The Radiant Dragon

In startling contrast were his eyes, bright cornflower blue eyes that lent him an almost boyish mien. The network of fine lines at their corners suggested a sense of humor; the dark hollows beneath spoke of recent struggle and loss. Finally, there was something unusual about the man's cloak. It was an elusive hue, a deep, intense purple that was almost black. The cloak seemed to adjust its color and length almost imperceptibly as its wearer edged his way through the crowded streets.

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Although he did so with reluctance, he had employed this magic often; there were many who sought a tall, blue-eyed man with fair hair and a flowing cloak. His disguises did not seem to hamper some of his pursuers, but Teldin hoped that they at least deterred others who wished to join the race for the cloak. The cloak also translated unknown languages, enabled Teldin to shoot magical missiles and-most importantly-functioned as a helm powerful enough to propel a spelljamming ship at tremendous speed. It often occurred to Teldin that he still had much to learn about the cloak. He tried not to dwell on that thought any more than he had to, though; it was too much like waiting for the other boot to drop.

Teldin's stomach rumbled sharply, reminding him that it had been many hours since his last meal. He rounded a corner and looked for a likely place to eat. At the end of the street was a tavern, of the sort that he could have encountered in any small village back on his homeworld.

The tavern looked cozy, safe, and welcoming. It was long and narrow, with low eaves, a domed, thatched roof, and thick, ancient beams separating expanses of fieldstone and mortar. Teldin quickly made his way to the offered haven and pushed through the broad wooden door. An involuntary sigh of satisfaction escaped him as he took in the scene sprawled before him.

The patrons were a mixed group; merchants and travelers of many races drank alongside local fisherfolk and yeomen. To the left side of the tavern was a huge stone fireplace big enough to roast a whole boar with room to spare. A red-cheeked cook basted the sizzling roast with a fruit-scented sauce while two halflings struggled to turn the immense spit. Fat, fragrant loaves of bread baked in open ovens on either side of the fireplace. Scattered about the room were small, round tables draped with brightly colored cloths, and a long, well-stocked bar stretched almost the entire length of the back wall. A barrel-shaped dwarven barkeeper was passing out tankards of something that foamed and smelled suspiciously like Kry

He ordered di

Teldin was still stu

Nothing could inure him to the pain and guilt he felt over bringing danger to those around him. So many had fallen that Teldin, by nature a solitary man, had begun to distance himself still more in fear that caring for others could only result in their deaths. His hippolike friend, Gomja, was gone as well, having left to seek employment and a new life elsewhere.

As if by reflex, his hand drifted to the small bag that hung from his belt. Through the soft, worn leather he fingered the medallion that had been given to him by Gaye, the beautiful, exuberant kender whom he hadn't dared to love. Like most kender, Gaye had a talent for "finding" things, yet she'd gone against kender nature and given up the magical trinket, thinking that Teldin could use it on his quest. Indeed, the fal had told Teldin that the medallion could be used to track the Spelljammer, and Teldin had tried several times to follow the sage's instructions. Every attempt had failed; whatever magic the ancient disk once possessed apparently had faded. He kept Gaye's gift, however, wearing the bag on his belt exactly where her delicate fingers had knotted it. Leaving Gaye hurt more than he cared to admit.

A polite chirp interrupted his ruminations. Teldin glanced down as small, feathered hands placed a di

The robed figure of a tall humanoid male paused just inside the front door. His face was deeply shadowed by the cowl of his brown cloak, but Teldin noted that the face was thin and angular and dominated by a pair of slanted, distinctively elven eyes. One side of the cowl had been pushed back slightly to display a pointed ear. To all appearances, the newcomer was an elf, but it struck Teldin that something was not quite right. The robed figure began to make his way slowly back toward the bar. He moved with elven grace, but there was something foreign and somehow brittle about his movements. It occurred to Teldin that the creature was not quite what he seemed to be: he was elflike but not elven.

There was a certainty to this notion that startled Teldin. He had the oddest sensation that he'd caught a glimpse behind appearances to the elven creature's true nature. Where had that perception come from? he wondered briefly. Was it yet another power of the cloak?

At that moment a very drunken human challenged the newcomer to a knife-throwing contest. Weaving unsteadily, the man thrust his face into the deep folds of the cowl, a show of belligerence apparently calculated to either intimidate his opponent or overcome him with fumes. As Teldin watched, the drunk recoiled in horror. Pale and shaken, he backed away, sputtering apologies. Whatever the creature was, it was dangerous, Teldin concluded. In his opinion, elves were bad enough. Any variation on the species created possibilities he did not care to contemplate.

A hard-muscled female adventurer at the table next to Teldin's let out an oath, one colorful enough to distract him momentarily from the mysterious elven creature. He followed the line of her gaze, and his jaw dropped. Hovering in the doorway like an obscenely large eyeball was one of the most feared monsters in all of wildspace: a beholder.

Teldin had heard a score of horror stories about beholders, and he'd seen one stuffed and mounted as a trophy. From time to time, he had wondered whether he might have to face such a creature in battle, but he'd never dreamed he might bump into one in such a cozy, i