IP: 82.16.140.252
Posted on January 3, 2019 at 07:16:00 PM by Merlin
"Happy Birthday, Father," Tristan said. He knelt down in the damp grass and set his bottle down on the ground beside him. The wine splashed against the sides, rolling back and forth like a trapped sea. Sighing, Tristan reached out and set his hand against the silver-white bark of the tree trunk. It was rough beneath his fingers, but not bumped or gnarled like the oak tree near his tent. The birds he had scared away with his arrival reappeared and resumed their singing. "I brought you a present," he muttered. His gaze settled on the bunch of fresh flowers set amongst the tree roots, and his mouth stretched into a smile. "But it looks like someone's beaten me to it." Hot tears pricked at the back of his eyes. Tristan bit down hard on his lower lip, fighting them back as he lowered his arm. He had never visited the tree to find dead flowers waiting. They had always been cleared away and replaced with budding blooms, on the verge of flowering. The bitter burn of guilt and shame flared deep in his gut. There was only one person in the world he could think responsible. She had probably planted the tree in the wake of Mordred's coup, and he had not been as kind to her as he should have been. A light trickle of blood seeped from his lip into his mouth, spreading the taste of iron across his tongue. Arthur's face flickered before his eyes wearing an expression of hurt and disappointment. He'd been so ashamed that Tristan had found it within himself to label her less than she was. The harsh metallic taste conjured further recollections, even more painful than the first. The wet heat of the pirates' blood splattered across his face, and his heart pounded. He reached for the bottle and wiped it against his shirt to dry it of dew. Tristan pulled the stopper free from the neck with his teeth. The pop was familiar and soothing. He spat out the cork, and raised the bottle in a toast. "Wherever you are," he muttered, "I hope there's no paperwork." His laugh almost choked him. Tristan wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. It was filthy and faded; his grandmother's embroidery had long since frayed away. Tristan lifted his chin and looked back to the bottle in his hand. "It's your favourite," he explained, tipping his wrist. Red wine flowed from the mouth of the bottle onto the grass, soaking into the ground. "I thought today would be a good day for us to share." Tristan lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a long drink, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "It's been growing on me lately," he explained. Leaning sideways, he freed his legs from beneath him, and sat straight, his knees drawn up to his chest. "I don't know what I'm doing," Tristan told the tree. He took another drink of wine. "I know I should be doing something. I know everyone's sitting around waiting for me to make a move. I just can't figure out which way is up anymore." He sighed and pressed his face against his knees. "You'd know what to do," he said, "you always knew exactly what to do." He poured another measure of wine onto the grass. A strong gust of wind disturbed the red and gold leaves above his head, and he raised his eyes to watch them. The rustling disguised the approach of the crossbow bolt. It whistled past his ear, and thudded into the trunk of the tree. Tristan whipped around, staring out across the open ground. Something metal in the long grass caught the sun and glinted. Tristan threw himself to the floor as a second bolt whizzed over him, a hair breadth from his scalp. He was an idiot. Of course Mordred knew about the tree. He'd know it was Arthur's birthday, he'd know that would mean something to him, and he'd sent his men to keep watch. He should have known better. Mace would have several choice words for him if he ever made it back to camp. This time he'd deserve them. He rolled away from where he'd landed and scrambled to his feet, as the guards broke their cover. They gave a shout, their voices obscured by distance. Tristan scrambled to his feet and ran into the forest. Winding between the trees he headed west, in the opposite direction to the camp. If they had any sense, they'd hold back, keeping him in sight until he led them to a bigger prize. Why have one outlaw when you could have them all and end the rebellion in one fell swoop? Or maybe they didn't need everyone. Maybe his death was the only one that mattered. Heart hammering in his chest, he waded through the Baron tributary. The water lapped at the his boot cuffs, slowing him down. He could hear pounding footsteps behind him, their voices forming clear words instead of mindless noise. Tristan's legs burned as he scaled the bank and set off through the trees again. "Celidon?" he thought, as loudly as he could, "where are you?" His familiar's deep voice responded immediately, strained with concern. "I'm coming," he swore. Tristan reached for his magic. The familiar warmth spread out from his chest and into his limbs. His feet became paws, four strong legs carrying him more quickly over the rough terrain than his two. His power crackled beneath his skin, allowing him to pass through the trees and fallen logs. A wall of flames erupted from the woodland floor, tall enough to block his way. Tristan skidded to a halt, sending leaves flying into the fire. He turned on his heel, but stopped short as a red line burned itself into the soil beneath his paw. A searing pain shot through his pad. He leapt back with a yelp, as the second wall flickered into life. A third line began to appear, leaving him with only one line of escape. If he was going to get out, he was going to have to fight. Stepping forwards, he transformed smoothly from dog to boy. His hand shook as he moved to draw his father's sword. Excalibur seemed to hum. It vibrated beneath his fingers as he drew it from the scabbard. A man in silver and blue stepped out from the shadows, smoke billowing around him. Tristan's eyes burned as he bit back a cough. "I'm going to get a knighthood for this," the man laughed, surveying Tristan with a critical eye. He swallowed hard, and tried to focus on staying grounded, on keeping all thoughts of the corridor at bay. "What now, your highness? Tristan felt Celidon arrive before he saw or heard him. He forced himself to smile. "You'll see," he promised, just before the flash of green. The cu-sith collided with the man's chest, knocking him to the floor and knocking the air from his lungs. Celidon's snarls echoed through the trees. "Run, Tris." He didn't need telling twice. Tristan made for the gap between the flames and skirted around Celidon's flank. He didn't look down. He didn't want to know what had happened to the guard. There were enough bloody faces trapped in his head already. A second man emerged from the smoke, his arm thrown up to shield his eyes from the heat. Taking advantage of the handicap, Tristan struck out. He punched him in the face with all the strength he could muster. The man dropped to the ground with a moan. Jumping his prostrate form, he took a sharp right and sprinted into the nearby thicket. The thorn bushes reached out with greedy fingers to tug at his shirt. They seemed as eager to catch hold of him as the guards at his back. Tristan sheathed Excalibur and drew his knife in its stead. He made steady progress, cutting his way through the branches, and trampling them underfoot. Someone crashed through behind him, breathing hard. "I'll burn you out, boy," a voice bellowed, the acrid smell of smoke growing stronger, "you and your bloody dog." Cel? Tristan reached for him, but was gently rebutted. Keep going, Celidon urged him, "there are more of them. Hurry. He quickened his pace, cutting more selectively at the branches. It cost him. The thorns grew thicker and snagged at every part of him they could reach; his hands, his face, his hair. The fire was moving quicker too, surrounding him with a close suffocating heat which made him gag. "You can't run forever, boy," the voice behind him swore, even louder than before. He was getting closer too, too close. The toe of his boot struck something hard. He pitched forwards, throwing up his arms to protect his face from the fall, as the thorns rushed up to meet him. They never struck. He fell slowly into an endless darkness, silence roaring in his ears. And then he dropped face-first onto a dusty hardwood floor. An old fashioned kettle began to whistle in the hearth. Tristan opened his eyes, raised his head slowly, and peered around the room. He was still panting, his pulse pounded in his ears, and his shirt stank strongly of wood smoke. All other evidence of the forest had vanished. There we no thorns, no smoke and no Celidon. The room was small, but every inch of it had been put to use. Every flat surface had something on it. There were test tubes, periscopes, a miniature globe, and a scattering of birds' skulls. Tristan climbed to his feet, dusting the dirt from his hands and pulling a stray cobweb from his hair. He took a step backwards, catching his heel on something hard and