The Ultimate Helm (43 page)

With the War for the
Spelljammer
over, the ships turned away from the sphere, the
Spelljammer
Sphere, as Estriss was calling it, and headed deeper into the flow.

Cwelanas found her friends outside, on the observation deck, staring behind them at the slowly receding black sphere. They turned at her approach. Djan put a hand on her shoulder. “
Verenthestae
,” he said. “All is as it should be.”

She nodded, wishing it were otherwise. They all watched the sphere in silence for a time, then the mind flayer looked up.

My observations are not complete, but I have discovered something interesting,
he said.

Na’Shee brushed back her hair and turned. CassaRoc leaned forward on the rail and tried to look farther into the flow, as though he were searching for something.

“What have you found?” Cwelanas asked.

Estriss gestured toward the
Spelljammer
Sphere.
The sphere is somehow locked from entrance. We could not open portals to sail inside, even if we tried.

“I know,” she said.

The mind flayer nodded.
But there are thin parts in the crystal, where the shell is still forming. It is not opaque at those points.

“What is it, Estriss? What did you see?”

His eyes crinkled happily, as though he had witnessed all the wonders of the universe.

A new birth. A new beginning. A sun,
Estriss said.
I believe I saw a new sun.

Epilogue

“Here begins the log of Creannon, the Spelljammer, and the Last Pilot, who is noiv the First....”

Cloakmaster, the Chosen Pilot;

day one

The eternal blackness of cold, empty space, a void of nothingness, was momentarily dispelled. First an almost infinitesimal glimmer of light appeared where before there had been nothing, then an immeasurable expulsion of pure, blinding power ripped the contours of space and time and spewed energy
 –
pebbles, trails, streams of raw power
 –
across the black, eternal, timeless sea.

In the center of the explosion, a shape, a living thing, feeding off the fires of creation, began to coalesce inside the raw, swirling phlogiston.

It glowed from within, magic and energy pulsing like rivers of fire through the veins that had once been called warrens.

Creannon, the
Spelljammer,
sailed from the doorway its own death had created and spread its great wings into wild-space. The nova of its birth dissipated. The
Spelljammer
sang into a cold, sunless night that it had never before experienced in the forever light of the flow.

—
The universe,
the
Spelljammer
said,
is ours.

—
  It is reborn
.

The soul of Teldin marveled at the emptiness of this universe. Here the powers and the matter of the flow had been transformed into raw, untamed energy, and he could feel through the
Spelljammer’s
senses that the universe was spread out before them like a blanket, unbounded as far as he could see. This universe seemed to be entirely wildspace: cold, empty, mostly devoid of life. Here suns burned in space while the planets around them slowly evolved, and rarely did the processes of life naturally occur.

—
This will change,
the Cloakmaster said.

—
Yes. Our destiny is to create. Life is all-important
.

—
And the universe we have left behind... What of it?

—
That is closed to us now. We must look forward, not behind
.

—
What of the Broken Sphere? What have we left behind?

There was a pause. Then: —
Here is but one of their possible futures...

Destiny appeared before them, a view of the Broken Sphere that seemed to envelop them as though they were there.

They watched. Seconds became years, then decades.

The sphere of phlogiston solidified to become a black crystalline wall that seemed to take up all of existence. Inside, the phlogiston swirled and condensed. The flaming shards that had been the
Spelljammer’s
hull had embedded in the inside layer of the reforming sphere. There the latent magical energies imbued within the phlogiston merged with the
Spelljammer’s
soul. The shards transformed into crystals, glowing with power. The memories of the
Spelljammer
became the stars that generations of as yet unborn humans would look up to and dream about, create myths around, make love under, and reach for.

The swirling phlogiston inside the sphere was a roiling firestorm. In time, the energies separated, and the forces of magic condensed the spinning balls of phlogiston into a glorious, brilliant sun and worlds
 –
eighteen of them, perhaps more, perhaps less. The sphere would be reborn
 –
not identical to Ouiyan, but in honor of the sacrifice the sphere had made millennia in the past.

—
Its destiny,
the
Spelljammer
sang,
is unlike ours. It waits to write itself where our destiny is and always has been written for us.

A thousand years later, the worlds teemed with life. Eightlegged horses roamed the ocher plains of Thoris. The seas of

Hedriana swam with orange fish that changed color with the hours of the day. On Elias, even the smallest field mice had the innate ability to summon magic. And on the recreated worlds that had once been Colurranur, BedevanSov, Ondora, Ladria, Asveleyn, and Resanel, life reappeared. Species that had been destroyed millennia ago were renewed, reshaped, on new worlds formed from the molecules of the old, and they shared their worlds with new forms of life that celebrated the variety of existence and the wonder of being.

And into the animal kingdom came humanity, which brought with it fire. Humanoids brought with them intelligence and evolving languages. They brought myth and wonder, fear and awe. They told tales of legend, of how the night eats the sky, of how the gods look upon them from the eyes in the night. They learned the ways of magic, and they learned how to fly.

