by Randy Nargi
“And mistress herself.”
Mortam Rowe thought for a moment. They could seize Leocald Grannt before he boarded, drag him away, and take the aona—which he’d certainly have on his possession in order to pay for the expedition. Then slit the sellsword’s throat and teleport back to Lhawster. In and out. That would be, by far, the most expedient course of action.
But something nagged at him. Curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps something else.
“And you don’t know where exactly they are going?”
“No,” Dartminter Rigg said. “All I know is that Talessa Kreed asked me to fetch her some maps of the Lower Crantochs.”
“The mountains?”
“Aye.”
“And how does a boat sail into the mountains?”
“It doesn’t. The closest she could get is Lake Horbadin. They will have to proceed on foot.”
A trek through the jungle. But why?
“Are they meeting someone?” Mortam Rowe asked.
“Not that I know of. To be honest, I have only been her adjutant for less than half a year. I don’t think she fully trusts me.”
“With good reason, it appears.”
Dartminter Rigg went silent.
Mortam Rowe looked up at the ceiling, which appeared to have a ring of mold growing on it. Rigg had told him that the entire expedition was expected to take a week. That meant three and a half days there and three and a half back. Or three there and four back if sailing upstream took a bit longer. In any case, it wasn’t particularly far. Especially if he and Keave didn’t have to actually make the journey.
He couldn’t pass up this opportunity. There was something bigger going on here. He felt it.
Mortam Rowe reached into his pack and withdrew a gem and placed it on the table. “This isn’t for you,” he said and tapped the gem for good measure.
Dartminter Rigg’s eyes narrowed. “Sir?”
“I need you to hide this in Talessa Kreed’s bag. Preferably sewn in. It must be with her at all times. Do you understand?”
“I think so. There is a map satchel from her father. A prized possession. She’ll take it for sure.”
“Good.”
Dartminter Rigg picked up the gem and examined it. “Waypoint gem?”
“Yes. It will allow us to find them once they arrive at their destination. We will be able to teleport directly there.”
“But you will not harm Talessa Kreed? That was our deal.”
Touching.
“No, we have no quarrel with your mistress. Only with the sellsword.”
The lie seemed to satisfy Dartminter Rigg. They spent a few more minutes finalizing their arrangements and then Mortam Rowe and Keave took their leave—heading back into the stinking city.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bander spent the next couple of days making preparations. While he saw to the details of gathering maps and supplies, getting boots stretched, and cloaks patched, Valthar and Eton Sward were content to remain back at the inn. Every time he returned to their room, Bander found the two men endlessly discussing the minutiae of everything from whether the columns of the time temples had more Gaosic signifiers or Serlion signifiers—to speculation about the specific knowledge required to erect comparable temples.
It was a relief to get out of that room. In between errands Bander walked the city and let his mind wander. One afternoon he was surprised to come across a bookseller’s shop amidst the buttonmakers, old-clothes dealers, spicers, and basketmakers.
It was a small shop, but the proprietor was a friendly looking man with a well-trimmed beard and clever-looking eyes.
“Welcome, traveler. My name is Dunegan. May I help you find something?”
“How do you know that I am a traveler?”
The bookseller grinned at him. “By the look of your tawny skin, mostly. Spend any length of time in the Territories and a man’s skin pales like a ghost.”
Bander nodded. “I am from Rundlun.”
“Sellsword?”
“Yes. Minding a few moldy old scholars down here.”
“Ah, the best kind. Yet you are a learned man, I see? More apt to visit a bookstore than a gambling den?”
“My entire life is a gamble. I have other ways to amuse myself.”
“I feel the same way. That’s why we have art. And literature, of course. Are you a reader?”
“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
“Good, good. I have the latest Darkin book, The Broken Pentacle. Just came in. You like Darkin?”
“Never read him.”
“Oh, but you must. It is a wondrous saga. I just wish he wouldn’t take so long between books.”
“Actually, do you have anything by Jinton Holm?” Bander asked.
“Ah, a man fond of the classics, are you? Quite admirable. Especially in this day and age. Not many people bother with the greats. Everyone wants the lurid tales of impossibly wealthy lords who fall for lowly barmaids, or the lucky lad who finds himself with a veritable harem of young wenches.”
“That’s not to my taste.”
“Nor mine,” Dunegan said. “Sadly, however, to keep my doors open I must cater to the whims of the book buying public. I’d wager you are the only soul in Malverton with even the faintest interest in old Jinton Holm. Wouldn’t make sense to carry his books, I’m afraid. Not good for business.”
“So you don’t have any?”
“None for sale, I fear.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, good sir, that the only words penned by Holm are the three volumes in my private library. And they are, sadly, not for sale. However, might I recommend The Girl Who Became Lost in Herself by Alders Menn. The language is quite poetic.”
“Thank you, but no.” Bander turned to leave. “Are there any libraries here where I might find some Jinton Holm books?”
