CHAPTER XIX: The Fall of Cui-Baili

With the rebellious noble Houses now in exile, and Banrion banished to a lonely castle by the sea, Cui-Baili again delved into the minute workings of empire, eschewing personal gratification for the satisfaction of ordering his splendid realm. Betrayed by his empress, the emperor withdrew his trust in the intentions of those closest to him, and he became cynical and bitter to even those who had remained loyal during the rebellion. Driven by his exacting nature, Cui-Baili oversaw with a heavy hand even the smallest of projects, and demanded perfection from those vassals appointed to fulfill his wishes. Yet for all the toil and sweat he expended on Tsin-Quinqan, doubt began to gnaw at Cui-Baili as old age crept ever closer. Even though the emperor was still robust and hale, the need for an heir became acute and his loneliness more insufferable as the solitude of his station bore down on him; yet, as it always seems with affairs of the heart, love came unexpectedly from the least likely of circumstances.

Once on a time, Cui-Baili, lost in thought and unmindful of naught but pressing affairs of state, was pacing the endless maze of gardens that surrounded his palace, as was his wont when he sought clear perspective. Suddenly, as if lost in a waking dream, his troubled mind was turned by a lilting voice raised melodiously in song, accompanied by the dulcet tones of a lute. Forsaking his imperial agenda, Cui-Baili was drawn as one sleepwalking to a bower with mossy flagstone steps and a trellised arbor overarching a marble bench where two musicians entertained a small gathering of courtiers and diplomats. These statesmen and seneschals were as equally enthralled as the emperor was by the young woman who sang an air supplied by an older gentleman who gently plucked the strings of his instrument. The maid's ethereal voice Cui-Baili likened to a nightingale's song, and he was struck to the heart by her fragile beauty, as delicate as the first blushing rose of spring.

Cui-Baili recognized the Lutenist as one of his court musicians, Ceol the Old, who had served the Imperial House since the time of his father; but the maiden he had never seen before. She noticed Cui-Baili gazing at her intently and meekly averted her eyes, yet her song did not falter. The alarmed courtiers became aware of the Emperor's presence as well, and in deference to their sovereign, they made way for him with awkward bows. But Cui-Baili had eyes only for the winsome songstress, and he stood entranced as long as the song continued. When the final, haunting note of the tune was carried off on the sussurant breezes, Cui-Baili at last stirred.

'Ceol, no words of praise have we that would do justice to thy ballad," Cui-Baili said with a smile, "and your apprentice has a gift for song unmatched in our realm. Long may she adorn our court!'

'You do me great honor, your majesty," the elderly musician replied as he strained to genuflect, "more so since my apprentice has found favor in your presence. For she is my granddaughter, Aislin, new come to your court this very springtide.'

Aislin curtsied low but dared not meet the emperor's eyes.

'And what brings thee to our court, Aislin?' Cui-Baili asked good-naturedly, in hopes that he would hear her voice once again, 'Surely thy parents had great difficulty in allowing a daughter with such graces out of their keeping?'

Aislin looked up at the emperor, but Cui-Baili was amazed to see mournful tears welling in her eyes. But she could not abide his countenance long, and she cast her sorrowful gaze downward and spoke not.

'Your majesty, please forgive my granddaughter, she means no disrespect,' Ceol answered in Aislin's stead. 'Her parents were killed in the time of the Troubles. Their village was razed by rebel troops, and she hid away in the forest, lest she be taken.'

Great remorse filled Cui-Baili and he looked down with pity on the orphaned maid. 'Forgive me, Aislin, I knew not…' he cried, suddenly unable to complete his thoughts.

There were whispers and mutterings among the courtiers who still stood behind Cui-Baili, a murmur of shock that the emperor would ask forgiveness from a mere peasant girl. With an angry wave of his hand, Cui-Baili dispatched his thoughtless vassals, who scurried from his presence like scolded dogs. Left alone then with Ceol and Aislin, the emperor took the distraught maiden gently by the hand and guided her to the bench.

'Aislin, you may stay in our house with Ceol your grandsire for as long as you wish,' Cui-Baili said, tenderly wiping a tear from her cheek. 'No claim do I make of thee for this boon, save that I ask thee to come to this bower every day at this very time and sing for me as you have done today.'

Aislin looked up through tears at Cui-Baili and kissed his hand in gratitude. 'Thank you, your majesty,' Aislin answered with a gentle smile, 'I pray that I shall always please your majesty thus, for as long as he so wishes it of me.'