Humanity learned, and once again lived in peace. Like their forgotten forerunners, they lived peacefully with the other life forms of their worlds, learned how to speak with the beasts of the sea, how to respect life in all its forms, and how to play games of skill with the denizens of the trees...

... and every year, as they migrated from planet to planet, as they returned to teach humanity how to sing into the stars and imagine worlds and places undreamed of, swarms of reborn
spaakiil,
the last legacy of the
Spelljammer
, filled the skies.

—  This is the future,
the
Spelljammer
said,
a future unwritten, merely shaped by the darkness of future past, one of millions of realities that have yet to unfold, waiting to take shape in the Sphere That Once Was. In a thousand years or so, when all this has come to pass – or has not – and perhaps the known spheres will have found peace, Ouiyan Reborn will once again be open for all vessels from all spheres. Here all may learn, orcs and humans, mind flayers and beholders. All may learn... together. Songs of joy will be sung throughout the spheres, the races will live and evolve together, and the Spelljammer will lead the fleets of war and death into a universe of eternal light.

—
And when they reach the stars?
Teldin asked.

—
  Then nothing will be impossible
.

The Reborn Egg vanished from view, and Teldin’s vista was filled with darkness. He reached out with the senses of the

Spelljammer,
and in the wildspace around him he felt only emptiness, the cold wastes that stretched without the spherical boundaries that he knew. He knew not where they were; but the universe belonged to them.

—
And us? What are we to create?

—
We are changed,
the
Spelljammer
sang, and the Cloakmaster reached out to examine... himself.

The
Spelljammer
was larger, sleeker. Its mantalike body had retained its basic shape, but its flesh was translucent, flickering like blue crystal, and the warrens had become veins that pulsated with the immense power of its life force.

The city on its back gleamed with the fires from the
Spelljammer’s
body. Its towers were taller, more ornate; built of gold and silver, of polished, vibrant crystal, and a shimmering metallic stone that was brighter than any substance the Cloakmaster had ever seen.

It was the
Spelljammer,
reborn into a pure, untouched universe, formed by an unknown set of physical laws. Perhaps it was a new dimension. Perhaps the
Spelljammer
had reappeared in a sphere far larger than any other in the known universe. Perhaps...

The Cloakmaster felt himself smile, though he was ethereal now, his body one with that of the
Spelljammer.
Wherever they were, this was their universe, their creation, a broad plain of wildspace that stretched out before them, beckoning to be explored. Out there, on the fringes of his senses, he felt something waiting for them, singing its own song in this place of discovery. There were magnificent cities – there had to be; he could touch them with his soul – floating between suns. Swimmers sailed the seas of space, basking in the warmth of stars. Minds called to him with their need, their yearning, to dream.

There was life.

The Cloakmaster understood it all then, the purpose of the
Spelljammer
and the interweaving of so many destinies: the
Spelljammer
creating life; the new life spreading out and creating its own wonders, finding its own dreams, creating its own
Spelljammer,
its own realities, spreading magic and wonder of life everywhere.

Its purpose, written by the Architects when the universe was young, was clear: The
Spelljammer
must not pay penance for its innocent crime, but find purpose in life, its own life.

To create, discover, teach, show, renew, restore, and live.

The simple life he had known before was long gone. The past was past, and the universe of his birth was just a dim vision in a spyglass, forever too distant for him to reach. This place, this universe... this was untouched, virginal, he felt. This was his to explore, his to create. Part of him sang with joy at his new birth, at the wonder of his destiny; and part of him wept at the worlds that were now forever lost.

—  Verenthestae, the
Spelljammer
said. —
It means far more than the interweaving of destiny. It is a concept that has survived the millennia, originating from an ancient tongue from the Broken Sphere.
Tru’vaer.
It means also...

The
Spelljammer
sang into the void. Its new, crystalline body glowed with the light of innocence. Its veins flowed with the power of galaxies, and its song rang through his heart, unwrapping the now useless layers of humanity that Teldin Moore, the Cloakmaster, had held onto like precious gems, and exposing the blinding light of his soul.

And in the bearing of his soul, he felt what
verenthestae
meant, though words could only approximate its true meaning.

—
  Let the light of the soul shine forth and be revealed
.

—
Let the song of the soul spread truth into darkness
.

—
Let those apart be brought together
.

—
Know thyself
.

—
Seek
...

—
Love
...

—
Cherish life
...

—
And do not yield
.

He blazed with the light of a star. The heart of the
Spelljammer
burned with Teldin’s soul, and their song was absorbed into the fires of a newly created sun.

The
Spelljammer
banked lazily, away from the spiraling system of dust clouds and gases. The emptiness of the void stretched far ahead, into eternity, and the
Spelljammer
sang into it, waiting for the distant day that its song of life would finally be answered and the wonders that it had seen across the void would be shared.

About the Author

Russ T. Howard has written for Premiere, Omni, Gauntlet, The Stephen King Companion, and Censorship in America. He lives in Virginia and Florida with his wife, and occasionally may be found at the Adventurer’s Club on Walt Disney World’s Pleasure Island.