metal. Twisting quickly, he reached out to steady whatever it was he'd hit. His fingers closed around polished brass. It was some kind of telescope, pointed out of the window and tilted up to face the sky. Or it would have been, if the shutters hadn't been closed tight. "What the hell?" Tristan breathed, turning back into the room. Stacks of papers and open books covered much of the floor. They'd been grouped together around the old arm chairs scattered throughout the space. Some faced the fire, some the windows, and others the walls. He picked his way towards the hearth, taking particular care not to step on anything. A large cast-iron pot spluttered away beside the kettle, the lid clattering against the rim. Whatever was inside was starting to bubble and pop. "Don't just stand there, boy," a voice snapped. Someone elbowed him in the ribs with enough force to knock him sideways. Tristan staggered to his left before finally managing to re-plant his heels. "What were you going to do?" the man demanded, grabbing a cloth from the table behind them. He used it to lift the lid from the pot, and then turned back to pull the kettle free of the flames. "Watch it boil over? Scald your feet? Drown the books?" Tristan stared at him. The man was tall and thin with jet-black hair down to his shoulders, and a sleek black beard. He was wearing a monk's robe, made from the most unusual fabric Tristan had ever seen. It looked like dupioni silk, but it seemed to move and ripple like water. "I'm sorry," he managed at last, "I didn't want t--" "To be helpful?" the man suggested, turning his face in Tristan's direction. The intensity of his gaze and the vivid purple-blue of his irises were enough to take his breath away. Tristan reached out for the back of a nearby wooden chair and forced himself to meet the man's eye. "Disturb anything," he said, "I didn't want to disturb anything that wasn't mine to touch." The man scowled at him from beneath thick eyebrows. And then he sniffed and turned back to the pot. "Fetch me some bowls," he instructed, gesturing out at the room, "over there. Quickly now." It wasn't entirely clear where 'there' was. Tristan scanned the tables and shelves for anything bowl-like. He found two propping up a large leather bound volume. The cover was embossed in some kind of runic alphabet Tristan had never seen before. He Extracted them and slipped a scrap of parchment between the pages. Closing the book, he set it flat on the table and then hurried back towards the fire. "Good, good," the man said, busying himself with the ladle. He scooped a generous portion of soup into each bowl and passed them back to Tristan. He took them back to the table and set them down between the stacks of paper. "Spoons, spoons, spoons..." the man muttered from the middle of the room. He spun around a few times, and then hurried towards a cabinet pushed up against the far wall. The drawer jingled as he ripped it open. "Ah ha!" He hurried back to join Tristan at the table and gestured impatiently for him to sit. Then he practically threw a spoon at him. Tristan only managed to stop it flying off the table by pinning it beneath his palm. "I'm sorry..." he began, "but--" "Nothing sensible ever follows those words," the man said. He didn't look up from his soup. "Try again." Tristan opened his mouth to do just that. "Eat your soup," the man ordered before he had the chance. "And don't raise your eyebrows at me like that, it makes you look simple." "How could you possibly know what I'm doing with my face?" Tristan asked him, shaking his head, "when you're practically swimming in that bowl. All I can see is the top of your head!" "I heard you," the man replied. "You heard me move my eyebrows?" "Yes." Shaking his head, Tristan filled his spoon with soup and blew on it. "No, no, no," the man said, finally looking up. "Don't do that, its fine, its fine. And that noise is annoying." "I literally just watched you lift it off the fire a minute ago," Tristan protested. "Eat the damn soup." Rolling his eyes, Tristan obliged. To his surprise, the soup was the perfect temperature. He hadn't had anything so good since he'd fled the castle. "Who in the world are you?" he breathed. The man looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fought a smile. "Bit rich coming from someone who dropped into the middle of my living room," he said. "Do you want to get all your other questions out now to save time? You know the ones I mean, boy. Where are we? What am I doing here? How did I get here? What day is it? Why do badgers worship the moon?" Despite himself, Tristan started smiling back. "I definitely wasn't going to ask that last one," he said. The man sniffed again. "Pity," he muttered, picking up his bowl. He lifted the chipped rim to his lips and drained the last of his soup. "That was the most interesting of the set." He put down his spoon, and then started cackling to himself, his eyes dancing. "No pun intended," he beamed, "but thoroughly enjoyed nonetheless." "Go on then," Tristan urged him, leaning back in his chair. He draped on arm over the back, and folded one leg over the other. "Why do badgers worship the moon?" "How the hell should I know?" the man snapped, jumping to his feet with the energy of a man half his age. "That's why it's interesting. Honestly, boy, use your head. Do I look like a badger to you?" He started to march across the room but paused mid-step, fixing Tristan with a searching look. "Well, look at you," he said, amusement lacing each word. "Can only do that if you've got a mirror, old man," Tristan shot back. "You know, one you've actually dusted in the last thousand years." "Oh ho!" The man's beard twitched. He remained still for another few heartbeats and then stomped across the room. Throwing himself into an armchair, he sunk down low and stared back at Tristan. "Well, what are you waiting for? Grab an armchair, sharpish. We haven't got all day." Tristan obeyed, rising to his feet. "And tell that sword of yours that if it doesn't stop singing, I'm going to throw it out the window." "It's not singing..." Tristan said, running his hand across the back of a red velvet chair, "it's just a sword." "Or maybe" the man replied, scowling, "you're just not listening. NO!" Tristan froze, mid-squat, his arse a couple of inches from the cushions. "Not that one!" the man told him, rolling his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, "it eats people." He gestured to his left. "The green one, the green one, boy." Tristan straightened up and eyed the red chair. "You keep a chair that could eat you?"he asked, weaving his way through the piles of books. "He'd never eat me" the man said, shaking his head. "But he's very picky about people. Best not risk it." "Uhuh." The green chair was upholstered in a thick leather. It was extremely uncomfortable. It forced Tristan to sit bolt-upright, the back of the chair pushing against his spine. "This one must do wonders for your posture," he muttered. Getting comfortable proved a losing battle. He turned sideways instead, draping his legs over one arm and using the other to support his back. The man raised a single eyebrow. "Make yourself at home," he said. Tristan smiled at him. "This one isn't going to buck me off or something is it?" "I wish," the man replied, propping his feet up on his footstool. He pulled his hands inside the wide sleeves of his robes, crossed one leg over the other. He looked like he was preparing for a nap, not an explanation. "Why don't you start by telling me how you ended up in my living room?" And don't you lie to me, Tristan Pendragon. I'll know if you do." "Wh-what did you just call me?" Tristan stammered, sitting up straight in his chair. He narrowed his eyes, considering the man afresh. Who was he? "Your name, genius," the man replied, chuckling, "get on with it." Tristan didn't reply immediately. The man continued to blink back at him, his expression stern and patient. It was eerily familiar. "I was being chased," he began, "by guards. They set the forest on fire trying to trap me, but my familiar got to them first. One moment I was running through a thicket of thorns, the next I was here." He shrugged. "Stranger things have happened." Shaman had a habit of shifting your perspective on exactly what weird was. "Well," the man said, stroking his beard. "That answers one of your questions, doesn't it? Now we both know how you got here. I've also told you where you are. You're in my house." "And where exactly is your house?" Tristan asked, smirking. "He learns!" The man smirked back. "This place has many names. The Unseen World, The Inbetween, The World Between Worlds. It is a pocket between the land of the dead and the world of the living." Tristan's sudden surge of panic must have shown on his face. "You're not dead, boy," the man said kindly. "Here the living and the dead can interact. You got pulled through a crack, that's all." Mind racing, Tristan stared down at his knees, noticing, the rips the thorns had left in his trousers. Was this the answer? Perhaps he could find some way to get a message to his father? Surely