“The Slears keep a well-stocked library, but they are not very friendly to strangers. And most of their books are just for show. They pay a bookbinder in Vale to replace the spines of popular books with the classics in order to impress their guests. You may well find what appears to be a volume of Jinton Holm’s poetry, but when you open it, you’ll be reading the lusty tale of a morose young girl who falls in love with both a vampire and a werewolf.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Out of curiosity, which of Holm’s books were you interested in? Eternity Undone, maybe?”
“I’m not exactly sure of the title,” Bander said. “I was reading Burritch’s Travels and he mentioned Jinton Holm.”
“You have a copy of Travels? I’m impressed. There must be only a dozen copies in the entire empire.”
“It wasn’t my book, of course.”
“Still,” Dunegan said. “If you happen to still have access to the book, I know some buyers who would pay dearly—”
“It’s not mine to sell. In any case, reading Burritch made me think of Jinton Holm.”
“Well, reportedly the two men were as thick as thieves.”
“I just wondered if Holm was inspired by his explorations of the Wilderlands—”
Dunegan’s expression brightened. “Holm was indeed inspired. He wrote The Masque of Ornecal upon returning to Rundlun after his year-long journey with Burritch.”
Bander fixed the title in his mind. The Masque of Ornecal. “Do you have it?” he asked.
“Matter of fact, I do. But I told you. It’s not for sale.”
“What if I don’t buy it?”
Dunegan took one step back, nervous.
“No, I mean, what if I borrow it from you? For a fee, of course.”
“I don’t know.”
“I just need it for a day. Not even a full day. A few hours most likely.” Bander named an amount that was particularly generous.
The bookseller’s eyes drifted up as he thought about it. Then he said, “I’ll do it under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You may read the book right here in my shop
. I’ve got a chair in the back room where I do all my own reading—especially when business is slow. I’ll even throw in a mug of Squire's Choice.”
Bander was more of a moxa drinker than a tea drinker, but it was so incredibly damp out that anything warm would be welcome.
“Agreed. The only thing I need is a writing kit so I may make a note of my favorite passages.”
“You’re not intending to copy the entire book are you, because that is certainly not permitted.”
“Of course not.”
Dunegan told him where he could purchase writing supplies nearby. “The tea will be ready and The Masque of Ornecal set out by the time you return.”
Bander took his leave, found the mercantile where he bought what he needed. Then he returned to Dunegan’s shop and was escorted to the back room, which was its own small library. A compact desk and a few chairs where the only thing in the room besides the many shelves groaning under the weight of Dunegan’s collection.
The bookseller had set out a thin leather-bound volume with the embossed title The Masque of Ornecal—as well as a cup of tea.
Bander paid the man and eased himself behind the desk.
“I’ll check on you in a few hours. Mind you don’t splatter ink on the book, will you?”
“I’m an exceptionally careful man.”
“As am I, sir. As am I.”
Once Dunegan departed, Bander examined the slim volume of poetry. According to the Introduction, this book was an exact reprint of the original which had been published in 1211. He scanned the contents: The Song of Daunas the Elder, On the Vanishing of a Fair Lass, A Morning Sonnet, The Fourth Ring of Cyriac, Light Denied, Ode to Morrice Redbeard, On the Shift of Storms, Dorica Through the Ages, Venir, Apologies of a Rustic Hero, My Hand in Effigy, Do I Mourn Jonam on the Arcade of Radiance, and The Masque of Ornecal.
Nothing jumped out at Bander, so he started at the beginning and read through each of the poems. He stopped when he got to Venir. The poem very well could have been about Jinton Holm’s experience spending the night in the temple.
In the hall of blood, I lay on a stone hewn of night
And the shroud of sacred sleep enveloped me
Athwart shadows foul and blight
Enfolded me to a wailing world
’Twas Venir, an isle lost and dark
Where raging storms are born
And mindless winds blow stark
Scattering hope across a sunless sea
There I saw a fane grown blighted and tall
Like a sicklebush with poisoned blossoms
And inside a woman wearing a purple caul
Her eyes hard and cold like emeralds
She walked me through a measureless cave
And decreed fragments of her lost prayer
While a mazy path through a vaulted grave
Beckoned like a seething maw
Beneath the starry threshold of Wanden’s dome
She did meander, the night creeper, beckoning
Along the dusty hall, engraved in the loam
A shining track to the palace of eternity
And when she leaned close to speak her name
I saw upon her breast a silver moon
Casting its gleam as a tempting flame
Then she whispered, Ahania, Ahania, Ahania!
It was all there, the account in Travels. The hall of blood—referring to the blood-red rock the temple was made of. Falling asleep on the altar. Some very odd dreams. And, most significantly of all, the woman in the poem was wearing a silver crescent necklace: an aona to be sure.
Bander quickly began to transcribe the poem, and as he wrote, he pondered who this Ahania might be. While he was waiting for the ink to dry, he read through the remaining poems in the book, but none seemed to have any connection to the temple and there was no further mention of Ahania.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Dunegan asked, as Bander handed him back the book.
“I’m not really sure. Tell me, have you ever heard of the name ‘Ahania?’ It’s mentioned in one of the poems.”
