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with frustration. He had a momentary urge to simply get to his feet and leave, but he told himself it was just a question of making his patience last. All upper-class people, elven or human, must be as bad as these elves were. Only a few minutes passed in boredom before footsteps and a faint metallic sound issued from the hall outside.
    As one, every elfin the room stood. Teldin clumsily got to his feet, one of his legs having fallen asleep, just as Admiral Cirathorn entered. He was still wearing his silver armor and tabard. The elves bowed and curtsied as he entered, but he took no notice of them. Cirathorn strode directly over to a place across from where Teldin sat, taking an empty chair there. Here he clapped his hands, and two elves sprang to their feet and left the room.
    “Teldin Moore,” said Cirathorn, settling himself in his chair, “we welcome you to the embassy of the Imperial Fleet, the web of light that binds together all known spheres. You have endured much to meet with us. We offer our hospitality, our rooms, and our food for your physical nourishment and rest. And we offer you our guidance and advice in resolving your most pressing questions.”
    Regardless of the admiral’s words, Teldin still felt a curious coldness in the room. He noticed that none of the other elves were looking directly at him.
    Cirathorn went on. “Our library is poor, but our loremaster was able to divine some of the past of your cloak. There is not much that is known, and what is written about it is subject to question. Nonetheless, I will share it. Would you please rise, Teldin Moore?”
    Flushing slightly, Teldin did so. What now? “Sisters and brothers of the spheres,” said Cirathorn, looking around the room. “We have sung the songs of the past, when the hands of light first forged the great crystal spheres out of deepest darkness, and we have chanted the hymns to the blending of earth, fire, air, and water, for the birthing of worlds of every kind. We have read the poems of those first few who stepped out into the wild dark and called it their home. We have only the fragments of that first sailing, faded legends of that awakening. What was history is now mere dream.
    “You know that among the legends on which we were nursed as children are those of the Star Folk, the race that is said to have first crossed those vast reaches within the crystal spheres and without. Of the identity of the Star Folk, we have no clue. Yet before us, about the shoulders of this man, is one of the last known surviving items of their handiwork. Our dreams are proven to have been reality, after all.”
    The elf turned to look directly at Teldin. “Our guest wears the Cloak of the First Pilot, the favored being who took the helm of the largest ship in all existence, that which we call the Spelljammer and after which we have named all devices and ships that sail the spheres. Of the First Pilot little else is known, though some legends have it that he and his ship and its crew vanished on its journey to reach the edge of the cosmos, hoping there to meet the creator or creators of all. The truth of this, no one can know now.”
    No one spoke for several long seconds. Teldin tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. So it was true that his cloak was connected to the tale of the Spelljammer, just as Estriss had long ago guessed. But Teldin had never suspected that he wore the same cloak that this First Pilot, whoever or whatever he was, had worn. He looked down and fingered the hem of his cloak, feeling its alien smoothness. Could these Star Folk have been the Juna, the aliens of which Estriss had spoken? Estriss had said the Juna lived millions of years earlier ….
    A thought came to him, and he cleared his throat, hoping his interruption would not be taken badly. “I was told,” Teldin said slowly, “that this cloak was made by the elves. An elven helmsman named Vallus Leafbower asked me to bring it to you – to the Imperial Fleet,