The Broken Sphere (41 page)

When the Cloakmaster had imagined the shards of the Broken Sphere, he’d pictured them as night black on one side, pearllike on the other. In fact, however, he was wrong on both counts. Both surfaces of the shards resembled frosted glass, or – a better description – a mirror covered with steam or mist. They reflected light, but images in them were blurred, indistinct, not sharp-edged at all.

Were they always like this? he wondered. When the crystal sphere was intact, was its interior frosted, reflecting the light of its sun? Or was this some consequence of the shattering – of the hatching of the Cosmic Egg?

And that thought raised the central question: just what had caused the One Egg to “hatch,” the crystal sphere to break? What unimaginable force could have burst it asunder?

He leaned against the rail of the upper battle station, staring at the shards. Conflicting emotions warred in his chest. Sadness – that was definitely part of his emotional landscape. A sense of total and utter devastation. This had once been an intact sphere, like the one enclosing Krynn, his home. When it shattered, everything within it must have been destroyed. Here, floating in the midst of the largest graveyard that the mind could conceive, how could anyone not feel sadness?

Yet, too, there was a sense of hope, of newness – of creation, or perhaps rebirth. The Cloakmaster didn’t know quite where these emotions came from, but they were impossible to ignore. Perhaps they were right, he mused, all of them: Zat, the People, those who wrote the books in the Great Archive. Perhaps the Broken Sphere
is
the Cosmic Egg, the origin of all.

Whether or not that was true, whether the Broken Sphere was a beginning or an ending, one thing was undeniable: it was beautiful, wondrous, awe-inspiring. His eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears, and grief tore at his throat. Julia should be here to see this, not just the ship that bore her name.

“Ship ahoy!” The call from the starboard lookout, stationed in the observation gallery where Teldin had captured T’k’Ress, echoed through the ship.

The Cloakmaster swallowed hard and rubbed roughly at his eyes with the back of a hand. He hurried around the battle station until he could see the observation gallery, level with his own position. “Where?” he called.

“Low on the starboard bow,” the lookout replied, pointing.

Teldin looked to where the man indicated, below the plane of the
Julia,
to the right of its twisted ram. Yes, there it was, a black shape against the swirls of the phlogiston. A smooth, curvilinear shape – gracefully downswept wings, a tail that arched up and over the flat dorsal surface …

The
Spelljammer!

As realization struck him, Teldin Moore felt the cloak around his shoulders flare to life. Brilliance washed around him, a hard, brittle nimbus of blue-white light he’d never seen before. The amulet, suspended around his neck on its chain, throbbed and pulsed against his chest. For an instant, unbidden, an image of the
Julia
itself – distant and tiny against the crystal shards – filled his mind. He knew that he was seeing himself, through the perceptions of the
Spelljammer.
Then the image was gone.

Supernally heightened perception lingered, however. He drew a breath and felt the air chill his throat and his chest. He felt the oxygen absorb across the membranes of his lungs and spread into his bloodstream. The palms of his hands could feel the grain of the wooden rail that he grasped, could sense every detail of its fibrous structure.

He could sense every element of his
own
structure as well – every muscle fiber, every nerve. His skin was unnaturally sensitive, feeling the complexity of the fabric’s weave as his clothes brushed against it.

“Teldin, what …?”

He turned slowly to see Djan skid to a halt on the battle station.

It was as if he’d opened his eyes for the first time, the Cloakmaster thought, was truly
seeing
for the first time. He could see every detail of his friend – every hair on the half-elf’s head, every pore in his skin, as a distinct element. And more: it was as if he could see deep within him as well, down into his soul. Djan’s emotions washed over him, became one with his own …

Then it was over. The transcendence, the epiphany, could only have lasted a few moments, but, subjectively, it could have lasted for years, a lifetime, an eternity. The blue-white nimbus faded, as did the Cloakmaster’s hyperacute senses, but the calmness – the sense of centeredness, of peace, remained.

He smiled at Djan, a smile of wonder. He pointed forward and down. “It’s there,” he said quietly, calmly. “The
Spelljammer
. I’ve found it at last.”

The half-elf dashed to the rail and stared in the direction that Teldin had indicated. A smile spread across his face – a tentative smile, though. With the last remnant of his enhanced perception, the Cloakmaster sensed his friend’s mixed wonder and trepidation.

“I see it,” Djan confirmed. “What do you want to do?”

“Bring us closer,” Teldin said simply. “Close with the
Spelljammer.”

As
Djan sprinted into the ship to relay the order, the Cloakmaster turned back to stare at the object of his quest.

The great manta ship had already maneuvered, he saw at once. Rather than viewing it from the side and slightly above, he now looked full onto the
Spelljammer’s
bow. The mysterious vessel was closing with
him.

Sudden fear jabbed at his heart and throat. It was closing
fast
 
–
already traveling faster than any vessel had a right to, and still accelerating. Against the chaotic backdrop of the Flow, the dark shape swelled alarmingly.

An attack run! With horrible clarity, he knew: the
Spelljammer
was attacking the nautiloid.

Why?
He wore the ultimate helm, didn’t he?

But, then, weren’t there
other
ultimate helms in the universe, other contenders for the great ship?

What if someone else had reached the
Spelljammer
first, had taken control of it? And what if the new captain’s first priority was to eliminate all potential rivals – among them Teldin Moore?

“Battle stations!” His scream was so loud that it tore his throat. He was unable to wrench his gaze from the onrushing world-sized vessel.

“Evasive action!” he ordered, but he knew it was already too late.