Cui-Baili smiled in return and left them there, but he did so with great difficulty, and as the day drew on his thoughts strayed from matters of empire to reveries of Aislin; and even in fitful slumber his repose was haunted by the maid's mellifluous voice, coloring his dreams with her vibrant song.

Every afternoon at the appointed time, Aislin would meet the emperor beneath the garden bower and sing songs for him of ancient wonder, delicate traceries of words woven into exquisite visions that danced tangibly before Cui-Baili's eyes, freeing his mind from a drab, self-imposed prison of statecraft to trod unencumbered in sun-dappled forests of yore, lush and ever green. And as the long, hazy days of summer mounted, Aislin, the demure beauty with a gentle smile and shy laughter, at last healed the blight of mistrust within Cui-Baili's bitter heart, and eased him of the great burdens he had carried for so long in solitude. She asked nothing of him, nor expected anything -- this the emperor knew -- but her every wish would be granted ten-fold if only she were to mention them.

As word of the emperor's daily trysts with Aislin became known throughout court, even his most loyal vassals shook their heads in dismay at the unseemly affair. 'The emperor has become besotted or bewitched!' one would say, 'He's infatuated with this peasant girl!' another would reply. But as the gossips plied their tawdry trade, the news reached the ears of those opposed to the emperor and to his rule. It is said in those days Sauron was again marshalling his forces in the East, and that a strong sovereign the likes of Cui-Baili ruling such a vast empire was an impediment to the Dark Lord's ambitions. Spies were sent from Mordor to Tsin-Quinqan, and devious emissaries parlayed with nobles of the exiled Houses, promising aid and mercenary support should the banished lords seek to depose Cui-Baili. Even Banrion, mad and captive as she was, received illicit information through a network of informers and traitors handsomely bribed from the limitless coffers of Sauron; and with a cunning that would make the Dark Lord himself blush, the empress kept an ongoing correspondence with her co-conspirators under the very noses of the imperial wardens charged with guarding her.

But whether Cui-Baili knew or cared about the dissent that surrounded him at court, or of the renewed plots that swirled about the marches of his realm, he did not show it. A zest for life had returned to him, and he laughed aloud and jested in a manner unseen since the springtime of his rule. He wished in his heart of hearts to lay down the yoke of empire and relinquish the trappings of his lofty throne, so long a hindrance to his happiness. He yearned for a simpler life, one in which he could steal away with Aislin to the frontiers of his realm, or beyond, where no one had ever heard of Cui-Baili or the House of Chullain. But he waylaid such selfish thoughts; for so too did he love his people and the land of his great forefathers, who had bled and died so that Tsin-Quinqan would be the marvel of the Eastern World. There was too much dignity in Cui-Baili to surrender his rule to lesser men and to the chaos that by foresight he knew would ensue without the peace and stability his line offered.

His line! That fragile thread that threatened to snap should his days end prematurely. Yet Aislin was a beauty in her prime, and Cui-Baili still a man to be reckoned with. He would not wait for mean dotage to sap his strength and leave a son unprotected against the ravening wolves who would surely surround his throne. And so, to the dismay of his aides and the scandal of his court, Cui-Baili caused Aislin and her grandfather, Ceol, to be moved into a splendid suite of rooms in the palace proper, where once the Empress Banrion and her handmaids whiled away the indolent hours wrapt in luxury.

But Ceol was a man of much experience, and knew that such favor shown to his granddaughter and himself would surely draw enemies against them; however, the old man acquiesced for the sake of Aislin, seeking to protect her if he could from the spiteful envy of the court. He sought out Cui-Baili in private audience, and bravely beseeched the emperor to make an end of this charade.

'Begging your pardon, your majesty, but mark my words: no good shall come of this infatuation; it is ill fated,' Ceol stated bluntly, less as a servant to a master, and more as a paternal guardian to a suitor. 'This will be the doom of my granddaughter, and, by the evil whispers throughout court, it does not bode well for thee either, milord.'

Cui-Baili listened gravely to Ceol, overlooking the old man's apparent breach of etiquette and treating his opinion with a respect usually accorded to foreign dignitaries and potentates. Upon reflection, the emperor answered, 'Ceol, not lightly have I entered into this covenant, for it is with a solemn vow that I forswear my intentions for Aislin. My love for your granddaughter is no flirtatious lark. I would have her with me for the rest of my days if the fates allow.'

Seeing that Ceol remained unconvinced, Cui-Baili added, 'But I shall offer Aislin a choice: that she may leave court forthwith with my blessing and aid, or stay here in the palace as my consort. You, Ceol, shall bring this offer to Aislin alone, so that she may make her decision without undue influence or constraint."