if Arthur knew he was here looking for him, he wouldn't turn him away? This was it. He could finally tell him everything he wished he'd had the chance say, and apologise for the things he'd said. He could ask him for his advice. He-- "He's not here," the man said gently. "he's back where he belongs." It took everything Tristan had to fight back tears as his stomach dropped. "He belonged with me," he choked, wishing for the bottle he'd left beside his father's tree. The man watched him, his face a little too sympathetic. "Fate decreed long ago that Arthur Pendragon would never step foot in this place. He is the eternal king, neither one thing nor the other. The cycle must continue to turn. I'm sorry, boy. Truly, I am." "Why am I here then?" Tristan asked, taking a deep steadying breath. "I suspect you're here to see me," the man replied. "I have something of a history of helping the men in your family find their way." "You knew my father?" "I did," the man nodded, "long long ago. Now I know you, and you find yourself in need of guidance. The universe has a funny habit of bringing people like us together. What do you say, boy? Are you in the mood to take advice from an old man?" "Honestly?" Tristan replied, shaking his head, "I'll take anything I can get right now." "That's the spirit!" said the man, whipping his hands from his sleeves. He leaned forwards, rubbing them together in excitement. He jumped to his feet. "Grab your coat!" he ordered, pointing at Tristan with a long finger. "We're going out!" "...I haven't got a coat?" The man shrugged, moving his finger from Tristan to the coat stand by the door. "Borrow one!" Leading the way to the front door, the man grabbed himself a black cloak from the stand. He threw it around his shoulders and fastened it at his neck with a falcon-shaped broach. The man reached for the handle and pulled the door ajar. Pausing in the doorway, he looked back at Tristan as he selected a blue sleeved cloak from the rack. "Leave that sword of yours behind," he prompted, nodding down at Tristan's hip. "You won't be needing it, and I am done with its racket." Tristan was loathe to part with it. His fingers strayed reluctantly to his belt buckle. "You know," he said, "you haven't answered all of my questions. You still haven't told me who you are." The man's eyes twinkled. "Haven't I?" he asked through the smallest of smiles. Everything beyond the door was hazy, a blurry patchwork of shape and half-colours. There might have been a tree immediately beyond the threshold, its branches adorned with unfocused blossoms. There could have been a pond a little beyond it, with lily flowers floating on its surface. The man covered ground quickly, taking great strides with his long legs. Tristan lengthened his own to keep up. Everything was faded, like old clothes that had been washed too many times. Everything was completely still. There was no hint of a breeze, and their hair and clothes remained untroubled. "You could at least give me something to call you?" Tristan said. "You've already called me a lot of things," the man replied, turning his head to look at him. He tapped at his temple with the tip of his index finger. "Why don't you pick one?" Tristan thought about it. "What about Guidance?" He asked. "Will that do, do you think?" "Fitting," Guidance smiled, nodding, "I've had many a lot worse. Guidance it is." He led the way along the road, past the impression of a thatched cottage and a shop with tiny small golden blurs in the window. Guidance was the most colourful thing for miles. "Where are we going?" Tristan asked, watching Guidance jump a smudge in the road. It must have been a puddle of some kind. Did that mean it rained here? He could see no evidence of clouds in the space above their heads. It was just an expanse of empty space. "Market," Guidance replied, "I need to pick up a few things." "Right..." Tristan said, falling into step beside him again, "but, we have markets at home. And I really should be getting back before someone misses me." "Oh yes," Guidance agreed, "yes. You really need to get back to all that really useful moping you've been doing. I'm sure everyone back home will be lost without you." He fixed Tristan with a withering look. "At least here you can make yourself useful." Rummaging in the pockets of his robe, he produced a small purse and dropped it into Tristan's waiting palm. "I want a new armchair," Guidance explained, "find me one, and get a good price for goodness sake. Some of these stall holders are rip-off merchants." "Another armchair?" Tristan wondered. Guidance glowered at him. "Alright, alright. One armchair coming up." They walked the rest of the way in silence. Tristan's impatience grew with every step he took. He might have been a bit hasty in assigning Guidance's moniker. He had yet to say anything of any use or consequence. The market crept into view over the crest of the hill. The sounds of the shop holders and their customers rolling down to them. It was a familiar noise, comforting. Tristan hadn't been able to venture into Shaman's market for months, but he liked to find a spot in a tree at the edge of the woods and watch. At first it had made him angry. He'd hated seeing the children playing between the stalls and the adults sharing jokes over lunch. It had felt so wrong that people could be so happy in a world without Arthur. Tristan's world had been turned upside down in a matter of hours. He'd lost everything. And yet the market carried on as it always had. He'd stayed away for weeks, or maybe it had been months. For a while he'd had very little awareness of the passing of time. Then one day, on one of his solitary walks through the woods, he'd been so lost in thought he'd wandered too close to the edge of the trees. The market had been waiting for him. The same stalls, the same people, the children playing football on the grass. Then Tristan had found it comforting; the knowledge that despite everything the world hadn't ended. The planet kept on turning, and there was some normality in the world. "I'll meet you back here when you've got my chair," Guidance said, interrupting his thoughts. Tristan started, and then nodded. He pushed his hands into his pockets and slipped into the crowd. He left Guidance to stalk off in the opposite direction. The stalls and their occupants were more solid than everything around them. Unlike Shaman's market, which was always a patchwork of bright colours and patterns, most of the tents were dark and colourless. A few made feeble attempts at blues or yellows or greens, but they were only one or two shades past grey. Tristan edged his way through a group of men with tankards in their hands and approached one of the smaller stalls. The items set out on the table cloths were a bright shock of vivid colour. Tristan peered down at them frowning. Ordinarily they would have been truly unremarkable things. The little china ornament on the far side was broken. One of the horses was missing, and the woman waving out of the carriage window had parted company with her hand. Rejoining the throng, Tristan let the crowd carry him further down the row of stalls. It was a relief not to have to worry about being caught. There was no need to check over his shoulder, and he didn't have to remember to avoid meeting people's eyes. He smiled at a few, said good day to others, and most were more than happy to return the gesture. Tristan walked with a new bounce in his step to the back row of stalls. It was only then that he finally spotted someone selling furniture. He edged towards the stall, closing his hand more tightly around the neck of Guidance's purse. At his approach, a girl popped up from behind the counter and greeted him with a smile. She was very pretty. