The sage could be referring to only one thing. Teldin reached into the bag at his belt and drew out the medallion Gaye had given him. Immediately he was hit with a wall of emotion as overwhelming as a tidal wave. He gripped his forehead with the fingers of his free hand, struggling to ride out the mental storm. Occasionally a random thought or feeling became separate from the cacophony in his mind, and somehow he realized that he was being buffeted by the emotions of every person in the room. When he felt as if he could bear no more, Teldin became aware of a new sound, a voice of incredible power that drove back the mental assault. Slowly the storm receded. Teldin lowered his hands and tentatively opened his eyes. Tseth stood over him; the saving spell had come from the ancient elf.
The sage extended a wizened hand. “May I see the artifact?” he asked, and his voice once again held the reedy quaver of age.
Teldin nodded and handed the amulet to the sage.
Holding it in one palm, Tseth wove an intricate pattern in the air above it with the fingers of his other hand. Finally he shook his head and handed it back.
“Nothing,” he said with a touch of surprise. “Whatever magic it once possessed has almost faded. Can you describe what happened to you just now?”
Teldin did the best he could to explain the sudden assault of emotion. On impulse, he also described the sudden flashes of insight that had started coming to him since he’d acquired the medallion, and the sage’s face lit up.
“An instrument of true seeing,” Tseth murmured. He looked at Teldin. “It seems to me that the two objects are related. Perhaps the magic of the cloak can augment the medallion’s failing power.”
Following Tseth’s instructions, Teldin focused on the amulet, concentrating on the sigils engraved on its face and slowly moving into them, through them.
As if from a great distance, he heard gasps of surprise from the elves and he noticed that his cloak had taken on the glowing, red-gold hue of molten bronze. The elven council chamber blurred and faded before the bright light, and Teldin had the notion that reality itself was melting before the cloak’s bright magic.
Then he was beyond the cloak, far from his own body, far from the elven kingdom. He saw the blackness of wildspace, sprinkled with unfamiliar groupings of stars. The sense of immediacy was incredible, as if he actually were seeing it through eyes that not only saw, but felt and measured.
Accepting the strange perception as reality, Teldin began to focus intently on the scene before him. The vast, majestic emptiness of wildspace was familiar, but it held dimensions that he had never been able to see before. In the silence was song, and the blackness had depth and texture.
Suddenly the dreamlike quality of his vision exploded into a frenzy of anger and flight. A dragon burst into sight, but such a dragon as Teldin had never imagined. Teldin’s vision registered the dragon’s opalescent black scales and enormous wings, and his more subtle, magically enhanced senses staggered under the impact of the creature’s rage. The serpentlike dragon wheeled and flew away at tremendous speed. Lacking points of reference, Teldin had no idea how big the creature was. Its emotions struck him in a bright burst of power, leaving Teldin with the impression that he had spent a moment in the dragon’s mind. The feeling stretched his own mind to the point of explosion. If a small world was sentient, if a star could feel rage, then that might approach the vast intelligence that flickered briefly in Teldin’s expanded vision.
So this is how a dragon thinks, he thought dazedly. He might as well have said, So this is what it feels like to be struck by lightning.
The enormity of it shattered Teldin’s vision and threw him back into the elven council chamber.
With only his own human senses to gather information, Teldin felt suddenly blinded and silenced. The elves plied him with questions, cautiously at first and then with growing excitement. He put the medallion down on the table and told them in as much detail as he could remember what he had seen and felt.
Vallus spoke with great wonder. “I have heard tales of this medallion, but I was not certain of its existence and had no idea it was in your possession. Its magic enables you to see what the Spelljammer has seen.”
Teldin had no idea of what benefit that might be, and he let his expression say so.
“Don’t you understand?” Vallus persisted. “If you can see what the ship sees, you can figure out where it is. The creature you described is a radiant dragon, a very rare being indeed. Perhaps there have been other, recent sightings of this creature. That would give us a general idea of the ship’s location. Can you remember anything else that might be used as landmarks? Star formations? Planets? Anything?”
