The Broken Sphere

by Nigel Findley

  The Cloakmaster Cycle Five

  THE

  BROKEN SPHERE

  Nigel Findley

  THE BROKEN SPHERE

  Copyright © 1993 TSR, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.

  Random House and its affiliate companies have world wide distribution rights in the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.

  Distributed to the book trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

  Distributed to the book and hobby trade by regional distributors.

  Cover art by Michael Scott.

  Spelljammer is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a registered trademark owned by TSR Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  First Printing: May 1993

  These ePub and Mobi editions by Dead^Man February, 2012

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-61087

  987654321

  ISBN: 1-56076-596-8

  TSR, Inc.

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  Prologue

  The colors of the phlogiston were particularly chaotic in this part of the universe. They rippled and ran, curdled and swirled like oil paints boiling together in a stewpot, a million million vibrant hues most of which could only be named by the gods themselves.

  In this part of the universe, the crystal spheres – each a “bubble cosmos” – clustered close together. They bobbed and shifted on the phlogiston tides, too slow to see their motion, yet frenetically rapidly as these things are usually measured, as if they were the iridescent glass net-floats used by fishermen on a thousand thousand worlds. They were like pearls of incalculable price catching and reflecting back the strange light of the Flow.

  The pearls were tightly packed here, sometimes separated by less than the diameter of a single sphere, sometimes by much less.

  What would happen if they collided? Many sages of many races had asked that question, yet nobody could give a good answer. Could they collide, or were they kept apart by some negative analogue of gravity? Would they bump, then bounce apart like balls in the game known as “pockets,” played on several planets? And, if so, how would that affect the suns and planets – and the possible civilizations on those planets – within the spheres? Would the result be planetary catastrophe? Or would the inhabitants even notice?

  Or, perhaps, would the spheres shatter on impact? Few sages supported this latter view … though many myths included some discussion of a broken sphere …

  And through this crowded space, a ship moved, a dark mass against the surrealistic background of the Flow. The streamers, blebs, and rivers of phlogiston parted before it – unwillingly, it seemed – flowing back around it, yet giving it respectful berth, before closing once more behind it. The multicolored phlogiston – or, more correctly, where the phlogiston wasn’t – formed a uniform, ovoid bubble of clear air around the ship. Although the ship moved smoothly, it moved almost unimaginably fast.

  The ship was huge, a massive, curved thing, winged like a manta ray the size of a small world, with a long tail upswept to poise above the great ship’s upper surface. Here in the chaotic light of the phlogiston, it was impossible to tell the ship’s color, or even if it had a color. It was like a sharply bounded shadow, a shape of impenetrable blackness.

  The Spelljammer.

  That was the name originally given to the great ship by the elves – if the elves could be trusted to speak truly, on a matter as important as this – and the name subsequently given to all lesser ships that sailed the spaceways. The Spelljammer – subject of countless legends, myths, and barroom tales, most of them conflicting. It was the greatest spacefaring ship ever built – if, indeed, it was built – and the fastest, created by the gods as a test for the faithful, or a scourge for the unbeliever. Or perhaps it had been built by a mysterious race, long vanished from the universe, or created by a fiend from the Lower Planes, traded to an ambitious race in return for their collective soul. Or maybe it had been spawned in an entirely different universe, with its own array of crystal spheres. It was captained and crewed by …

  Who knew? On this topic, too, the legends contradicted each other. Was it captained by a god, with lesser immortals as its crew? By a demon? By a mortal, who’d won the honor through epic feats of bravery? Or was the mighty ship without captain and crew, and with no need of them?

  Serenely unconcerned by the confusion and discord centering around it, the Spelljammer cruised silently on.

  The massive manta craft changed course, pointing its bow toward the nearest of the crystal spheres. As it drew closer, the scale of the scene became apparent. The Spelljammer, the largest vessel in creation and bigger than some worlds, seemed to shrink in comparison to the sphere. First it appeared like a bird next to a mighty castle, then like a fly to a mountain, finally like a gnat to a whole world. Ahead of the great ship, the surface of the crystal sphere seemed to be a flat wall of mother-of-pearl, extending to infinity in every direction, without even a hint of curvature. Here, among the tight-packed crystal spheres, the scale of mortals and the scales of the gods came into perspective.