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose waves, skimming the neckline of her dress. Tristan returned her smile, holding her eye. Hers were the palest green he had ever seen, alight with curiosity. "I'm looking for a chair," he told her, leaning against the post by his shoulder. "What kind of chair?" the girl replied. She didn't look away, or glance away shyly, but her eyes shone. "We've got loads." "Um..." Tristan said, "an armchair. An old man armchair. You know the type, high back, weird wing things...but it needs to be tall. The old codger's legs go on for miles." He felt a small surge of victory when she giggled. The girl turned, scanning her stock with an eagle eye. "Follow me," she said, "I think I've got just the thing." She led him back out of the tent into the daylight and between a pair of very large wardrobes. "We've got so much at the moment, we've outgrown the tent. The guy who sells leeches next door keeps muttering about it." "Well, so long as he makes sure his stock doesn't leak anywhere," Tristan said with a disgusted expression. "I think we'll all survive the outrage." She was still laughing when she came to a stop and gestured at a mauve chair. There was an elegance to it in spite of the fraying edges and worn arms. . Its legs bowed outwards, ending in metal lion paws. It would look quite at home in Guidance's room. "Perfect," Tristan said, nodding. "Victory with the first blow. How much do you want for it?" "Hmm.." the girl said, biting her lower lip, "have you got any greens? Green's my favourite" It was not the answer was expecting. "Greens?" Eager not to appear a total tourist, Tristan opened Guidance's purse and peered inside. It was filled with pieces of different coloured junk. None of it seemed to be green. Damn. "Green-eyed boy got no green?" the girl teased him, eyeing the purse with interest. Tristan glanced at her, and then back at the junk. He rooted around, getting a good look at everything inside. Ahha! "I don't," he conceded, extracting two items from amongst the others. He hid them in his left fist and put the purse back in his pocket. "But how about this?" Tristan held up the first item, a broken piece of bright yellow glass. "I don't mind yellow," the girl said thoughtfully, "and it is very colourful...but I prefer greens." "Just wait," Tristan urged her, producing a second piece of glass. It was a stunning shade of turquoise. Taking a piece between the finger and thumb of each hand, Tristan held them up. He moved them together until they overlapped. "You see," he grinned, peeking at her over the top, "you can make all the green you like, whenever you like." "That's clever," the girl laughed, grinning from ear to ear, "pretty on their own, and pretty together. You've got yourself a deal green-eyed boy." "Thank you!" Tristan said. He set the two pieces of glass on his palm and extended his hand out to her with a half-bow. It set her giggling again. "I hope your old man likes his chair." "Your guess is as good as mine," he chuckled, bending to pick it up. It was heavier than it looked. --- Tristan carried the chair back through the crowd. For the most part people parted to allow him through, which was a mercy because he couldn't see where he was going. He made steady progress until he collided with something solid and almost dropped the chair. Tristan peeked around the side of the chair and found Guidance looking back at him. "I got you your chair," Tristan said. "So I see," Guidance sniffed by way of reply. "Are you going to tell me anything useful now?" Tristan put the chair down and took a step forwards. He leaned against its back, waiting. Guidance just kept frowning at him. "You smile too much," Guidance said, jabbing a finger at him. "I...what?" "You heard me," Guidance insisted, "you rely too much on this," he gestured at Tristan's face, "and not enough on this." He tapped at his temple. "Your face isn't going to get your throne back, boy. It's just not." "Yes, Guidance," Tristan said, straining for patience, "but I was buying a chair." Guidance humphed in frustration and spun on his heel. He started to march away, off down the hill back towards his house. Tristan watched him go. "Guess I'll just follow then," he muttered, moving back round to the front of the chair. He picked it up again and set off down the slope. He paused for a break about halfway down and stood massaging the tops of his arms. Guidance stood at the bottom tapping his foot impatiently. He'd probably claim he'd heard Tristan rolling his eyes when he finally caught up. Cantankerous old goat. With a sigh, Tristan picked up the chair again. His job became harder and harder as the wind picked up. It tugged at his loose-fitting coat and blew his hair into his eyes. When had he let it get so long? Since when had there been wind? He only just had chance to process the thought before he was lifted off his feet. Tristan tightened his grip on the back of the chair, as he was sucked back and up. It held, just for a moment, and then the chair too left the ground. They hurtled backwards, higher and higher into the clouds. Tristan reached out with his magic, tried in vain to open his wings. His ears popped as he found himself pressed on all sides. The world exploded in a shower of blinding white light. And then there was nothing. His limbs felt heavy, the back of his head throbbed, and he couldn't open his eyes. He was lying on something hard. Every breath hurt. It started as a dull aching feeling, punctuated by a shooting, searing pain. The sensation was reminiscent of the weeks he'd spent in bed after the raptor attack in the marshes. He still had the scar, a white rip down his rib cage. If it had been a little lower, he might not have been so lucky. It would be so easy to go to sleep. He could let his heavy limbs pull him down into the floor. It would be easier than fighting. There was a loud bang, followed by a high-pitched screeching sound. Tristan's eyes flickered open and he stared up into pitch blackness. He blinked. His head started to throb as a concentrated cluster of pain took up residence behind his left eye. Blinking again, he summoned the energy to lift his head. The back of his skull ran cool as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The room was small and square. There were no windows and no door. Tristan eased himself into a sitting position, leaned forwards and set his head in his hands. He seemed to be perched on the edge of a primitive bed frame. There was no mattress; he'd been sleeping on the wooden slats. "Who's there!?" a girl called from the floor above. Her voice shook with apprehension. A moment later a small trickle of candlelight poured through a crack above his head. He stood up, his hair brushing against the ceiling, and crept towards the light. The surface above his head wasn't a true ceiling at all. He found himself staring up through the floorboards of someone's room. It was like his aunt's room in the castle on Shaman. A figure was sitting on the bed, wrapped in blankets. He couldn't see her face, only her long straight hair which gleamed like spun gold in the light of her candle. She looked around, her head moving left and right, listening hard. The usual night-time silence stretched out, then, finally she lay back down. Tristan turned away and crossed back to the bed. He had to get out, either back to Guidance or back home. But he was trapped. How was he supposed to escape from somewhere with no exit points? Burrow up through the floor? He sat back down on the edge of the bed frame, thinking hard. If there was a bed in the room then someone must have put it there. At some point there had to have been a way to access the space, even if the room had since been boarded off. Tristan got back to his feet and began to feel his way along the wall, checking for cracks or drafts. He paused when the light from above when out. The girl must have extinguished her candle, plunging them both into blackness. He sighed, taking a deep breath to fight back the wave of panic building in his chest, and returned to his task. It was slow work. Tristan worked his way along the wall until he reached the back corner. To his surprise, his fingers chanced upon wood and an empty expanse of space: shelves. Feeling for the ledge of the first shelf, he checked it for anything useful. Finding nothing, he moved down to the next space. His hands closed around a wooden box with a smooth flat lid. Tristan pulled it free of the shelf and set it down on the floor. He felt his way around its edge until he found the catch. It was difficult to work in the darkness. He cut his finger against something sharp before he managed to find the latch. His fingers were too big to work it. Tristan slid his thumbnail behind it and push as hard as he dared. It clicked open. Opening the lid, Tristan reached inside. His fingertips brushed against something hard, cool, and impossibly smooth. What was it? Like a blind man, he felt his way around the object, finding the limits of its dimensions and then moving inwards. It was elliptical and curved at the edges. He found two almond-shaped holes, and between them something long and raised which flared out at the bottom. Further down still two raised bumps, long and curved with a small indent between. It was a mask! His curiosity peaked, Tristan slipped his fingers beneath its edges and lifted it free of the box. Almost immediately, it started to hum. It vibrated with increasing ferocity the further from the box he drew it. Frowning in the dark, Tristan turned it over, resting it face-down on the palm of his right hand. He probed the inside. It was as smooth and cold as the exterior. Then the humming stopped. The mask rose up into the air, hovering for a moment. Then it flew towards his face. Tristan took two hurried steps backwards, raising his arms to defend himself. He was quick, but the mask was quicker. Its smooth inner surface pressed against his skin as invisible tendrils wrapped themselves around the back of his head. Reaching for his face, Tristan tried desperately to pry it free as he retreated back across the room. Something hard slammed into the back of his knees and he crumpled back onto the bed frame, breathing hard. An acidic sourness rose in his chest as he fumbled frantically in the blackness. The mask was stuck tight. He sunk down off the bed onto the floor and knelt in the dark, his breath rattling in the gloom. It ran wet and hot across his upper