The elf’s excitement was contagious. Teldin’s hollowed eyes brightened. Determined to try again, he reached for the medallion. Tseth’s withered hand captured Teldin’s wrist before his fingers could close on the ancient disk.
“No. The use of magic takes a great deal of strength. You are not ready to try again. At any rate, the effort would be to little purpose,” the sage admitted with obvious reluctance. “The elves of Evermeet have little knowledge of other spheres. We could not tell you what you saw.” it seems to me that our best course would be to proceed to Lionheart,” Vallus said thoughtfully. Understanding the risk he was taking in revealing such information, he turned to Teldin and explained, “Lionheart is the secret base of the Imperial Fleet. Elves from many worlds are stationed there. Surely with their combined resources we can find the answers you need.”
Teldin instinctively recoiled from the plan. He was not ready to commit to the elven cause, and he feared that walking into their command center would take this choice out of his hands. With a surge of relief he remembered Hectate and the uncanny knowledge the half-elf had of star charts and navigation. He was sure Hectate could provide the needed answers, but he wasn’t about to announce his decision to a room full of elves.
After a long, typically elven discussion, it was decided that nothing more could be accomplished. Queen Amlauril suggested that they break so that Teldin Moore could rest until time for the evening meal. The exhausted Teldin followed an elven aide out of the chamber, feeling as though he were wading through swamp water.
The elf showed Teldin to a guest chamber. His peripheral vision suggested that the room was sumptuously appointed, but his fading attention was focused solely on the bed. Preparing to flop into exhausted slumber, he pulled back the bright silk coverlet and recoiled in surprise. The bed, which had looked solid enough when draped, was a thin mattress that floated roughly three feet from the floor. A childhood image from his grandfather’s stories popped unbidden into his mind, a tale of a magic mat that would bear the rider to magical destinations. For all he knew, he could wake up from his nap to find himself in Vallus’s Myth Drannor.
He was still debating whether or not to chance sleep when a knock sounded on his door. At his summons Vallus came into the room. “Am I interrupting your rest?”
Teldin cast a rueful glance toward the bed. “I doubt I could sleep on that thing.”
The wizard laughed. “They bear some getting used to. If you’re not going to sleep, perhaps we could take a walk before eveningfeast? The palace gardens are lovely.”
Despite his fatigue, Teldin agreed. He and the elf made their way through a bizarre garden maze fashioned of tall blue hedges. Vallus watched him with amused understanding as Teldin plucked a tiny leaf from the hedge, crushed it between his fingers, and sniffed. The plant yielded a spicy fragrance not unlike the pines of Krynn.
The garden into which they emerged was just as unusual. Tiny bell-like flowers actually tinkled, playing intricate music that responded with the shifting afternoon breezes. Teldin assumed it was springtime in Evermeet, because several small ponds were ringed with flowering trees. The flowers were being pushed aside by the newly budded blue leaves, and fallen petals foamed at the shores of the ponds. At the far side of the garden, happily snacking on the rare foliage, were Chirp and Trivit. Teldin wondered idly what blue leaves
tasted like, and what color they might turn in autumn.
Vallus stopped under the azure shade of a tree and pointed to a small knothole. “Look in there and tell me what you see.”
Puzzled, Teldin stepped up and squinted into the hole. A tiny blue frog stared back at him with bulging yellow eyes.
“That’s a zenthian tree frog,” the elf explained, its life span comprises a single day. A minute to you, the time in which you might pull on your boots or kiss your lady, marks the frog’s lifespan from hatchling to adult. How well can you understand this frog, or it you?”
Teldin thought this over silently. Sifting an experience through centuries of life would give elves a very different perspective. Once Vallus had said something like …
Vallus.
A thought that had been struggling to gain form all day finally came together with jarring clarity.
“What is it, Teldin Moore?” the elf asked softly.
“You’re a wizard and a scholar. Is the elven philosophy about the Broken Sphere so obscure that you’ve never heard of it?” he demanded.
