Tristan’s skin chilled at the comparison. Beladaene was as good as dead. Stabbed from behind by his Avanese lover, captured by the Emperor’s soldiers – or, at least, by those loyal to the Emperor on the throne. All hope of rescue fled Tristan’s mind as the heavy bronze doors of the throne room loomed before him.
Dried blood covered the floor, and Tristan averted in horror. On a dais far across the smooth stone the covered the floor stood the Emperor beside a tall, Iron throne whose once-bright surface was shadowed and dark. Cristopher looked up as Tristan entered, his eyes dull.
“You.” Cristopher stepped down onto the darkly stained floor.
“Yes, Cristopher it is me.” Tristan fell down to his knee, pressing his sword to face towards the floor before him. The guards, unwilling to venture this deeply into the darkness of the palace, had not even taken it from him. The Silver Blade of the Defender of the Empire did not hum, nor twiched.
Cristopher stepped toward Tristan, and a bitter cold crept across the floor, mimicking the movement of the shadows.
Cristopher stepped toward Tristan, and a bitter cold crept across the floor, mimicking the movement of the shadows.
“I know you.” The Emperor’s voice was robbed of emotion. He took another step toward Tristan, his feet silent on the stone marble floor.
“Yes, my Emperor. It is me.”
“Who?” Bored, impassive, the Emperor began to turn away, fingering the sleeve of his golden kimono.
“Tristan, Tristan Stoutheart, the Eaglebearer.”
A pause as the too-black pupils bored into the knight’s eyes, seeking something Tristan did not know how to give. “Tristan…?” A shred of recognition whispered through the Emperor’s voice. “Tristan…”
“We fought together. I was your friend. Do you not remember our pass from the Stonecrown? Bevalduor?” Tristan caught an echo of Arik’s voice in his mind: How do you know this is not the Emperor?
“Tristan, old friend.” Cristopher’s eyes, now green and pale, regarded Tristan. “I remember…something. You were… …?” Cristopher sank to his knees on the floor, Tristan stared in horror. Above him, the shadows whirled in strange patterns, faces without features, eyes without emotion or identity. “Haelyn!! Where is the Emperor? Is the Emperor is dead!”
“No, Cristopher. You are the Emperor. You defeated Rhaizadhik, killed the armies of the Shadow..…”
Cristopher’s face clenched. “Ondine? Beladaene… Someone must find Ondine. She will know ……….”
“My Lord!” Tristan recoiled. “They are gone – all gone, come to your senses”
“But Tristan, you are here. Tristan.” Without thought of propriety, the Emperor grabbed the knight’s shoulders. “Help me. Save me. Tell me” – his eyes cloud once more – “who am I?”
Stunned, Tristan did not even think to reach for his fallen sword as Cristopher pushed him away, staggering back to the huge Iron Throne. Leaning heavily upon its stone arm, the Emperor spoke raggedly. “I cannot remember, sometimes. The shadows in my mind. I can think of your face, the face of my mother.…” The throne room did not echo the plaintive, childlike strains of Cristopher’s voice, as if the shadows swallowed them. The shadows hung from the walls like tapestries of night, waiting to cover the palace in darkness. Darkness…and nothing.
Tristan scrambled to his feet, clutching at the red as flame robe of the Emperor before him. “Cristopher!” When the Emperor looked up again, his eyes were as black as the void. “Go, Tristan. Take your traitor Knights with you, and go.” The Emperor’s voice began to change as his features slowly slipped away. His face became as smooth as an eggshell, and the shadows crept close. “Go!”
_________________________________________________________________________________
Outside the palace, with Beladaene semi-conscious on his shoulder, Tristan looked back at Imperial City's tall, shadowed walls.
“Tristan, what happened?” Beladaen’s voice was weak, weary.
“Something has entered the Emperor’s mind.” Tristan placed him on the ground and untethered the horses.
“Raesene?”
“No.” Tristan shook his head. “Something else.”
“Where is Elsa?” Beladaen’s eyes sagged. “She will need you…” His body slumped in Tristan’s arms.
Alone again in the darkness surrounding the Imperial City, Tristan looked up at the palace’s faint light. “Enough!” he snarled. “Tomorrow we begin again. The Emperor has been found…but not yet saved.”
“Who?” Bored, impassive, the Emperor began to turn away, fingering the sleeve of his golden kimono.
“Tristan, Tristan Stoutheart, the Eaglebearer.”
A pause as the too-black pupils bored into the knight’s eyes, seeking something Tristan did not know how to give. “Tristan…?” A shred of recognition whispered through the Emperor’s voice. “Tristan…”
“We fought together. I was your friend. Do you not remember our pass from the Stonecrown? Bevalduor?” Tristan caught an echo of Arik’s voice in his mind: How do you know this is not the Emperor?
“Tristan, old friend.” Cristopher’s eyes, now green and pale, regarded Tristan. “I remember…something. You were… …?” Cristopher sank to his knees on the floor, Tristan stared in horror. Above him, the shadows whirled in strange patterns, faces without features, eyes without emotion or identity. “Haelyn!! Where is the Emperor? Is the Emperor is dead!”
“No, Cristopher. You are the Emperor. You defeated Rhaizadhik, killed the armies of the Shadow..…”
Cristopher’s face clenched. “Ondine? Beladaene… Someone must find Ondine. She will know ……….”
“My Lord!” Tristan recoiled. “They are gone – all gone, come to your senses”
“But Tristan, you are here. Tristan.” Without thought of propriety, the Emperor grabbed the knight’s shoulders. “Help me. Save me. Tell me” – his eyes cloud once more – “who am I?”
Stunned, Tristan did not even think to reach for his fallen sword as Cristopher pushed him away, staggering back to the huge Iron Throne. Leaning heavily upon its stone arm, the Emperor spoke raggedly. “I cannot remember, sometimes. The shadows in my mind. I can think of your face, the face of my mother.…” The throne room did not echo the plaintive, childlike strains of Cristopher’s voice, as if the shadows swallowed them. The shadows hung from the walls like tapestries of night, waiting to cover the palace in darkness. Darkness…and nothing.
Tristan scrambled to his feet, clutching at the red as flame robe of the Emperor before him. “Cristopher!” When the Emperor looked up again, his eyes were as black as the void. “Go, Tristan. Take your traitor Knights with you, and go.” The Emperor’s voice began to change as his features slowly slipped away. His face became as smooth as an eggshell, and the shadows crept close. “Go!”
_________________________________________________________________________________
Outside the palace, with Beladaene semi-conscious on his shoulder, Tristan looked back at Imperial City's tall, shadowed walls.
“Tristan, what happened?” Beladaen’s voice was weak, weary.
“Something has entered the Emperor’s mind.” Tristan placed him on the ground and untethered the horses.
“Raesene?”
“No.” Tristan shook his head. “Something else.”
“Where is Elsa?” Beladaen’s eyes sagged. “She will need you…” His body slumped in Tristan’s arms.
Alone again in the darkness surrounding the Imperial City, Tristan looked up at the palace’s faint light. “Enough!” he snarled. “Tomorrow we begin again. The Emperor has been found…but not yet saved.”
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