lip, trapped against the surface of the mask. Inhaling deeply, he fought to regain composure. He wasn't much worse off than he had been before he'd found the box. If he could get back to Guidance he might be able to help him remove it. Otherwise, if he made it to Shaman, he could track down a deity. Either way, he needed to find a way out of his current predicament. Tristan felt his way across the room again, going back to the corner where he'd found the mask. He checked the remaining shelves to no avail. Taking another deep breath, he started to move along the back wall. His heart leapt when he felt a brush of air against his fingers. Keeping track of it with one hand, he stretched out his arm and continued along the wall with the other. There was a second draft. A scream sliced through the close silence. "No! No!" the girl shouted from the chamber above. " Get away from me!" Tristan ran his hands over the wall again. There had to be a catch somewhere. There must be some way to open the passageway. Come on, come on. He froze. Above his head, the girl's shouts were joined by the unmistakable sound of steel being drawn. Heart pounding, he resumed his search. The button, when he found it, was as smooth as the mask. His fingers shook as he pressed it, and with a dull groan the hidden door slid open. Tristan hurried forwards into the passageway beyond. There was a steep flight of narrow steps to his left, on so steep an angle they were more like a ladder. He started to climb. They were wet with damp, and his feet slipped as his frozen fingers strained for traction. Water dripped from the ceiling and ran down the back of his neck. With a grunt of frustration, he threw up the hood of Guidance's cloak and continued on. "Guards! Guards!" the girl bellowed through her tears, " You can't do this! I forbid it! This is treason!" There was an old iron handle halfway along the wall at the top of the steps. Tristan staggered forwards, reaching for it. It tried to resist him as he twisted it, emitting a high-pitched screech of protest. Then, it swung ajar, and he stumbled out into the room. He almost charged head-first into the girl's assailant. Stopping just short, he reached for his father's sword. It wasn't there. "Damn you, Guidance," he cursed under his breath. Excalibur lay on the old man's kitchen table, silent and useless. The stranger turned away from the girl with his sword raised. Narrowed eyes settling on Tristan. They widened in alarm when they settled on his face. Tristan eyed the blade. He needed it. If there was only one blade between them, he needed to be the one holding it. Taking advantage of the man's dismay, Tristan threw himself at him. The benefit of surprise was all he had. He just had to hope he made impact before his opponent had the chance to swing. "Guards!" the girl shouted at their backs. He was sure the guards weren't coming. Ducking his head low, Tristan wrapped his arms around the man's body, just above the waist. They fell backwards together with winded grunts. The stabbing he'd anticipated didn't come. Instead, the stranger brought two fists down hard on the top of Tristan's head. Lights popped before his eyes. A dull thud when they hit the floor told him that his foe had smacked his head on the floorboards. Tristan moved his hand upwards, feeling for the grip of the man's sword. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the pommel. The stranger shifted beneath him and used his free hand to force Tristan sideways. He rolled with the force, pushing the sword out of the man's loosened grip with the heel of his hand. It clattered across the floor as Tristan scrambled to his feet. His opponent was quick, but he was quicker. Tristan landed a passing blow to the man's jaw as he ran past. He bent down, reaching for the sword. His feet were swept out from under him with a hard kick to his right ankle. A cry forced its way between his teeth as he fell back to the floor. The stranger kept a hard grip on his foot, pulling him back and away from the blade. Tristan struck out widely, trying to pull himself free. His foot collided with something solid. The pressure on his ankle eased. He didn't waste time trying to stand up again. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he scrabbled forwards. His fingers closed around the grip of the sword. "Argh!" the stranger called out behind him. Lifting the sword from the ground, Tristan twisted round and pointed the blade at the man's throat. The girl stood over them in her white nightdress, a bloodied dagger clutched in her hand. The stranger's blood dripped from the tip onto the floor. She stared down at him with wide, terrified eyes. She seemed fixated on his face, on the mask, and took a tentative step back. Tristan held up his free hand in a placating gesture as he climbed to his feet. The man on the ground between them was still breathing. "What do you need me to do with him?" he asked her, his voice thick. He barely recognised it. She continued to gape at him. "Why didn't your guards come?" Tristan pressed, making no effort to close the gap that separated them. "I...I..." she stammered, "I-I don't know. They sh-should have...they..." He tried to ignore the drip drip of the stranger's blood. Images of the castle tower pressed insistently at the edges of his mind. He glanced down at his shirt, almost expecting to find it covered with his father's blood. Tristan fought to keep his voice calm and steady. "Is there a chance they let him in?" he asked her, nudging the man with his foot. There was a pause. "Yes," the girl breathed. Tristan's heart dropped. "We have to get rid of him then," he muttered. His voice echoed around the inside of the mask, lower than he'd ever heard it. The man didn't look like he had long left. Wherever the girl had stabbed him, she'd done a thorough job. If they left him alone long enough he'd go out on his own. But the sound of the blood gurgling in his throat reminded him too much of the pirates in his father's corridor. He couldn't let him bleed out. Steeling himself, Tristan raised his stolen sword and brought it down in a purposeful thrust. "Who are you?" the girl asked. Tristan didn't look at her. He scanned the room. "Open the window," he told her. They were large, almost floor-length with an iron safety rail up to waist height. He'd need to lift the man over. Tristan sheathed his stolen sword in his empty scabbard as the girl hurried to obey him. The window swung inwards with a gust of cold wind. With Guidance's cloak flapping around him, Tristan turned back to the dead man on the floor. Ignoring the horrified voice echoing around the inside of his head, he leant over. He pulled the man onto his shoulder and carried him to the window. Hoisting him up and over the rail he released his grip. The stranger plummeted. Tristan turned his back on him and closed the windows behind him. He slipped the catch back into place with a definitive click. "I am the Queen!" the girl said from behind him, "I command you to tell me who you are!" She was scared. He could sympathise. Tristan turned to face her, taking care not to make any sudden movements. "I'm no one, your majesty" he said, fighting to keep his hands steady. "And I really have to go." "You look like a monster," she told him, chewing the inside of her cheek. "But you saved me. Why?" She wasn't a girl used to being denied. Her question was less of an enquiry or more of a command. Tell me, she might have added, I order you. Perhaps she was more Queen than he ever would be king. "You sounded scared," he shrugged. "You were frightened and alone, and only cowards attack a person in their bed." The little queen surveyed him with pale blue eyes, her little rosebud mouth forming a thin line. "What a very unmonstrous thing to say," she said. She hesitated, and then she took a tentative step forwards, closing the space between them. Her fingers trembled as she reached up and brushed them against the mask. "Take it off," she ordered. "I can't," Tristan told her. "What do you mean?" She pulled her hand back, folding her arms across her chest. "I mean I physically can't, majesty. And that's one reason why I really really need to leave." He turned away from her and strode towards the door. "They're trying to kill me!" the girl called after him. He hesitated and paused. "My Uncles. They want me dead, and this isn't the first time they've tried. You saw how close they came tonight. If nothing changes, I'll be dead before the year's out. I am scared. I'm terrified! Please stay! I can pay you, I can reward you. I'm sure I can help you figure out a way to get that thing off your face. Please!" Tristan shook his head and sighed. "I can't," he told her, "I have enough problems of my own." He started walking again, advancing on her bedroom door. She muttered something in a strange tongue as he reached for the door handle. A barrier of bright light sprung up between him and the doorway, forcing him to take a step back. A red hot pain burned into the flesh of his wrist. He looked down. A small metal bracelet gripped at his arm. She must have slipped it on