The Black Chalice

that.'

'And which father would that be?'

'You won't goad me into a fight if that is what you are trying to do, lad. If you want the damned book, on your head be it, but you have to take it. You have a choice, lad. Take it, carry it to the fire burning in the hearth, and consign it to the flames, and be free of whatever hold it has on you, or take it and walk out of here. The choice is yours, but if you chose not to burn the damned thing, then I advise you to get as far away from me as you can, because I swear I don't ever want to see your face again. Do you understand me? You're better than that. Stronger. You have the makings of a great man. Don't throw your life away, son.'

'The one thing I am sure of right now is that I am not your son,' Alymere said.

He held out his hands for the book.

Bors did not move. He said nothing.

Alymere covered the last few steps in a rush, snatched the book out of Bors's lap and backed off before the knight's hand could snake out and snag him.

'So what's it going to be, lad? Fire or damnation?'

Alymere didn't answer him, not with words. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Sir Bors de Ganis sank lower in his chair, reduced by the exchange, broken. He had genuinely thought — hoped — that Alymere would do what he couldn't, burn the book. He had gambled everything on it. And lost.

But it wasn't just that he had lost, it was the manner of that loss. It went far beyond a battle of wills. He had put his faith in the lad, not realising just how lost to himself he was.

The dilemma he faced now was a simple one: was he the sort of man who would break his oath in order to save a friend? Or was he stubborn enough to turn his back on one during the time of their greatest need?

Oath-keeper?

True friend?

Couldn't he be both? Why did it have to be one or the other?

Forty-Five

Alymere fled the Great Hall. He clutched the book to his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly against it. And for a moment he could have sworn he felt its corresponding heartbeat pushing back against him. But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

Nothing is impossible, Alymere. Don't you know that already? Can't you feel the possibilities bubbling inside you? Don't you feel the thrill of the stone and the dirt coursing up through you? That is creation. That is power. True power. Magic, if you will. It is the life blood of Albion, of the world. And the world is there for the shaping, for the taking. Together we have it in us to shape destinies and bring kingdoms crashing down. Together, Alymere, you and I. We could raise up armies out of the firmament. We could carve out the future in our own image… with the Chalice, anything is possible. Everything is possible. Bring it to us. Reclaim it. It was ours and it shall be again.

'I already said I would,' Alymere snapped, barely recognising his own voice for the malice in it. 'I cannot conjure it out of thin air. I am not a witch.'

No. You are so much more.

Alymere bustled out of the main house, flinging the door open with his one free hand, and strode out into the rising sun. Dawn had taken the cold edge from the air but it still had that wonderful bite deep in his lungs as he breathed it in. It was going to be a glorious day. Dew sparkled on the grass.

And then he realised what was wrong: there was no dawn chorus. On any other day he would have emerged to incessant bird song, But today, nature was silent. That sent a shiver through Alymere that had nothing to do with the cold. He moved to make the sign of the cross then stopped himself. It didn't feel right to him anymore.

He put his head down and hurried all the way to the stables, clutching the book tight to his chest. 'Saddle up my horse,' he barked at the stable lad before he had half-stumbled out of the hay where he had been sleeping. The poor boy was reed-thin and looked like he would snap in two at the ferocity of Alymere's tone but that didn't stop him scampering about the stable. Alymere took advantage of the moment to slip the pack from his shoulder and stuff the book inside. 'I don't have all day!' Alymere shouted at the lad's back as he struggled with the buckle on the saddle's girths. The boy jumped physically, causing the horse to startle. It took a full minute for him to coax it back under control and finish buckling the saddle firmly into place.

A few minutes later Alymere rode out, ducking beneath the low lintel of the stable door even as he spurred the horse forward. The animal snorted, steam billowing from its nostrils as it reared up and its hooves came down. And then it was off in a burst of speed. As they reached the shadow of the old sour-apple tree, Alymere drove his heels into the horse's ribs again, harder this time, urging the great animal into a gallop.

He guided it toward the road that would take them north, toward the Tay Loch and Dun Chailleann, through the deep woods of Coit Celidon, and up to the mountain ranges of Sidh Chailleann beyond that.

He did not look back once.

He had no interest in the past, only the future.

Forty-Six

He rode for three days and three nights, riding the animal into the ground. He did not stop for rest, did not sleep, did not eat and barely drank. When the horse's legs finally buckled beneath him he was halfway through the forest, surrounded on all sides by shadows, thick leaves and low-dragging branches that crowded him. He still had five miles or more to go before he reached the base of Sidh Chailleann. The beast pitched forward to the road, shuddering and snorting as it lay there. He watched its chest heave three times, one of its back legs kicking out weakly, and then walked away from it, leaving the horse to die alone.

He walked the last five miles to the mountain, purpled with gorse and heather.

He could not see the summit for clouds.

A fine mist of rain clung to the air and insects flew around his face, in his eyes and mouth. At first he tried to swat them away but it was futile, so he walked on, doing his damnedest to ignore the midges as they got in his mouth and up his nose.

He was dizzy with dehydration and hunger.

Before him, he could barely make out a narrow path worn in the grass at the foot of Sidh Chailleann. It suggested the clansmen still made regular pilgrimages to their ancestor's cairn. He had not anticipated that, but he should have. He should have thought it through properly. The reivers had come south as far as Medcaut looking for the book, and while they might not have known the true nature of their prize, they must have known the book was little more than a devilish treasure map, meaning they suspected the treasure was buried somewhere in their lands — why else would they have come?

Alymere could only hope the faithless bastards would honour the dead as woefully as they did the living.

He dropped to his knees, studying the worn grass. He was no expert when it came to reading tracks, but this changed things.

Would they have set a watch?

He reached down, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. It would not matter if they had. He had fought and killed the reivers once, and could do so again.

The wind whipped down the mountainside, whistling mournfully through the gullies and crevices in the ancient rock. He climbed a few hundred feet closer to the clouds and the fog of midges gave way to a permanent wetness in the air that soaked through his clothes in a matter of minutes, even under a clear blue sky. He pulled his sodden cloak tighter and soldiered on, his footsteps leaden, small stones scuffing under the soles of his boots. When he looked up again he saw a bird — the first he had seen in days. For a moment he thought it must have been a falcon or a kestrel, from the way it seemed to hang in the air before sweeping down, but as it flew by him he saw the streak of white feathers mottling the black and knew it was the same damned crow. It could only mean