The Broken Sphere Read Free Page A

was still bound, his actions constrained. He’d never been one to bow to the dictates of destiny without some kind of a struggle, and that wasn’t going to change now. But what could he do? He couldn’t remove the cloak; that was part of its magic. And even if he could, would he? Should he? There were many others in the universe who wanted to command the Spelljammer  – who’d kill for the immense power it represented. Yet he found that he didn’t trust anyone who wanted to be the next captain of the Spelljammer   ….
    Paladine! he cursed through clenched teeth. He hated this. Since he’d first set eyes on the triple-damned cloak, his actions had been severely limited. While he had, theoretically, freedom to choose at each decision point, he was still being forced along a particular course by his own ethical and moral outlook.
    Will I always be trapped like this? he asked himself. When do I say “consequences be damned,” and act in my own best interest? He crossed his arms before his chest, his jaw set angrily.
    And then he caught another glimpse of himself in the glass. The image brought a half smile to his lips. Tough-talking Teldin Moore, he chided himself. At least I’m not losing my sense of humor.
    *****
    He woke with a muzzy head and a foul taste in his mouth. A dull headache had taken up residence behind his right eye, and his stomach burned with acid.
    Again, he thought disgustedly. This is getting much too familiar.
    He looked at the earthenware jug on the nightstand beside his cot. He’d neglected to put the cork back in it, and the pungent aroma of sagecoarse filled the cabin. With hands that could be steadier, he restoppered the jug. The smell of the strong liquor was still in the air, of course, and continued to make his stomach churn.
    This isn’t the way it should be, he told himself.
    Not too long ago, Teldin had rather prided himself on the fact that he didn’t drink hard liquor. While sailing aboard the hammership Probe with Aelfred Silverhorn, he’d developed a taste for sagecoarse, but had felt no need to drink more than an occasional small cup. But now?
    He picked up the jug and swirled it, estimating its contents by feel. About a third gone, he guessed, and it was full yesterday. Is it any wonder I feel like scavver dung?
    Even worse, this wasn’t the first time. He’d started having trouble sleeping while he was still on Radole, soon after his parting of the ways with Vallus Leafbower. Even though his body was dead tired, he’d found he couldn’t turn his mind off.” Lying in bed, he found himself replaying in his brain all the major decision points in the course that had taken him from Ansalon to here, trying to find some alternative choices that would have made things turn out better. Eventually – sometimes hours later – he’d sunk into a fitful sleep racked by nightmares. He’d awakened unrefreshed, tangled in sheets that his thrashing had turned into sweat-soaked ropes.
    He’d weathered almost a week like this, growing steadily more and more tired, his gritty-feeling eyes becoming ever more sunken. One night, in desperation, he’d bought a flask of sagecoarse from the inn where he was staying, and had used it to drink himself into oblivion. Surprisingly, he’d felt better rested the next day (even though the resulting hangover had been epic). Better yet, he’d seemed to have broken the cycle. The next several nights he’d managed to sleep without taking a drink and had thought he was over his problems.
    No such luck. The nightmares had come back, as had the hours of staring at the ceiling, second-guessing everything he’d done since leaving his farm. Again he’d had to turn to the bottle when he couldn’t handle the sleeplessness any further. By this time, he was aboard the Ship of Fools and in space. Fortunately, he’d had the forethought to include some jugs of sagecoarse among his traveling supplies.
    That had been – what? – three weeks ago now, give