without him noticing. Tristan thought of Mallos, and the cuff Mordred had forced on him. Tristan looked back at the girl with a frown, outrage burning through him. Tears ran down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, my monster," she said, her bottom lip trembling, "I can't let you go." --- Alone on the floor in the darkness, Tristan stared up at the boards of his under-floor room. His captor had given him cushions to set on the floor, and a blanket to cover himself. The night however, remained cold. He couldn't move the bracelet. No matter how often he worried at the metal, he couldn't get it to budge an inch. It had shrunk to fit his wrist exactly. He held his hand over the mouth of the mask to muffle the first of his sobs. Was Guidance looking for him? Had anyone on Shaman noticed he was gone? What had happened to Celidon? Tristan reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out the cluster of pendants he wore around his neck. A tear crept down the side of his nose as he fumbled first with the cross, and then the raptor tooth. He squeezed his grandfather's sun so its rays bit into his palm. Tristan prayed to everyone he could think of, hoping that someone would hear him. But no one came. --- He awoke from a dreamless sleep to a ray of sunshine falling across his face from the floor above. Tristan threw his arm across his face to shield his eyes from the glare. The floorboards creaked as the girl tiptoed across them. She knealt down just above his hiding place. "Are you awake, my monster?" she whispered. "I need you to come up. They'll be here soon." He ignored her and rolled over, pulling his blanket up to his chin. The girl sighed her impatience and started muttering under her breath again. The bracelet burned anew. "Now," she hissed, "don't make me ask again." Tristan flung back his covers, pulled on his boots and stormed over to the secret doorway. Pushing the button he'd found the night before he started to climb to stone ladder to her room. The girl looked up from her desk as he emerged from behind her bookcase. He closed it behind him and turned to face her, planting his feet and folding his arms across his chest. He set his jaw tight. The mask pressed against his chin. She set down her quill and padded towards him in her little snow-white slippers. With more boldness than she'd shown in the night, she set a hand on his shirt and stood on tip-toe to stare into his eyes. "Your eyes are beautiful," she smiled, "like the forests where I grew up." Stepping back, the little queen released him. "Don't look at me like that, my monster," she scolded him. "You need to hide. Do your job well and you'll have your freedom." "And what exactly is my job, majesty?" Tristan asked tersely. "Why to keep me alive," the girl replied, "and to help me keep my throne." Bitter laughter rumbled around the inside of the mask with him. Once he started he found it difficult to stop. It seemed to alarm her. She lost some of her confidence and put her desk between them again. For a while she just let him laugh. And then. "Stop it!" she commanded, stamping her little foot, "at once!" He was half-glad she couldn't see his smile. It would not have been a kind one. She was saved from his retort by the sound of footsteps coming from the corridor beyond her chamber door. "Hide," she hissed, pushing him towards her window. Growling his frustration, Tristan concealed himself behind the curtain. He rested his hand on his sword. --- There was a knock on the door before it was pushed open with a groaning of hinges. "Your majesty?" a deep voice rumbled over the creaking of floorboards. They hadn't protested so violently the night before when Tristan had stepped on them. Whoever this man was, he was, was significantly larger. "Uncle Heinrich!" the girl replied with feigned delight. She padded across the floor and kissed him on the cheek. "Sofia!" he breathed, barely managing to conceal his surprise. "You slept well, I trust?" "Like a baby!" Sofia replied. The floorboards creaked again, less severely than before. "Sofia slept well, Deiter," Heinrich said. "I'm glad," came the nasal response, "no more nightmares, my sweet?" "Just a small one, Uncle," Sofia said, dancing across the floor again. "I woke up early and have been writing all morning. I have had all sorts of ideas." The tense silence was broken by the rustle of paper and the pad pad pad of Sofia's feet. One of the men coughed. The other shuffled his weight between his feet setting off the floorboards again. Tristan breathed slowly, trying to ignore the dull ache spreading down the backs of his legs. The slightest movement would set the curtains dancing. "We can...certainly look into these, majesty," Deiter said. He didn't sound like he'd try very hard. Sofia seemed unperturbed. "Excellent," she enthused, "you always do your best for me, Uncle." "Would you like us to have your breakfast brought up, Sofia?" Heinrich asked. "Oh no, Uncle!" Sofia replied, "I'm far too excited to eat! Today is going to be a good day, I can just feel it!" With that, she started to hum, dancing around the room. The two men excused themselves, the floor creaking as they bowed. Tristan waited until the door clicked closed and stepped out from behind the curtain. Sofia stopped her humming immediately. The little girl who had occupied the room moments before vanished, replaced by the queen. "Get into your walls, my monster," she told him, pointing at his bookcase, "follow them." "I am not some servant for you to command," Tristan told her. "Whatever you were before you came here," Sofia replied icily, "that's exactly what you are now." She rubbed at her wrist in the place where he wore her delicate little manacle. "Now go. But not too far. I'll know if you do." "You have a funny way of paying back the people who save your life," Tristan told her, striding across the room. --- When he returned, bending low to avoid the cobwebs over his head, he found Sofia waiting for him. She was sitting on her bed, swinging her legs, her arms stretched out behind her to support her weight. "Well?" she demanded, before he'd even had chance to close the bookcase. "You were right," he told her as he lowered his hood. "They did send the assassin. They also can't work out how he ended up at the bottom of your tower whilst you slept soundly." Sofia smirked. "They really don't know a thing about you, do they?" Tristan asked. "Only as much as I want them to." Sofia hopped down off the mattress and crossed the room to her desk. She hopped up onto her chair and lifted the lid. Producing a piece of parchment, she set it down in front of her, smoothed it out and took her quill from the ink pot. Sofia wiped the excess ink from the nib and then looked up at Tristan. "You want your freedom, my monster?" she asked him, with another of her little smiles. "Then come here. You and I are going to deal with my uncles once and for all." Tristan sighed for what felt like the thousandth time. He grabbed a chair from its space by the wall and dragged it behind him until he stood beside her. Setting it down, he sat down and leaned forwards, his clasped hands floating between his knees. His elbows pressed into his thighs as he held her eye. "Tell me everything," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. Three Months Later "You were right!" Sofia enthused as the door to her chambers clicked closed. Tristan emerged from behind the curtain, saying nothing. She spun around on her tiptoes, laughing joyously. He watched her, tilting his head to one side. Sofia caught sight of him and stopped. With a rustling of skirts she closed the space between them. She reached out and took hold of his hands, drawing them to her chest. She pressed a gentle kiss against his thumbs. "I don't know what I'd have done without you, my monster," she told him with a genuine smile. "You have taught me so much," Sofia gave his fingers an encouraging squeeze. "And now everything is almost ready," she finished. Tristan looked down at her from behind his mask. The queen dropped his hands and danced away. "We're not there yet," he reminded her, "today will be crucial." "Today will be spectacular" Sofia corrected him, "I can't wait to see the look on my uncles' faces." "So long as they're the only ones in for a surprise," Tristan shrugged. "We'd be foolish to assume they haven't been putting their own plans in motion." She waved a dismissive hand at him, swatting the worry away as if it were some kind of troublesome fly. Tristan sighed. She had proven an impatient student. However, her performances with her Uncles had been exemplary. She'd floated around them, asking them endless questions about trifles. She worried them about her dresses, and the latest fashions. Then she insisted they find her more palaminos for her stables. If he hadn't spent so much of his time with her, he might have though her as vacuous as they did. They had their suspicions, of course. Tristan followed them through the walls after their morning visits to her chambers. Every time they hired an assassin, he disappeared the very night he was supposed