"Right now," he said, "you can bet that word is spreading across the ship that you are here, and that we've got you. You are going to have a fiendish time here. Everybody wants you… and, I guess, that cloak of yours."
Teldin had no reply and quietly sipped his water. CassaRoc lowered his voice. "That's a mighty powerful weapon you got there, son. You know, I don't take easily to a lot of people, but you're all right, Moore. You've been through a lot, and you're ready to take on more. And you saved my life. I owe you."
"It wasn't me," Teldin said. "My cloak- "
"The gods it wasn't! That cloak wouldn't have done a thing if you hadn't willed it. I saw you."
Teldin thought back. He had learned to control the cloak somewhat, tapping into hidden energies and abilities that only months before he never would have thought existed. He still was not exactly sure what he was doing and what the cloak was responsible for, but he could command its awesome energies for the most part, especially when he let the control come naturally, without concentrating too hard. At least, he figured, if he was not now the compleat master of the cloak, he was well on his way.
"Perhaps," he said.
"Perhaps. I had no chance against that ignorant umber hulk, not without a decent weapon. Perhaps. Right."
Teldin looked around at CassaRoc's assemblage. As he spoke, centaurs entered the room, carrying bandages and poultices for CassaRoc's wounded fighters. "We were lucky out there. Hardly anyone was hurt."
"I've got good fighters. Those neogi can't compare to a human on a rescue mission. Or on a quest." He finished the tall boot of ale and slammed it again on the table. "It's time, Teldin Moore," he said. "What's your story?"
With the crash and the immediate battle for his life behind him, Teldin was beginning to feel light-headed and tired, and he was becoming desperate for a soft bunk for the night. Or the day. Whatever they have in the phlogiston, he thought. But a story?
"My story? I don't have a story."
CassaRoc watched him skeptically. "You said you were on a quest. What brings you across the Rainbow Ocean, Cloakmaster?"
Teldin's eyes felt heavy from exhaustion. When he looked up, all the humans who had helped battle the neogi were expectantly watching him. "Well?" CassaRoc said.
"Well," Teldin began, taking a gulp of water. "Very well. From the beginning." He cleared his throat. "I've come here because the neogi shot down a Spelljammer that destroyed my farm on Krynn, and I was entrusted with some kind of magical cloak that I haven't been able to take off, even for a bath, for about a year."
The humans stared at him. Somewhere behind him, a centaur whinnied for another flagon of ale. "You asked," Teldin said.
"That I did," CassaRoc said, smiling. He turned to his companions. "It's going to be a long one, friends, but I think it's going to be good."
Teldin took a deep breath and started in, explaining the crash of the reigar craft on his farm, and his subsequent quest to remove the ancient cloak that the captain had given him. At first, the warriors listened as would any dubious group: laughing, making jokes and, occasionally, loud, sarcastic remarks. But by the time Teldin recounted his vicious fight with General Vorr and the almost accidental acquisition of the bronze amulet by Gaeadrelle Goldring, not a single warrior interrupted him, nor did they even march back to the centaurs' bar for more of ale.
Teldin told his tale in a calm, even voice, looking back honestly at his own foibles and mistakes, even admitting his misguided trust toward Aelfred Silverhorn and his initial distrust of the giff Herphan Gomja-a mistake for which he felt he would never forgive himself. Frankly, it was all a little embarrassing to Teldin, revealing the chain of events that seemed now to be a life long past, perhaps even a childhood of sorts. Here, today, on the Spelljammer, he felt he was finally grown up, in charge of his fate and his life; and the people around him made him feel comfortable in their attentive silence, accepted, as though he truly belonged- a feeling he had never really had before, not even on Krynn.
When he was finished, the warriors nodded and talked quietly among themselves. At the door, Chaladar was nodding approvingly. Teldin had recognized the style of the paladin's armor, and knew that he also hailed from Krynn.
Behind Teldin, Na'Shee touched his shoulder softly and said, "Men would die for a mission such as yours. Be proud of yourself. You have achieved your quest."
Teldin raised his water mug in a mock salute. "Thanks to you."
A shadow darkened the bar's doorway, and Chaladar stepped aside to let another human in. He turned to watch the woman as she paused inside the doorway and stared at Teldin Moore.
"The Cloakmaster," she said. "I knew it would be you."
Her words were like the gentle flow of a mountain stream, and Teldin instantly recognized her voice. His mouth fell open as he stared at the elven maiden, her long silver hair flowing like a river over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with flakes of gold, perhaps a little more dimly than when Teldin had seen them last, but she was still beautiful, still radiant, and he felt a pit open up deep in his stomach.
He leaped up from the table and took the elf into his arms. One hand ran slowly down the length of her luxurious silver hair.
"Cwelanas," Teldin whispered into her lips. "Cwelanas, is it really you?"
Chapter Three
"… Destiny is not to be toyed with or ignored. In my crystals I have seen the destiny of the Sphere Chaser an eon from now. I have seen that it begins with an act of innocent kindness and will end once destiny has brought answers to all those with the courage- or the naivete- to seek them…"
The beholder ruins stood in the shadow of the Spelljammer's mammoth tail, the once-proud columns broken and cracked after two years of the fearful onslaught by the mysterious disease called the Blinding Rot, and the eye tyrants' subsequent internecine wars.
The disease had decimated the beholder population, sending the survivors into a mad, xenophobic rage of destruction against their own race. No matter how much they hated all other races, they saved their true hatred for themselves: for all other beholder clans, and for any brethren who were different, or sick, or injured at all.
Still, the ruins stood, their tyrannical population diminished to barely a dozen beholders who craved the destruction of their enemies and, as did their most hated enemies, the neogi, the total enslavement of inferior races.
To the clans of the beholders, inferior meant everyone but themselves.
Inside the dimly lit ruins, the ancient tyrant Gray Eye held council with the remainder of his beholder brethren. His huge, milky white eye stared at each of the eleven beholders in turn. His smaller eyes waved stealthily on their thin stalks, like snakes targeting their prey, and the scales overlapping his round body were tinged pink in anger. Four powerful ioun stones circled his body in frenetic orbits that mirrored his evil mood, granting him safety against attack.
Gray Eye had considered the situation aboard the Spelljammer for a long time, ever since word had first reached the ship that the Cloakmaster was on his way.
The Cloakmaster. Gray Eye had bristled at the term when he had first heard it from one of his brothers. At the time, he had been floating along the roof of their ruins with three of his guard, and had been focused on the defensive capabilities of the nearby neogi tower. When word first came of the Cloakmaster's approach, Gray Eye had been so infuriated that one of his smaller eyes had narrowed its focus on a neogi guard standing along the neogi tower. Within seconds, a scarlet beam of light erupted from the eye and took the neogi unawares. The guard thrashed and screamed in agony as its brown flesh disintegrated into smoke and ash.