The Black Chalice

Thirty-Nine

Alymere stood over his father.

It was true, the familial resemblance was strong. Stronger than it had a right to be, he thought.

'Why?' he asked. He could have been asking so many questions, but what he really wanted to know was why the dying man had chosen to burden him with his crime?

'Love,' the old man said. 'I loved her.'

The voice of the Devil's Bible crooned inside his skull:

The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son a thousand times.

'No,' he said, though whether denying the knight or his own fate he neither knew nor cared. 'Don't say that. Don't lie. Not now. Don't lie to me.'

Fathers shall not be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sin.

'I want to hear the truth. If you are going to burden me with your guilt I want the whole truth. I don't want you painting yourself as a tortured hero unable to resist the maiden's charms, none of that. I want the truth.'

The soul who sins is the one who will die. The son will not share the guilt of the father, nor will the father share the guilt of the son. The righteousness of the righteous man will be credited to him, and the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against him.

Kill him. Do it. Take the pillow from beneath his head and put an end to his lies.

For every living soul belongs to me, the father as well as the son — both alike belong to me. The soul who sins is the one who will die.

Tell me he did not sin, tell me he did not betray the greatest trust of all, and in that act forfeit his right to life. Tell me. No; show me.

'I loved her. Every day of my life.'

'Not good enough,' Alymere said, not recognising the voice that came out of his own mouth. He reached down and tugged the bolster from beneath the knight's head. He held it between them for a moment, staring down with nothing but hatred and disgust for the man in the bed. Something passed between them, unsaid. Lowick understanding what was about to happen, accepting it, even. Alymere leaned forward and pressed the bolster down over the old man's face, holding it firm as the knight's heels kicked at the mattress. His face twisted as Lowick reached up with frail hands to scratch and claw at him. He felt one of Lowick's fingernails break off in the back of his hand. The scratch wasn't deep. He watched with grim fascination as a single drop of blood broke and ran across the back of his hand and fell, staining the perfect white of the bolster. Alymere didn't stop pressing down until Sir Lowick stopped kicking and clawing at his hands and went still.

And then, with grim economy, he placed the pillow beneath the dead man's head, arranging his body so that it looked as though he had passed peacefully, closed his accusing eyes, and left the room.

It was an illusion. There was no peace in the death mask Sir Lowick wore — he looked as though he had just come face-to-face with the Devil himself. The horror of it was wrought plain upon his face for all to see.

And beside his head, that single spot of blood on the white pillow could so easily betray his murderer if any of the household thought to question it.

Alymere met Sir Bors upon the landing. The big man saw his expression.

'He is gone,' Alymere said.

'I should pay my respects. Will you be here when I return?'

'I need air.'

'That is understandable. I will find you when I am done. Then we must make arrangements for his burial.'

Alymere shook his head. 'No. It was his wish that he should burn.'

Forty

He grabbed a flagon of mead from the dresser in the kitchen, ignoring the protestations of the cook, and uncorked it with his teeth. He took a deep swallow, smacking his lips as the honeyed drink hit the back of his throat and he felt the burn of the alcohol. He took a second and third swallow, swatting the woman away as he drained the bottle dry. Alymere looked around for a second flagon and snatched it up, pulling the cork out of its neck and throwing it at the guttering fire. He turned around and stumbled out of the kitchen, down the long passageway and out into the fresh air.

It hit him hard.

Taking another huge swig of mead from the bottle, Alymere ran toward the old sour apple tree where he had sat so many times with Gwen over the last few months, thinking to drink and lose himself there. His head was spinning, less from the drink than from what he had just done. A few steps from the apple tree's shadow he turned away. He didn't want to contaminate the place with the blackness of his soul. It was the only happy place left to him in this house of lies. Instead, he walked toward the graves of his parents on the outskirts of the estate. Lime trees interspersed with elm formed a long passage that led from the furthest edge of the lawn to the stone mausoleum on the hill. He drained the second flagon before he was halfway down the leafy tunnel, tossing it aside. The alcohol spread through his blood, thinning it and affecting his balance.

The air felt so much colder up here, and the drink offered little in the way of fortification. He looked up at the sky, thinking it really ought to have been raining. He wanted the world to be in mourning, as he was. He shivered again and wished he had thought to grab his cloak as well as the mead on the way out of the house. His throat burned and his eyes itched; he felt the mead churning around in his stomach. But it couldn't soak up the sudden surge of guilt he felt at what he had just done. He tried to justify it by reminding himself that Sir Lowick would have died in a few hours anyway, but that didn't matter. He had snuffed out his life, and in that single act had become a murderer and betrayed every promise he had ever made. He thought of the Oath the king had made him swear, and for the first time in his life couldn't remember all the tenets of it.

He was crying.

He left the tears to stain his cheeks, wearing them like his shame, and walked unsteadily toward the mausoleum. His head felt cloudy, his thoughts muggy. Snot ran from his nose and he smeared it across his face.

'Why?' he shouted at the sky.

The heavens had no answers for him.

The dead house was overgrown with vines, where nature had begun the slow process of claiming it. In a decade or more it would be invisible against the landscape, but for now it was a sinister blend of stone and vegetation. He walked slowly toward the door, not really certain what he intended to do. He could hardly push his way inside and rail at the coffins lined up within, could he?

Alymere leaned against the door and closed his eyes.

His mother and father were on the other side of the door — or so he had thought for years now, but the man buried there wasn't his father.

He pushed at the door, more out of frustration than any hope of it swinging open.

It was locked, of course, but he wasn't about to let that prevent him. He put his shoulder to it, thinking suddenly to batter it down, and rocked back on his heels, steeling himself, but at the last moment thought better of it. He had other options. The lock wasn't complex. It didn't need to be, no-one would rob the dead. Not here. They respected his family too much; they were every bit a part of the land as the mountains or the trees.

Alymere crouched and put his eye to the mechanism. He felt a wave of nausea swell up inside his throat and swallowed it down. He ran his fingers across the seam where the door met the stone wall. There was a thin gap between them, barely wide enough for him to slip the blade of his dagger into. The tip scraped across the wood at first, as he fumbled with it, but, grating against the stone and cutting free splinters from the edge of the door, he managed to work it into the gap. He worried the metal against the lock's latch, trying to pry it free again and again,