to do the deed. At first they expected they had been conned. They theorised that their men had taken their money and run. By the time the third and fourth went missing, they could entertain the notion no longer. And yet, they couldn't bring themselves to wonder if their niece had something to do with it. They grew increasingly paranoid, suspecting one lord after another. "How are our guests?" Sofia asked, stifling a giggle with her hand. "Which ones, majesty?" Tristan asked in reply. Behind his mask, a smile played in the corner of his mouth. She could contain her mirth no longer. Her laughter danced around the room which as much joy and grace as she did. "I'm looking forwards to being able to sleep soundly," she told him. "Without having to worry about things going bump in the night." Tristan shook his head. "I'm not sure any ruler can expect that, majesty." Sofia didn't seem to hear him. "You must leave me, my monster. I must change. And so must you." He nodded and swept her a bow. Tristan retreated back to his bookcase. She snatched up the golden bell from her bedside cabinet. Its sweet chiming echoed behind him as he stepped into the dark passageway beyond. The bookcase slid closed with a definitive thunk.. The queen's rooms rang with the footsteps and voices of her lady's maids as they hurried to assist her. Tristan made his way carefully down the steep steps to his room. It was less oppressive than it had been when he'd first arrived. They had been unable to smuggle him a mattress. The pile of blankets and cushions they had amassed instead were still far comfier than anything he had been subjected to in the forest. He'd almost forgotten what it had been like to sleep without a tree root in his back. Sofia had furnished him too with candles, books, and fresh clothes. The latter of which, she had reassured him, were his to take with him when his work was done. Sitting down on his make-shift bed, Tristan pulled a brown parcel towards him. It had been tied neatly with twine to keep it in place. Unfastening the knot with nimble fingers, he peeled back the wrappings to reveal a stack of neatly-ironed clothes. He dressed himself, ignoring the noises coming from the floor above. The clothes were in the style of those he had arrived in, and made from a soft durable fabric. The tunic was green, the trousers black, and the wide-hooded cloak the colour of evergreens. It had narrow sleeves so the fabric would not interfere with the movement of his sword. She had thought of everything, it seemed. "My monster," Sofia called from her room. She knelt on the floor, leaning down to whisper between the floorboards. "It's time. I'll meet you downstairs." Tristan fastened the cloak at his neck with the broach she'd given him. Moving back into the passageways, he walked away from her room and took a different set of steps. They spiralled tightly downwards into an even deeper blackness. As he wandered an abandoned landing, he caught a glimpse of the queen's throne in the great hall. Turning his back on it, Tristan ducked behind a moth-eaten tapestry. He set off down another flight of steps. Eventually they opened out into a cellar. The men sitting on the floor around the walls looked up as he entered. A couple eyed him warily, but most simply nodded their recognition of his arrival. "It's time," he told them, producing a key from his pocket. Tristan moved between them, unfastening their manacles from the walls. "Your pardons will be given to you when everything is over. The Queen will keep her word." He led them back up the straight flight of stairs to the landing, and then pushed open the secret door to the Great Hall. They filed out one after another into the wide open space, blinking in the sunlight. The only other person in the room was the queen. Sofia stood in front of her throne, a bright smile on her face. The men bowed to her as they passed. Tristan unlocked the antechamber with a second key, and waved them all inside. He made to follow them. A small hand closed around his wrist. "Not you, my monster," she said, pulling him away from the door, "its time they see you. I'd have you with me. Behind the throne, if you please." His stomach churned with apprehension as he pulled the door closed. Sofia kept her hold on his wrist and dragged him back across the room. She positioned him on the left side of her throne and then hopped up onto it. Her toes only just grazed the floor. "The others know what they have to do? They're in place?" she asked him. Her first sign of nervousness. Tristan nodded. "Yes, majesty." Sofia nodded to herself, apparently reassured. Then they waited in silence. --- Finally, the main doors to the hall opened with a violent creaking of hinges. Dieter strode into the hall with a thunderous looking Heinrich on his heels. Tristan set his hand to the pommel of his sword. "What is the meaning of this?" Dieter demanded in his signature drawl. "You think to summon us like whipped dogs, niece?" Sofia smiled at him sweetly. "Something like that, uncle." "Who's this?" Heinrich asked, gesturing in Tristan's direction. He kept still, a statue flanking their niece's throne. Dieter's eyes flicked in his direction and looked him up and down with a critical eye. Tristan, at least, had taken him by surprise. Sofia's smile grew. "This uncle?" she asked, gesturing at Tristan. "This is my monster." "Your coward, you mean," Heinrich rumbled, "hiding his face." Tristan took hold of the grip of his sword for effect. "Ignore him, my monster," Sofia said. She curled her fingers around the arms of her throne. Tristan loosened his grip again. "Monster has been teaching me all sorts of things," Sofia told her uncles, "he's been a very useful friend." Dieter and Heinrich shared troubled glances. "Bring out our other friends, won't you, my monster?" Sofia instructed. Tristan nodded once and turned smartly on his heel. He marched towards the door of the antechamber. Turning the handle, he pushed it open with the toe of his boot. He gestured at the men inside, urging them back out into the light. As they traipsed out into the hall, Heinrich's eyes grew wide. Dieter set his hand to his sword. "I think you know all my other friends, uncles," Sofia laughed as they lined up in front of the dais. "They certainly remember you." She rubbed her hands together in her delight. "Friends," she said, looking around at them, "why don't you tell Uncle Heinrich and Uncle Dieter what you told me and Monster?" The man at the front of the line nodded. "Three months ago Lord Heinrich came to me in the back room of The Fighting Cock," he explained, eyes front. "He gave me a bag of gold and promised me another if I swore to kill the Queen while she slept." The second man stepped forwards. "Seven weeks ago Lord Dieter found me in the fighting pits. He promised to buy my freedom from the pit master if I swore an oath to kill the queen." The third man stepped forwards as the second stepped back into line with the others. "Five weeks ago..." he began. "ENOUGH!" Heinrich bellowed. In a flash he drew his sword, stepped forwards and slew the third man where he stood. Tristan stared in horror. Sofia's face went pale, but she held her nerve. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Tristan managed from behind his mask as Heinrich advanced on the fourth man. His voice caught in his throat, lending a fresh menace to his growl. "It'll do no good. Yesterday each of these men gave statements before a clerk of the courts. They were all witnessed by one of her majesty's judges. These statements have been recorded, sealed, and stored safely in an undisclosed location." Sofia grinned. "I told you my monster was clever." "Little bitch," Dieter growled. "I should have done for you myself from the start." Drawing his sword he advanced on the throne. Sofia held his eyes, sticking out her chin. "I was about to say exactly the same thing," she spat at him. Dieter roared his frustration, swinging his sword through the air. In one fluid movement, Tristan drew his weapon and stepped between them. The hall rang with the clash of steel meeting steel. His arms braced against the strength of Dieter's blow. With a twist of his wrist, he deflected the blade. "GUARDS!" Heinrich bellowed. Dieter's smile was half-deranged. His long lank hair fell about his face as he hissed through clenched teeth. "One monster won't be enough to save you niece," he warned her. The main doors to the hall opened and Sofia's household guard poured inside. They stood behind her uncles, completely bought and sold. "No, Uncle," Sofia conceded, surveying the scene before her with a sad smile, "but then, I never imagined he would be." She raised her hand above her head and moved her fingers together in a single click. The back doors to the hall burst open, and a sea of armed men dressed in turquoise and silver poured into the space. "I don't just have a monster, you see," she continued. "I found myself an army, and a husband. Oh Prince Niklaus!" The sea of turquoise parted to allow a young man through. He stepped up onto the dais and held his hand out to Sofia. She took it