Ceol blanched and hung his head. 'No such offer need be made to my granddaughter,' the old man sighed with resignation, 'for I know what her answer would be: that is, to remain here with you, your majesty. She, in truth, has made known her love for thee. As I cannot prevent this doom, I shall speak no more on it.'

And thus, Aislin remained at the emperor's side through the mounting storm of malcontent that darkened the winter of Cui-Baili's reign. But for a time there was great happiness within Cui-Baili's palace, and the love Cui-Baili held for Aislin, and she in return, became the stuff of legend: bards and minstrels would retell the tale of a pretty peasant girl whose wondrous song softened an emperor's heart of stone; moreover, the gentle Aislin moved many of Cui-Baili's cynical vassals to reverence by her calm demeanor and the fairness with which she dealt with any and all of the emperor's subjects. She interceded with the emperor for causes she felt were just, and staid his hand from harsh judgment when he was angered. Cui-Baili himself ruled with renewed vigor, acting not as a daunting taskmaster as he had for so many years, but as a lawgiver and a prodigious architect of public works. Yet when it was announced that the Consort Aislin was with child, the tidings were not met in all places with the joy due such a blessed event. Vile plots long incubating in the shadows began their insidious creep towards a bitter harvest, as neither the exiled lords, Empress Banrion, nor Sauron the Great wished to see the continuance of Cui-Baili's line.

Another rebel army was raised to the south, this one teeming with mercenary hosts contracted by Sauron's emissaries, but led ostensibly by the banished nobles (the Dark Lord's intentions remained cloaked in the matter, lest another alliance such as the one that defeated the Balchoth be arrayed against him). Ever valiant in times of crisis, Cui-Baili prepared to set off immediately with his legions to quell the insurrection; but Aislin pleaded with him to stay, for her heart was full of misgivings as the birth of their child was drawing nigh.

'I beg thee, my lord, ride not forth into battle,' Aislin stated sadly and with uncharacteristic candor. 'Are there not generals enough in your armies to bring a victory home to thee? Cannot one be found to lead in your stead?'

Cui-Baili smiled and embraced Aislin. 'The generals of my legions are brave and have served me these long years with distinction. Anyone of them could lead were I to order them; however, this is no desperate rabble revolting against injustice and want of bread. The rebellion that now brews on our marches threatens the very throne itself, and requires that I, the living symbol of the empire, must face my foes. To allow another to lead in my stead would send a message that perhaps I have become enfeebled and no longer capable of maintaining the rule of Tsin-Quinqan.'

Aislin buried her head against Cui-Baili's chest and sobbed, 'Forgive me, my love and my lord, I am merely being selfish!'

Cui-Baili gently pulled Aislin from him and gazed into her teary eyes. 'My dear Aislin, selfish?' he said with wonder. 'She that has never asked for anything? She that puts the needs of her emperor and his realm first before all other considerations? Whatever do you mean, my love?'

'I am selfish because I fear that if you do not return, my child and I shall be lost. Without you by my side your enemies shall kill our child…shall kill…'

Tears filled Cui-Baili's eyes and he held Aislin once more. 'I shall return, my love. I shall always be there to protect thee, and we shall live to see our son ready to rule our empire. This I vow to thee!'

Knowing that Cui-Baili would not be gainsaid from the undertaking, no matter the fears that whelmed within her, Aislin acquiesced with a quiet resolve and hope, and bade farewell to her emperor from the balcony of her royal suite, which overlooked the garden bower wherein they first chanced to meet.

Cui-Baili, even in his later years, proved a fierce combatant on the battlefield. Astride his great war stallion, the emperor swept the field before him, and not even the crack mercenary divisions that Sauron had set against him would suffer to stand before Cui-Baili's streaming banners. Yet perhaps it was Sauron's hidden influence amongst this force of hired killers that caused them to fold but not break rank -- to form orderly retreats but not flee helter-skelter -- and thus, they would reform lines and attack anew on another day. For Cui-Baili, who had never before known defeat but only ultimate victory, this strategy of the enemy baffled him. Knowing they had not the force to defeat his legions, Cui-Baili sensed that there were ulterior motives at work within the rebel armies, but whatever the strategy was, it proved as elusive as the decisive engagement Cui-Baili sought; for the confederates still desperately engaged the imperial legions' relentless attacks as weeks and weeks of skirmishes and defensive feints piled one on the other.