Vallus met his gaze squarely. “No. It is widely known.”
Teldin pressed his lips firmly together to keep from screaming with frustration. “If you knew the elves of Evermeet couldn’t help me, why did you bring me here?”
Instead of responding immediately, the wizard locked his arm with Teldin’s and drew the human through a gate. The garden beyond was steeply terraced, providing a view of the elven city, the dock area, and the sea beyond. Several levels down Teldin saw a cluster of elven children at play. Their bright clothes fluttered as they ran, and their happy laughter drifted upward. Some of Teldin’s anger ebbed, and he thought of his own childhood and wondered what effect it would have on a person to have that magic era extended for years, perhaps decades.
Vallus allowed him several quiet moments. “Evermeet is a thriving, vital elven society. I wanted you to see elves as we see ourselves. Perhaps I was being naive, but I hoped this would seduce you to the elven side.” The wizard cast a wry, almost wistful smile at Teldin.
Teldin was touched by the elf’s admission, but his answering smile was a little uncertain. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“There is still time before you must make your decision,” Vallus said. “At the moment, though, we should return to the palace. The evening meal is traditionally served at birdsong – the time of day just before twilight, when the birds begin their evening songs.”
So I still have time? echoed Teldin silently. There was a strange undertone in Vallus’s voice that suggested that this time might have its limits. He tucked that question away with the rest of his doubts.
Oblivious to Teldin’s speculation, Vallus said almost gaily, “Come on. Whatever else you may think about elves, after tonight you’ll know beyond doubt that we can throw a party.”
Chapter Nine
In the unlikely guise of a hummingbird, Celestial Nightpearl darted around the palace garden like a nervous, multicolored gemstone. The Other was close at hand; she could sense his presence and every now and then she could feel the storm of confusion that was his mind. She was beginning to despair, however, of ever focusing in on any one creature on this island cluttered with elves and disconcerting blue plants.
A duet of high, piping giggles drew her attention, and she whizzed around a stand of flowering bushes to investigate. Her tiny black eyes settled on a pair of dracons, two males just entering adolescence. Finally, she thought with a surge of relief, some creatures she could understand!
“Try this one next,” offered the pale green dracon, handing his fellow a branch lush with blue leaves and pale orange flowers. “It’s a bit odd, but on the whole extremely palatable.”
The other dracon, a mottled green one with overly dainty mannerisms, accepted the plant and took a discriminating nibble. The first dracon absently stuffed his mouth with the rare foliage, looking around the garden for his next course. Suddenly his reptilian eyes bulged with excitement, and his long neck craned in the direction of the garden maze. “See those two people? Isn’t that Captain Teldin Moore?” he asked through a mouthful of blue leaves.
“Trivit! How could you not know such a thing! Of course it is,” huffed the dark green dracon. He popped a flower into his mouth and chewed, a meditative expression on his green face. “At least, I’m almost certain one of them is,” he qualified.
“Oh? And which one would that be, my dear Chirp?” Trivit asked in a snide tone.
Chirp leaned forward and squinted hard enough to distort his entire face. Finally he gave up and rolled his eyes with exasperation. “Well, all right, I’ll admit it. I can’t tell them apart at this distance. Why these two-legged beings set such store by the tiniest differences is beyond my grasp.”
“Oh, I suppose the differences are there to see, if one looks closely enough,” Trivit said thoughtfully. “For example, upon close study, one can separate males from females.”
“You can tell?” Chirp marveled, pantomiming goggle-eyed shock. “I never could. It always seemed to me that the sex of a human was discernable – or of interest – only to another human.”
The dracons shared a companionable giggle, then sudden mortification overtook the paler creature. “Chirp, we forget ourselves. It is unseemly to make our kaba the subject of so coarse a jest.”