“Can’t say that I have. But if you are really curious, ask for Eslan Mab at the University next time you’re back in Rundlun. He’s perhaps the most renowned Jinton Holm scholar alive.”
Bander thanked the bookseller and then returned to the inn to share his discovery with Valthar and Eton Sward. Neither of them had heard of Ahania either.
“In all my studies, I don’t believe I’ve ever come across that name before,” Eton Sward said.
“Me neither,” Valthar said. “However, Sward, it must be duly noted that the oaf here has discovered a previously unknown connection between Burritch’s temple and an aona—even if the device wasn’t mentioned by name.”
They spent the rest of the day and well into the evening reading the poem aloud and analyzing it every which way they could.
Eton Sward in particular, was quite skilled at drawing more connections.
“Wanden’s dome is a poetic way of saying the sky,” he said.
Bander knew that in the old mythology Wanden was the king and greatest of the ancient gods.
“And this,” Eton Sward continued. “Engraved into the loam, a shining track. You know what this is, don’t you Devil Dog?”
“I may be old, but I’m not dim,” Valthar said. “Of course I know what Jinton Holm is referring to. And all this proves that I was right all along. There is a fourth temple. And Burritch found it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bander wasn’t sure what to expect of this journey. He was not fond of boats or traveling on the water by any means, but there was a part of him that was looking forward to the exploration.
It had been a good thirty years since he hiked through the jungles of the Wilderlands. Even if they didn’t find anything more than a pile of rock—which is what he expected—this wasn’t a bad way to spend part of the winter. If, that is, Bryn Eresthar could restrain himself for a month or two—and not act before Bander got the chance to talk to his old friend, man to man.
At dawn on the appointed day, Bander, Valthar and Eton Sward made their way back to the green parrot warehouse. The same skinny young Tengan lad was there and he led them through the maze of streets that surrounded the Horseshoe Docks.
“Are we going to Talessa Kreed’s island?” Bander asked the boy.
“No, sir. The Calibis is cityside. Right this way.”
They circled east to a pier on the edge of the Horseshoe Docks. At the end of the pier was docked a single-masted sailing barge, maybe seventy feet long, with a pair of large leeboards and a good-sized cabin.
“Welcome aboard, gentleman.” A short wiry Tengan with a bald head greeted them. “My name is Larandar, and I’m the pilot.”
Bander nodded. “Impressive-looking boat.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, but she’ll get us where we need to go. Please come aboard.”
Three sailors were making final preparations with one large man standing at the bow looking everything over. Bander was no kind of seaman, but The Calibis looked like it was in good condition to him. The deck was scrubbed and solid looking. The sails and riggings appeared well-maintained.
Eton Sward nodded approvingly but Valthar didn’t seem so sure.
“Mistress Kreed is in the cabin and asked if you would join her there,” Larandar said. “This way. The Calibis is a cargo ship, as you can see and accommodations are a bit rougher than you are probably used to, gentlemen.”
“Not a problem,” Bander said. He had to stoop to fit through the narrow doorway into the cabin. It was a rustic affair, with lines of bunks and a central table. Talessa Kreed sat at the end of the table looking over some papers, but stood up when she saw them.
“Good to see you again, Bander. I assume these learned gentlemen are your employers. Welcome, all.”
“My name is Valthar and I am in charge of this expedition. This is my assistant, Eton Sward.”
Sward made a face, but
Valthar ignored it. “I must say, madam, you appear too young to be captaining a ship.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“Nevertheless,” Valthar said. “We are most grateful to be in your company on this grand adventure.”
Bander smiled faintly. Valthar was certainly on his best behavior.
“I’m not sure how grand it will be,” Talessa Kreed said to Valthar. “As I told your man, I have seen the ruins with my own eyes and there’s not much there.”
Eton Sward said, “Believe me, madam, even the discovery of the merest crumble of brick or a broken foot of a statue is capable of sending Valthar here into paroxysms of ecstasy.”
Talessa Kreed arched her eyebrows. “Well, I daresay there is more than a little ecstasy in your future, sir.”
“Let us hope so,” Valthar said.
“Well, might as well make yourselves comfortable. It’s a day and a half at least that we’ll be on the river. Then another day and a half again through the jungle.”
Eton Sward looked at Valthar. “You sure about this Devil Dog?”
“If you have doubts, now’s your one and only chance to call it off,” Talessa Kreed said.
“Absolutely not.”
“Well, good then. Larandar, set sail.”
“Yes, captain,” the pilot replied and left the cabin.
Bander followed him. The cabin was a little too cramped for his taste and he wanted to see the procedure for setting off. Even though he was not overly fond of boats, he did appreciate the coordinated effort it took to launch one.
All the sailors began working like ants, as the big man Bander had seen earlier looked on. The sailors maneuvered the boat away from the dock with long poles. And the big man just stood there, not lifting a hand. Maybe he was the first mate or something—although he didn’t look like a sailor. He was almost Bander’s size, broad of shoulders, with a stone face.
Bander walked up to him and introduced himself.
The man regarded him with blank eyes for a moment. “The name’s Fenrue,” he grunted.
“You the first mate?”