The joyous news at last came from the palace that the Imperial Consort, Aislin, had indeed borne Cui-Baili a son and heir. Although the emperor was filled with happiness, the thought of Aislin and his son alone while he trudged along the endless campaign trail filled him with a trepidation he had never before experienced. He yearned to return to his life and love at court, but this messy business with the shiftless rebels had to be finished once and for all. With this in mind, and knowing that rebel spies were all about and had more than likely infiltrated his camp, Cui-Baili withdrew the greater portion of his cavalry, feigning that he was returning to court to visit his consort and newborn son.

The gambit worked to perfection, for undoubtedly the enemy spies had indeed witnessed Cui-Baili's abandonment of his infantry, leaving them prone to attack without the inestimable aid of Tsin-Quinqan's legendary horse brigades. The spies' report, having its desired effect, stirred the enemy camp into furious action. Within two days, the rebels had taken the field and were advancing on the imperial positions with great haste. A ferocious pitched battle was fought, and the rebel generals, leaving nothing to chance, threw the last of their reserves into the fray to assure the utter destruction of Tsin-Quinqan's armies. As the evening of the third day drew near, the deluged imperial foot soldiers grew weary and began to falter, and the exalted rebels began to overrun their lines. But the rebel cries of certain victory were strangled in their throats, and the great expectations of wanton slaughter, piles of booty and rich ransoms turned to dismay and confusion; for the horns of their destruction sounded in the distance.

In a feat of military genius and endurance, Cui-Baili had, in three day's time, driven his cavalry nearly thirty leagues north, then west, then south, coming up at last from behind the rebel positions. The reappearance of Tsin-Quinqan's cavalry had a devastating effect on the rebel forces, as they were caught between the light brigades and Cui-Baili's rejuvenated infantry, who repulsed the confederates from their embattled lines with a burst of renewed ardor. This time, there was no orderly retreat by the overwhelmed mercenaries; having lost hope of carrying off the spoils of war, they instead chose to save their own skins, and fled en masse before the terrible swords of Cui-Baili. With the enemy in a complete rout, Cui-Baili at last surrendered leadership of his legions to one of his generals, and flew with all haste to be at Aislin's side. His heart burst with pride at the thought of a healthy heir being sung to sleep by his ladylove.

But the dread that had haunted Cui-Baili during the campaign became more pronounced as he drew nearer the palace. No dispatches had he received for several days from court, nor did those riders he had sent before him return. When he at last arrived, ominous black banners draped the facades of his palace, and his vassals bowed somberly in his presence.

'What goes on here?' Cui-Baili demanded of his servants. 'What fell circumstance has caused thee to caparison our house thus?'

One of the seneschals looked up with dismay at the emperor. 'Then…then you have not heard, your Majesty?' he stuttered with fear. 'Messages we have sent…riders…dire dispatches these last three days…'

A sinking feeling wracked the pit of Cui-Baili's stomach and his heart misgave him. Unwilling to hear more, he raced into the palace and directly to Aislin's suite. His pulse quickened as a great crowd of servants, healers and aides milled about in the corridor before Aislin's chambers. On a bier in the hall lay the lifeless form of Ceol the Old, bandages stained black with old blood covering a livid gash on his throat. Ignoring all else, Cui-Baili passed through the door. There, surrounded by healers, leaches and loremasters was Aislin, seemingly asleep in her feather bed, the sheer silken curtains of the overhanging canopy swaying spectrally from a faint breeze insinuating from an opened balcony door. Cui-Baili quietly ordered the men of science to leave the room, and he kneeled at Aislin's side. Her face was ashen white, a ghostly apparition that would haunt Cui-Baili's dreams from that day forward. As if she sensed the emperor's presence, Aislin opened her eyes, but there was no smile to greet her victorious lord.

'I have long awaited your return, my love,' she whispered, weakly grasping Cui-Baili's hand, 'but naught have I to offer thee in welcome.'

In horror, Cui-Baili suddenly realized that no cradle stood by Aislin's bed. He held her hand more firmly and gazed with wild confusion into her eyes. A single tear rolled down Aislin's cheek and she looked away from Cui-Baili. 'Our son is gone,' she gasped, barely able to speak from sorrow, 'he has been taken.' But Aislin spoke no more, as a sleep of blessed forgetfulness washed over her pain-wracked body.

The days that passed after Cui-Baili's return were ones of great turmoil and sadness. The emperor discovered that traitors within his own retinue had allowed evil men to enter the palace. They ruthlessly slew Ceol, who vainly attempted to protect his granddaughter, and gravely wounded Aislin, even as she clutched her infant son in her arms. Then the infiltrators brazenly stole the child from Aislin's desperate grasp, and left her there weeping, lying in a pool of her own blood. Cui-Baili, filled with remorse at having left Aislin alone these many weeks, never rose from her bedside; and though his loremasters attended his consort with the utmost gravity and expertise, tending her wound with great skill, still Aislin slipped further and further from the waking world, for there are some hurts that medicine cannot heal.

