Devil Dog? You haven’t come to tell me that he absconded with my book, have you?”
“No, he’s safely ensconced in Mrs. Heffring’s upstairs bedroom.”
“I hope he’s keeping my book well away from any candles.”
“He’s a very careful man.”
“Hmph. Well, then, what can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
“Of course. I was moving some firewood into the shed. That barbarian Wescalas just dumps it wherever he pleases.”
“I’ll help you while we speak.”
Eton Sward led Bander across the courtyard to the south. Nearby was a large pile of firewood that looked like it had been dumped from a cart.
“Where does this need to go?” Bander asked.
Eton Sward pointed to a shed near his cottage. It was at least forty yards away. “It’s a bit much to levitate.”
Bander nodded and then surveyed the wood pile. There must have been hundreds of pieces of split logs there on the ground.
“You have a wagon and a horse?”
“An old wagon. No horse, I’m afraid. This isn’t a particularly hospitable location for livestock.”
Eton Sward led him east behind the temple to another shed. “Right back here.”
As Bander turned, he caught a glimpse of a lake far below them. It stretched out for at least a mile and shone like a blue jewel.
Eton Sward noticed where he was looking. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? One of the perks of being stuck here. I get to wake up to that every morning.”
When Bander pulled his gaze from the vista, he saw a derelict farm wagon half hidden in the tall brush around the shed. Once he cleared the vines and brambles from it, he was able to grab the wagon’s falling tongue and pull the vehicle free.
“Gods, man,” Eton Sward said. “Who needs a draft horse with you around!”
The wagon rolled on wobbly wheels—barely. But Bander worked it across the yard to the pile of wood. Then he started loading it up.
“So to what do I owe this return visit?” Eton Sward asked. “Don’t get me wrong. I welcome the free labor, but I am curious.”
“What do you know about the Viceroy’s designs on the Guild?” Bander asked.
“It’s no secret. Eresthar wishes the Guild dissolved, which is an endeavor as ill-fated as it sounds.”
Bander hung his jacket on the side of the wagon. “I agree. But I also know Bryn Eresthar personally. And he is a man of exceptional will. If this is his intention, I fear it may come to pass. And sooner rather than later.”
Eton Sward’s expression darkened. “We have heard the rumblings for some months.”
“And?”
“And it concerns me, of course, but look around. I am as far removed from Guild affairs as a mage can be—effectively in exile.”
“Then why stay?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t owe the Guild anything. Pack up your books and leave.” Bander heaved another couple of logs into the wagon. “Ahead of the purge.”
“Is this what you wanted to speak to me about?”
“I am curious about what you will do.”
The other man shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it. Maybe I’m in denial. I’ve had no life outside the Guild, so I am not really sure what I’ll do. I’m not sure what any of us will do.”
“There’s talk about privatizing some of the Guild functions. Not the portal mages, of course. Nor the battle mages. They will be brought under the aegis of Imperial and provincial governments. But many of the others—lore mages, binding mages, mage engineers—will probably be hired by private companies.”
“I’m not sure who would want to employ the likes of me.”
“You’d be surprised. This quest that Valthar is on, to find the Temple of Fate… he could use a man like you.”
“Is that what this is about? Did Devil Dog put you up to this?”
“No one puts me up to anything.”
They were both silent for a while. But once the wagon was loaded with firewood, Bander told Eton Sward to take the wagon’s tongue and guide it.
“How is that going to work?” Eton Sward asked.
“You steer. I’ll push. It’s not far.”
Eton Sward shook his head. “You’ve done all the hard work already. I can use a spell to move the cart.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Bander grinned.