Riddle

In the 1500's, an island meeting place
That in the 1800's, will leave no trace

For time and its ever changing face
With maps, hide this gathering space

Templars corralled on a high dry band
Will travel east and play in the sand

The curse from afar that will empty this land
Then yet, once again, must its patrons disband

For betwixt the lakes, not the roiling seas
Does the Templar standard mark its deeds

One lach becomes two, or so it seems
Inter the hunters and their endless schemes