High leader, eh? mused the hummingbird. A human named Teldin Moore was a dracon clan leader? She absently took a sip from a red trumpet flower as she weighed the possibilities. An Other certainly would be in a position of leadership. The hummingbird swooped in closer, hoping to hear more, and one of the distracted dracons batted her away as if she were a pesky fly. Celestial Nightpearl, venerable radiant dragon, barely dodged an offhanded swipe that would have reduced her to pulp and feathers had she been a real hummingbird.
“Wait! I know! Captain Teldin Moore is the taller one, the one with the cloak,” Chirp said triumphantly.
To test this theory, the disguised dragon sent her thoughts out through the seeking magic of the pendant, which was now little more than a speck of gold and blue against the tiny ruby feathers of her throat. Yes, the human male was the Other she sought, and the dark cloak that surrounded him with magic was the twin to her own pendant.
“Do you think the kaba will join forces with the Imperial Fleet?” Chirp asked. Suddenly alert, the hummingbird listened intently for the other dracon’s response. She had sensed uppermost in the human’s mind his deep preoccupation with the elves. It would appear that she might have a rival.
“I should think not,” Trivit returned thoughtfully. “He has his own affairs to consider, after all. Fighting a war, no matter how entertaining that might be, certainly would not further his search for the Broken Sphere.”
“Ah, yes.” The dark dracon sighed lustily. “Just think of it! A grand quest! A true adventure!”
So the human had not yet found the great ship. If he truly was looking for the Broken Sphere, he was farther off track that she’d dared to hope. Celestial Nightpearl smirked, a satisfying response even if it did not register on her hummingbird anatomy. Let the elves trot out their best threats and blandishments. She had a bargaining chip that the human Other could not resist.
Still, it never hurt to fight a battle on two fronts, she mused as she pondered her next step.
“You know, there is one thing about our kaba that concerns me,” Trivit said thoughtfully. “He apparently is without a consort, and he’s unlikely to find one on a journey into deep space. If the line of clan succession is to be assured, we must remedy this situation as soon as possible. And taking the short view of the matter, his solitary state is not healthy or natural, even for a human.”
Chirp’s face drooped into an expression of glum agreement. “I know whereof you speak. For that matter, it would do our own constitutions a world of good to meet some lusty green wenches.”
The dracons shared a manly soprano chuckle and a few knowing nudges. Their posturing, absurd though it
might be, gave Celestial Nightpearl an amusing idea. A burst of silent, sardonic laughter shook her tiny frame, sending her crashing into a flower-covered trellis. She staggered out of a large blossom, dazed and dusted with pollen. As she flew off unsteadily toward the privacy of a nearby grape arbor, she admonished herself to be more careful. Flight in wildspace was one thing: serene, majestic, powerful, and faster than lesser creatures could begin to comprehend. The obstacle course provided by this cluttered little world made flight another matter altogether.
Perching on a blade of blue grass, the hummingbird beat her tiny wings for balance as she brought to mind the name, face, and form she wished to assume. Her new identity would be perfect, as well as vastly entertaining.
The transformation came easily. She had seen the creature depicted in an ancient, illuminated manuscript of dragon legend. From the perspective of a radiant dragon, there was not that much difference, after all, between a hummingbird and an elf. Her shapechanging was accomplished in moments, and Celestial Nightpearl stood upright on two booted feet.
She examined her new hands, pale and slender and without ornament, the nails blunt and the palms hard with calluses. An assortment of well-used weapons hung about her person, and thick braids of ebony hair brushed the back of her knees. Granted, the adventurer’s drab leathers were a far cry from the jeweled feathers of a hummingbird, but she’d learn to adapt. At least, she mused with a half-smile, her new name continued the avian theme.
As Raven Stormwalker, the radiant dragon strode through the palace gardens toward the dracons. The Little Ones, for all their clannishness and odd, militaristic ways, could prove to be valuable allies. They would help her on the strength of her new identity alone, but “Raven” thought she might clue them in on her real identity as well. Dracons had a proper and most satisfying reverence for dragons. A little adulation would be a pleasant side benefit, and with all she’d gone through recently, she certainly deserved a treat.
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