by Randy Nargi
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.”
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 yea
rs.
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.”
