by Randy Nargi
“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 w
ay 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.
Eton Sward was a mage.
And those mutterings were spells—likely disarming wards so that they could enter the courtyard.
Bander asked, “May I inquire of which Following are you, Master?”
Eton Sward didn’t seem surprised at the question.
“My Guild Master is Stricha. Of the White. Though, at this point, he has fairly much disavowed me, the wretch.”
Stricha. That made sense. He was based in the Steading and most of the province was under White jurisdiction, not that it meant much. The division between the Followings was mostly ceremonial. The Guild acted and spoke with one mind and one voice.
“For the past eighteen years, Eton Sward has been the scholar in residence here at the Temple of Dreams,” Valthar said.
“More like caretaker, if we are being honest,” Eton Sward said.
“Really?” Bander asked.
“Come, let me show you what I’m charged with taking care of.”
Eton Sward led them past the chickens and the cottage to the temple entrance: a pair of massive ceaon doors blackened with age and banded with iron. He motioned at the lock and intoned something under his breath, and a series of loud clicks sounded as the locks disengaged.
They pushed into a windowed hallway that looked mostly intact. Thick columns reached to a high ceiling, decorated with ancient paintings. The air here smelled dank and stale.
“I gather this temple doesn’t see many visitors,” Bander said.
“Not any more, I fear. Even the Guild scholars ceased their visits years ago. Now, it is only me. And the chickens.”
They walked past antediluvian statues of long-forgotten gods and heroes, tall stone urns, and unused braziers set in alcoves between the ornate columns. On either side of the room were the outlines where pews and benches once stood. They passed through the transept and then along the ambulatory, circling past lecterns and altars, and more statues—some desecrated.
Bander took everything in, and he tried to reach back into the forgotten corners of his memory and recall the temple in Tamoa where he found Valthar. Maybe it was similar to the space he walked through now, but maybe not. It was too long ago for him to be certain.
“Watch your step here,” Eton Sward said, pointing to where a section of the tiled floor had collapsed. It was covered by wooden planks, but Bander detoured around the covered section. He weighed over 230 pounds—the same as a large stag, and he tried to avoid crashing through floors whenever possible.
At the eastern end of the temple was an archway through it a passage that sloped underground. They followed the tunnel down for a bit and ended up at a smaller doorway set into a stone block wall.
“The passage originally ended right where you’re standing,” Eton Sward said.
Bander could see that part of the wall had been dismantled, opening up a rough doorway into a dark chamber.
Eton Sward gestured and spoke a trigger word and from his fingertips grew a globe of light which floated into the dark chamber, lighting it up completely.
“The Nave of Time,” Eton Sward said. “But it’s completely safe now. There’s nothing left of the gate.”
As they made their way into the chamber, the first thing that Bander noticed was that the floor had been ripped up. And the second thing he saw was that large sections of the far wall had been removed. That was probably where the murals had been.
“See, Bander,” Valthar said, pointing to the floor. “This is where the rails were.”
“What happened to them?”
“Long since excavated and shipped to Delham University for study,” Eton Sward said. “Same with the murals. In fact, the only time I ever saw them with my own eyes was in the Ucherin vault. But that was many years ago.”
Bander turned in a slow circle, trying to take in everything. “So this room is the time path…?”
“We refer to it as the Nave of Time,” Eton Sward said.
“And if I stepped in here with an aona, I would travel through time?”
“You have been well-instructed, friend. You are correct, but with the caveat that you would be stepping into the Nave with an aona at least 300 years ago.”
“Why? What was 300 years ago?”
“312 years ago to be precise. That was the last time the Nave was operational. In the year 1404 this room was torn apart by Halden Kel.”
> “Halden Kel?”
“A magical scholar from Waterside. He collected the rails and the murals and had them shipped to Rundlun where they were stored in the old Red Tower for seventy years or so before being relocated to Delham University.”
“But isn’t the temple itself much older? Valthar said—” Bander cut himself off. He didn’t know how much of his personal story Valthar had told Eton Sward.
“I know what I said,” Valthar took a step towards the light. “This temple, and in fact, all the time temples are much older than 300 years.”
“Of course they are,” Eton Sward said. “My research places their construction at the first century or so. But they are possibly even older than that.”
“So this has been standing for nearly two thousand years?” Bander found that hard to believe.
“Longer, I’d wager.”
“But why? Surely such a dangerous deathtrap would have been destroyed as soon as it was discovered.”
“Well, thank Dynark that Halden Kel didn’t share your lack of regard for historical relics,” Eton Sward said. “Point of fact, the room in which we are standing was only discovered several months after the Great Earthquake of 1403. It had damaged part of the temple’s outer wall. Workers trying to repair the wall detected some sort of anomaly in the construction. However, there’s nothing in any of the records that suggested anyone had actually entered the Nave—intentionally or otherwise.”
“Lucky for them,” Bander said.
“Lucky for us,” Eton Sward said. “Scholars, I mean. Armed with the discovery of the false wall, Halden Kel journeyed to the Temple of the Ages near Vale and found a false wall there as well.”
“Did he try to enter that Nave of Time?” Valthar asked.
“Of course not. Kel was wise enough to rip everything out, crate it up, and ship it back for study in a more controlled environment.”
Bander nodded. “I have to ask, then. With the magic stripped from this room 300 years ago, what are you doing here?”
“Ah, that is an excellent question, my large friend. And it requires a longer answer than is possible in this rather dreary and uncomfortable chamber. Let us retire to some place more civilized.”