Gaye. He sighed. Gaeadrelle Goldring, the childlike kender. Whenever he thought about her flashing eyes, her lustrous hair, or her quick laugh, he felt a sick emptiness inside-a sense that he'd lost something important to him, but that he'd never known he'd had. Isn't that always the way? he asked himself cynically. You never recognize the value of something until it's gone.
But just what had he lost' he asked himself again. There'd never been anything between the two of them, anything significant… had there? He couldn't recall any words of endearment, any moments of connection.
He couldn't remember anything consciously, at least. But sometimes, when he slept, his dreams contained tantalizing images: a conversation in his cabin, where words were spoken that he couldn't remember while awake, and a realization that there was something between them after all.
Teldin shook his head in frustration. Why don't I remember all that now? he demanded of himself. It's not something I'm likely to forget, is it? It was much more likely that the images were created by some part of his mind, manifestations of some hidden desire-probably to have someone to trust, he admitted wryly. That was a luxury that had been all too rare recently.
Still, Gaye was gone. He'd left her behind in Herdspace- at her own request, he amended quickly. To the best of his knowledge, she was still alive-and he couldn't say that of many people he'd come to care about over the last months. Who knew? Maybe he'd eventually see her again. The universe was vast, but destiny seemed to enjoy loading the cosmic dice so that absurd coincidences came up from time to time, particularly around Teldin Moore.
He held up the amulet, twisted the chain between his thumb and forefinger so the bronze disk turned slowly.
Outwardly, it was so simple a thing, no more ornate than the cloak he wore. Yet both-amulet and cloak-were apparently objects of immense magical power. The cloak- the Cloak of the First Pilot, an ultimate helm-bestowed upon him magical abilities he'd only just started to explore. Most important among these-if the elves, and the fal named One Six Nine were to be believed-was that it would allow him to control the Spelljammer, the greatest of all spacefaring vessels and the object of a kind of cosmic scavenger hunt that included most of the spacefaring races Teldin had ever heard of (and probably some he hadn't). Apparently the cloak-given to him by a dying reigar, whose spelljamming vessel had crashed on his farm in Ansalon-marked him as a candidate to be the Spelljammer's next captain.
All he had to do was find the great ship.
That's where the amulet came in. Again, according to One Six Nine and the elves of Evermeet, it allowed Teldin to "see through the eyes of the Spelljammer"-to see what the vast ship was picking up with its strange senses. In the times he'd used the amulet, he'd experienced wondrous things: suns and worlds beyond imagining, all perceived with senses quite different from-and more sensitive than-gross human sight. This time he'd seen crystal spheres packed so closely that they looked in danger of touching, and a sun that had apparently blown up like a cask of smoke powder. Eventually, Teldin hoped, he'd see something he recognized through the Spelljammer's vision-some sphere or world he'd already visited-and then he'd know where the mysterious ship was.
He rubbed his tired eyes again. That wasn't all that came through the mental link. Sometimes-usually when he was tired, such as now-he felt emotions coming through the link. They were strong emotions, but alien ones, difficult to understand.
Emotions. The concept worried him on a profound level. Emotions are a characteristic of sentience, of self-awareness, aren't they? he asked himself. How can the Spelljammer be sentient? Certainly, One Six Nine and others had told him that the vast vessel was alive, but how could a ship be sentient, and intelligent, aware of its own existence, with feelings, hopes, and fears of its own? Impossible. He just couldn't make that intellectual leap.
Anyway, he reminded himself, one of the emotions I sometimes feel is fear. What could the Spelljammer have to fear?
No, he decided firmly, the emotions he felt weren't coming from the ship, but from a much more immediate source. Obviously the amulet was picking up his own emotions- and only when he was tired, at that, and his mental guard was down. That made a lot more sense. The senses of longing, of loss, of fear-all were his.
But, then, what about the dreams? part of his mind asked. On a couple of occasions he'd dreamed of the Spelljammer, and he'd felt emotions then, too. In one case, he'd even "heard" words associated with those emotions. Something about "others on a ribbon," and great need, wasn't it? Rightly or wrongly, he found he associated those words directly with the Spelljammer.
He shook his heard firmly, banishing those thoughts. They were just dreams, and what do dreams have to do with reality? Exactly nothing, that's what, he told himself.
He stood and stretched, felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck pop as he did so. Tired, he told himself again, too tired for such deep thoughts. Deep thoughts so easily become unsupported fantasies if you're not paying attention.
As he stretched, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror mounted on the bulkhead. His lips quirked up in a smile.
What would Grandfather say if he saw the way I dressed now? he wondered. Or, may the gods forbid, my father? He ran his hands down the sides of his night-black jerkin, felt the soft nap of the velvet caress his skin. Close-tailored trousers of black cotton disappeared into the tops of black, glove-soft boots. The cloak-which manifested the most unpredictable color changes-was now black, too, matching the rest of his ensemble. The unrelieved black of his garb was broken only by the flash of silver: the lion's-head clasp of the cloak, the jerkin's buttons, the buckle of his broad leather belt-black, too, of course-and two totally useless buckles on the boots. He had a pair of black gloves-more gauntlets, actually, reaching halfway up his forearms-to complete the outfit, but they were somewhere in his cabin with his short sword and scabbard, and the three knives he'd taken to sheathing behind his belt buckle and in his boot tops when he went groundside.
With a wry smile, he recalled the way he always used to dress: simple, homespun jerkin and breeches, usually in earth tones, and practical, hard leather boots with stout souls. The dress of a farmer.
But, then, Vallus Leafbower-mage and representative of the elven Imperial Fleet-had equipped him with well-tailored black garb for his meeting with the rulers of Evermeet on Toril. At the time he'd thought the getup was ludicrous for someone of his station and background. In retrospect, though, he'd wondered whether the elves would have shown him the same respect and honor if he'd been dressed as a dirt-kicking farmer, rather than the wildspace rake he'd considered himself at the time. Probably not, he'd decided wryly. Accordingly, at his last landfall, he'd picked up a new wardrobe.
He examined his image in the glass again, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. His new beard-closely trimmed, little more than a narrow band of sandy hair following the line of his jaw-still felt strange to his fingers.
But it certainly goes with the clothes, he had to admit. With his light brown curls cropped in what he thought of as a "helmet cut"-short, to fit under an armored helmet-and the beard, plus the black clothes, he looked quite piratical. Teldin Moore, wildspace pirate, cutlass-for-hire. He snorted.