The Black Chalice

tied around his arm, trying to rip it off, but the damned knot wouldn't give. He tugged at it, working his fingers into the stubborn knot.

The boy appeared at his side, clutching the Black Chalice, and pressed it into Alymere's trembling hands. 'Where are you, my king?' he bellowed. 'You owe me a toast! Drink with me, Arthur! Drink!'

Giving up on the knotted favour, he spun, waving the Chalice in the air above his head. 'This is it, the Devil's cup! Just one drink! Drink with me, my king!'

Someone pushed into his back. He spun around, snarling at the woman who'd had the temerity to touch him as he tried to fight his way free of the maddening crowd. Startled, she gathered up her skirts and bolted.

She wasn't important. His world had reduced to two things: The Black Chalice and Arthur.

Then Sir Bors stood where she had been.

Alymere stared for a moment too long, uncomprehending, as Sir Bors looked Alymere straight in the eye, the disappointment writ plain on his face, cocked his fist and punched him square in the jaw.

Alymere tasted blood in his mouth as the shock of the blow rang from his chin to his toes. He stumbled, swaying on his feet; for a moment the world spun away beneath him.

Then it went black.

Fifty-Three

He opened his eyes.

'Shhhh, drink this.'

The king tried to part his lips to pour water down his throat, and Alymere shook his head.

He regretted it instantly as a wave of nausea welled up within him. He rolled over onto his side and vomited onto the grass. His stomach heaved again and again until there was nothing left to come up save for bile.

Cradling him in his arms, Arthur pressed the Chalice to Alymere's lips, forcing him to swallow a mouthful of water. He emptied the rest of the water before Alymere could take a second gulp. Then he gripped Alymere by the jaw and turned his head left, then right, studying him. 'You'll be fine. A little bruising, a few loose teeth for a while, and of course, sore as hell in the morning, but fine.' He waited a few moments, studying Alymere's face, and then asked, 'So, tell me, am I lying?'

Alymere looked up at the king, taking his time to collect himself. Everything hurt. He rolled his head slowly on his neck, feeling the muscles and tendons stretch and throb with the tentative movement. His head did not fall off, which was a small mercy. 'No, sire.'

Arthur smiled. 'Excellent. Now perhaps we ought to get you somewhere more comfortable before Bors decides to smack you again for your impertinence. That's quite a tongue you have on you for one so young, Sir Knight. It is fortunate he is not one to hold a grudge. Quick to anger, quicker still to forgive, that is Bors.'

'I deserved it,' Alymere said, rubbing at his jaw.

'That you did, boy. That you did.' It was the first time the king had called him boy since his return to Camelot.

Alymere didn't feel himself. He looked around at the Maypole and the concerned faces of the few bystanders who had gathered around after the commotion. He tried to rise, but his body was having none of it. The bonfires were burning bright now, turning night into day. Every bone in his body rattled.

'I have made a fool of myself,' he said eventually; but mercifully, beyond the punch, the details of it refused to come back to him.

'People will forget it soon enough.'

'The day Sir Bors knocked out the newly knighted Sir Alymere with one punch.'

'Or when you put it like that, perhaps not.'

'Where is Bors?' Alymere asked. He felt a shadowy presence at the back of his mind, clawing at his consciousness. Struggling to be free.

Arthur didn't answer him immediately. Instead he gestured for someone to come forward from the crowd. Katherine. The maid hurried forward and knelt at his side. Again there was pity in her pretty eyes, but this time it had nothing to do with his disfigurement. She pressed a wet rag to his chin, and pulled it away red with blood from where his teeth had cut into his gums. He hawked and spat blood into the grass beside him.

And the voice inside his head whispered insidiously: I will not give you up without a fight, Alymere, Killer of Kings. You are mine. You are me. We are.

And he shivered. Leave me alone. I do not want to kill the king. I do not. I. Do. Not. I…

Do… the Devil whispered.

Fifty-Four

In the end it was simple.

He had no need of elaborate schemes; the king had already held the Chalice and dribbled water into his mouth with it. All Alymere needed to do was get the man to place the tarnished goblet to his lips and take a single sip.

'My liege,' he said, leaning on Katherine slightly. 'Before this series of… ah… unfortunate events, I had been about to buy myself an ale. Might I make up for my behaviour by sharing a draught with you, by way of a peace offering?'

'There is no need,' Arthur said.

'Then humour me, sire. Please.'

'Very well. I promised you a toast, and a toast you shall have. But hurry or we will miss the May Queen's voyage down the river.'

They walked together to the ale tent. The smell of hops and barley was strong in the air as the barmaid brought two overflowing mugs over to the table they had taken. The tent was all but empty; a few hardened drinkers remained, but most had gone down to the river to watch the May Queen's farewell. It wasn't the grand humbling he had hoped for, but it would do.

Arthur drank deeply, wiping the foam away from his lips with the back of his hand, and slammed the half- empty tankard down on the table. Alymere matched him, licking his lips.

'What of the Chalice?' He asked, leaning forward conspiratorially. The Chalice was on the table between them. They were alone. There was no-one to save the king, once desire got the better of him. 'One sup to see through the lies of men; two to be given the gift of tongues; three to become Lord of Illusions? Will you drink?'

'Honestly,' Arthur said after a moment, 'I do not know if I want to know every lie I hear. Sometimes, perhaps, it is better to live in blissful ignorance.'

'But more dangerous, surely, my king? With so many people eager to see you fall.'

'Indeed? Who is eager to see me fall?' Arthur said, a wry smile touching his lips.

'Your enemies, sire,' Alymere said, without a hint of irony. 'And you cannot know them, not for sure, because you cannot see into the heart of a man. No-one can.'

'You can,' the king corrected him. Alymere frowned, and Arthur gestured toward the cup. 'You have supped from the Devil's Grail.'

Alymere nodded slowly. He had supped from the Devil's Grail, and survived. Not once, but twice. The blood had sustained him; the water had revived him. He emptied what remained of the ale from his flagon into the Chalice and pushed it across the table toward the king. Arthur didn't take his eyes from it, but neither did he reach for it.

'How do I know you aren't my enemy?' he said, finally.

Alymere steepled his fingers and inclined his head toward the Chalice. 'All you need to do is drink, and you'll hear the truth of my words,' Alymere said. 'Ask me any question. I shall tell you the truth, and nothing but.'

'A convincing argument — but a man would be foolish to treat with the Devil, a king doubly so. I do not like