  A point of brilliance burst into life on the iridescent gray wall before the Spelljammer. Like a star, impossibly burning here in the phlogiston, it waxed in brilliance, quickly becoming intolerable. It seemed to expand, though whether that was the case or not, or whether the great ship was diving toward it, was incidental. From a dimensionless point it became a small disk of actinic light, growing instant by instant. Then, at its center, a point of blackness appeared, at first almost invisible in the heart of the radiance, but swelling rapidly. In an eye blink it became a broad annulus of scintillating light around a disk of blackness now bespecked with stars.

  The Spelljammer plunged through the center of the black disk, out of the Flow and into wildspace.

  Here, inside the sphere, were none of the curdled colors of the phlogiston. The darkness of the space that “planet-siders” call “real” enveloped the huge ship. At immense speed it hurtled away from the inner surface of the crystal sphere, which now appeared as endless black emptiness studded with alien stars.

  In the center of the sphere – countless millions of leagues from the Spelljammer – there was a sun … or, more properly, something that had been a sun. Now it was the torn and shattered body of a star, ripped apart from within by catastrophic forces. Concentric rings of gas expanded out from where the sun had been. Even though the scale was so great that actual movement was imperceptible – would be on any time scale measured in less than centuries – the feeling of speed, of inconceivable violence, was inescapable. Lashed by radiation that sages could only guess at, the gas fluoresced in eye-piercing greens and violets.

  About a quarter of the way out from the center of the nebula were two tiny white blobs, each only the smallest fraction of the size of the gas clouds. Before the star had torn itself apart and vented its fury on its children, these two blobs had been planets, the largest of thirteen. Now only the two remained – the others had vaporized almost instantly – and even they were burned to cinders, scoured of all life.

  And, at the very heart of the nebula, there was something else. Detectable only by senses more
precise than sight, it lurked like a ghost among the radiation-lashed gases: the tiny corpse of the destroyed star.

  The Spelljammer cruised far from the fury of the crystal sphere’s center, out where there was nothing but light and lingering gravity-wave echoes of the star’s self-immolation. With mysterious senses, it scanned the area – searching, always searching.

  Myriad thoughts flickered through what some might call the ship’s mind, thoughts coupled with emotions that bore only the barest resemblance to those felt by humans. Sadness, that was the core emotion, sadness tinged by a sense of loss. There was an overtone of incompleteness, of yearning.

  And a strong undercurrent of fear.

  Chapter One

  Teldin Moore’s shoulders slumped. He opened his eyes. True vision replaced the magical, mental vision that had possessed him for the past – what? – hour? – two? The light faded in his small ship’s cabin; the brilliant glare of molten bronze that had reflected off the few metal fittings dimmed, leaving nothing but the light of a small, guttering oil lamp. Teldin knew that bronze light well, knew it came from the traveling cloak around his shoulders. He’d seen it many times over the past weeks.

  He stretched muscles sore from holding the same position for so long. Cupped in both hands on the table before him, he held a simple bronze amulet. He opened his hands and let it fall to the scarred tabletop. He’d received the amulet … when? In Herdspace, he thought, that strange crystal sphere where monstrous “megafauna” strolled around the inside of the sphere, and more familiar races made their homes around the great beasts’ footprints, or even on their gargantuan bodies. Hadn’t Gaye given it to him?

  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.

  Still and all, he told himself, I wear the Cloak of the First Pilot, as the elves call it. Why not dress the part? He flipped his mirror image a mocking salute.

  For a moment, he considered going out on deck for a breath of fresh air. The one-compartment cabin of his ship was small, not much larger than the sail locker he’d shared with the gnomes aboard the Probe. Sometimes he regretted his decision to set sail alone in a ship tiny enough to be crewed by one man. While he relished the privacy, and the chance to think without interruption, he frequently suspected the tradeoffs had been too great. Space was a major issue, but even more important was the fact that he couldn’t put an end to his privacy when he was done thinking his deep thoughts.

  Still and all, he reminded himself, you’ve made your bed and now you’ve got to lie in it.