Late one evening while Cui-Baili kept his lonely vigil, Aislin again opened her eyes. With a steady gaze upon the grieving Cui-Baili she murmured, 'Forgive me, my love, I tried…' and then she fell silent. From the bower below the balcony he heard a nightingale's delicate trill in the gathering darkness, and Cui-Baili knew that Aislin was no more. The disconsolate emperor gently kissed Aislin and held her hand through the long night. When he at last emerged from her chamber, Cui-Baili appeared gray and feeble, seemingly aged many years in a single night. For countless hours every day he would sit silently upon his throne, lost in a reverie of sorrow, and none of his servants would dare disturb him.

No letter of ransom did the emperor receive for his stolen child, but none was truly needed. Cui-Baili knew well that he would never see his son alive again, but he was certain the devious kidnappers would keep their stony silence; thus, with the status of his son remaining a constant unknown, the faint hope of his heir's return would be forever dangled before him. Cui-Baili at last realized the vain folly of his actions: the rebellion was a sham, a pretext to separate the emperor from his consort for an extended length of time; the rebel army's series of retreats and limited engagements merely strung Cui-Baili along just enough for his enemies' plot to reach fruition; and Cui-Baili's supposed brilliant strategy was used against him, as if his adversary knew all along he would never desert his troops. But there were none of the exiled nobles who ever exhibited such an uncanny shrewdness to lead Cui-Baili so far astray, nor one blessed with the singular vision and iron will to offer up an entire army to utter defeat in order to achieve an ultimate victory. With a shock of recognition only profound soul-searching could reveal, Cui-Baili suddenly concluded who in fact was his one, true enemy: Sauron the Great. And the emperor laughed bitterly as one who was fey, and reason left him.

Cui-Baili spent the remainder of his days engrossed in the planning of a great Sepulchre in honor of Aislin -- a shrine for his lost love. Sparing no expense and with a single-minded effort that tore the veil between genius and madness, he caused a lush valley surrounded by verdant hills to be flooded with water from a river diverted specifically for the monumental project, and in the midst of this man-made lake he commanded to be built a palatial tomb of black and white stone towering heavenward, and around its gleaming walls gardens and groves not unlike those that graced the environs of his court. No amount of earnest pleas from his closest and most trusted aides could dissuade Cui-Baili from his relentless task, nor did the threat of a renewed rebellion cause him to act in defense of his realm. He ate and drank little, and slept not at all, until those that had known him in his greatness beheld now a mere shadow of the singular man who once ruled the most splendid empire in the East.

When the final -- and perhaps for posterity, the greatest -- achievement of his reign was completed, Cui-Baili surrendered up his spirit as one who had consumed what energy remained in his mortal frame; and thus utterly spent, he laid himself down in the confines of the magnificent Sepulchre. About him, his loyal and grief-stricken subjects erected a black marble vault, and upon a gold sarcophagus his noble likeness was intricately carved and placed reverently atop the imposing structure. But even in death Cui-Baili and Aislin could not evade tragedy and loss, for Cui-Baili's vassals immediately fell to bickering after his funeral, and shamelessly Aislin's body was not entombed alongside the emperor, as was his final wish. It is believed that the vindictive Empress Banrion, released from confinement after her estranged husband's death, caused Aislin's remains to be spirited away, and unceremoniously dumped into an unmarked grave -- the final act of vengeance of a woman scorned.

The long-banished lords returned from exile as well, and allying with the mad Banrion, seized control of Tsin-Quinqan; but such was the mistrust between the deceitful and conniving confederates that none among them was able to garner enough support to be chosen emperor; and the same could be said of Banrion, who, although still wielding considerable influence, was considered too reckless and unstable to maintain the throne. Instead, the lords and the aged empress settled on the mediocre bastard of Baolach's line, stuttering Baois. Pulled blinking and speechless into the sunlight from the imperial stables -- where he had spent most of his mundane life as a humble groomsman -- Baois was immediately thrust upon a precarious throne and invested with the ill-fitting robes of emperor. Pliable and utterly incapable of rule, Baois meekly fell under the control of one faction, then other, as he blithely oversaw the wholesale destruction and eventual partitioning of Tsin-Quinqan. No one took notice, or cared particularly, when he at last died, an oblivious old man held as a virtual prisoner in his own crumbling palace.