willingly, closing her fingers around his. "Not only does Monster come up with the best plans," Sofia explained, "it turns out he's also quite the diplomat. My dear Niklaus has the whole palace surrounded." It was Niklaus' turn to smile. Sofia looked around at the guards at her uncle's backs. "You have a simple choice to make," Tristan told them, moving closer to Heinrich and Dieter. "You can hold your ground behind these traitors, or you can set down your weapons. If you surrender to your Queen now, you will be pardoned for your offences." There followed a pregnant paused. And then the first guard unsheathed his sword. He threw it down on the ground with a clatter. All around him his brother's in arms followed suit. "Now," Tristan said, grinning behind his mask, "someone arrest the traitors. I honestly don't give a damn who!" --- Sofia and Prince Niklaus danced long into the night. Tristan skulked at the edges of the party, ignoring the curious stares he attracted. He weaved in between guests in various stages of intoxication. Eyes on Sofia, he positioned himself by the back door and waited. Cheeks flushed, she detached herself from her fiancé and drifted over to him. "Thank you, my monster," she said, taking his hand for the final time. "I owe you everything. And I gladly grant you your freedom." Sofia closed her eyes and muttered under her breath. The pressure around Tristan's wrist loosened. The cuff became an innocuous looking bangle. Gently, Sofia slipped it off over his hand. "I'm sorry I imprisoned you," she told him, "it was wrong of me." "Yes," Tristan agreed, "it was." The edges of her smile took on a twist of sadness. He sighed. "I am glad I was able to help you though, majesty. I wish you luck." She brightened again, like a sun emerging from behind a cloud. Still-smiling she slipped a ring from her finger and pressed it into his palm. "I want you to have this," she said, "to go with the other trinkets you wear. I hope you'll remember me fondly." Tristan thanked her, slipping it into his inside pocket for safe keeping. He swept her a final bow, turned and walked away. Finally, he could try and find a way back to Guidance. "Goodbye, my monster," Sofia muttered as he turned the corner and vanished out of sight. The clue, he was sure, lay in one of the books Sofia had gifted him. It spoke of inter-dimensional travel, of portals and transportation devices. Tristan slipped behind a tapestry and re-entered his labyrinth of corridors. He took the tight spiral staircase back up to his room. There, standing in front of the pile of blankets and pillows was an mauve armchair with lion paw feet. "Guidance," Tristan breathed. He didn't dare believe his eyes. Tristan blinked a few times, half-expecting it to vanish as suddenly as it had arrived. It waited patiently. Tristan stepped forwards, reached out, and grasped the chair by the arm. "You're late." Tristan's feet slammed into the floor so hard his knees buckled. He toppled sideways, throwing out his arm to stop himself falling any further. Breathing heavily, he raised his chin and surveyed the room. He was back in Guidance's room. The old man sat by the fire, Excalibur in his lap and a knowing smile on his face. Shakily, Tristan pulled himself up and fell back into the mauve armchair. He forced himself to take slow deep breaths to ward off the sick feeling rising in his stomach. The room seemed to ripple around him. Guidance returned his attention to the sword. "Yes," he muttered to it, running his hand over the grip, "I missed you too." Guidance stood up slowly. He lay Excalibur across his armchair, balancing its blade on one arm and pommel on the other. Collecting a wooden footstool as he crossed the room, he set it down in front of Tristan. Guidance settled himself on the stool and looked up into his face. "It's alright lad," he said, "just breathe. It'll all be back to normal soon." Tristan wasn't sure he believed him. He was about to throw up all over Guidance's papers. Guidance produced a cup of water from nowhere and pressed it into Tristan's hand. "Drink," Guidance urged. Tristan obeyed, and the room finally stopped spinning. He took another deep breath and sat back in the chair. "What on Shaman just happened?" he asked, tipping back his head. His voice reverberated around inside the mask. "You learned something," Guidance laughed, "that's what happened. I know it can hurt." "Oh shut up," Tristan breathed through a hidden smile. Guidance snorted. "Let me ask you something, boy." He pointed a long finger at Tristan's chest. "Those things you wear around your neck. You wear the cross for your father, the sun for your grandfather, and the tooth? Why keep the tooth?" Tristan considered the question. "As a reminder, I suppose," he said, "of a time I did something stupid and nearly died." "But you didn't," Guidance finished for him, his eyes dancing. "No..." Tristan agreed, "what are you getting at, Guidance?" "I'm suggesting," Guidance sighed, "that these are the three things you built your life on. The three things you put your faith in: your father, your grandfather...and yourself." He shuffled to the edge of his stool. "You act like you've lost everything, Tristan, but even if we entertain your notion that you've lost the first two, no one in the world can take the third one from you...." Guidance smiled. "...Except you." In the silence that followed Tristan bit back his tears. They burned at the back of his eyes, threatening to spill. "Take off the mask, son," Guidance urged him. "I can't." Guidance squeezed his knee. "Yes, you can. Try" Tristan set his hands against the smooth cool of the mask's surface. Slipping his finger through the eye hole he gave it a gentle halfhearted tug. It slipped free easily, dropping down into his waiting hands. The cool brush of the air against his skin was shocking. It was like stepping out of the dark and into the light. He blinked and ran his hand across his face. Tristan turned the mask over. It was a truly hideous thing, the features recognisably human but rendered monstrous. He wanted it away from him. Tristan passed it to Guidance, trusting him to dispose of it. If he never saw it again, it would be too soon. It had been a cage. "You have this idea of yourself," Guidance pressed. He set the mask face-down on the nearest table. "Its wrapped up in smiles, charm and the laughter of pretty girls. What you need to believe, boy, is that there's more to you than that. Behind that smile is a brain, and it knows what it needs to do far better than you think it does. You have a quick mind and a good heart. Listen to them." Guidance stood up, leaving Tristan in his chair. The old man returned a moment later and settled himself on his stool. He lay Excalibur across his knees. "Your father taught you everything you need to know," Guidance said. He drummed the sword's scabbard with his fingers. "And he learned everything he knew from a very wise and clever man." Tristan glanced up at his face. The man's blue eyes were dancing again, alive with light and merriment. "You proved yourself here, boy," Guidance continued. "You helped a Queen regain her kingdom, without the smiles and without that charming face of yours." He tapped Tristan in the centre of his forehead with his fingertip. It was surprisingly sharp. "You used your mind, you remembered your father's lessons, and you did it." Guidance bounced up again. He took hold of Tristan's shoulders, and pulled him into a standing position. They were of a height, and their eyes met easily. "Now go home, and do it again.." Guidance moved his hand through the air. The space around his fingers began to pulse and writhe. Without a moment of hesitation, he picked up Excalibur and threw it through the portal. Tristan cried out in wordless protest, but Guidance kept a firm grip on his shoulder with his free hand. "It'll come back to you," he promised, "the way you need it to." "You're mad," Tristan breathed, shaking his head. "Probably," Guidance agreed, rocking up onto his toes. "But I'm also right." "Always?" Tristan teased. "Usually," Guidance smirked, "and in this case, certainly." He held out his hand for Tristan to shake. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace," Guidance told him, bowing his head. "But you have been away from your kingdom long enough." He tipped his head towards the portal. Tristan took a deep steadying breath and nodded. Guidance was right, of course, but it didn't make it feel any less like walking back into the lion's den. He took a step towards the portal and then paused. Tristan turned on his heel and held the old man's eyes. "Are you who I think you are, Guidance?" Tristan asked, a smile playing in the corner of his mouth. Guidance's face transformed. He looked like a little boy caught out in a lie. "I highly suspect I am," he replied, rubbing his hands together in ill-concealed delight. Tristan nodded, his smile transforming into a grin. "Well," he said, "it was a pleasure to meet you too. He took a step backwards into the pulsating air. "And thank you, Merlin." |
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