The Black Chalice

this cup you have brought me. More, I do not trust this cup.'

'And yet you had me drink from it, and by your own hand.'

'I am the king. Your life is mine anyway,' Arthur said, matter-of-factly. The off-hand manner of the comment — the callousness of it, and the blatant disregard he had for his knight's life — rankled. 'You live to serve. That is the nature of the oath you just took, is it not? Camelot is all. When we are long gone, Camelot will endure. It is more than just stone walls; it is an ideal. Our lives are pledged to that ideal, and if we should die upholding it, then so be it. That is the will of God and who are we, mere mortals, to argue?'

We are Alymere, Killer of Kings, the voice barked in his mind. That is who we are! That is our destiny!

'I will not drink,' Arthur said. 'Not from the Devil's cup. I will give you your toast, but I will not willingly sup from something so obviously tainted with evil. He is the father of lies. There is something wrong about it. Can't you feel it?' I feel nothing except the pulse of blood pumping through the thick vein at your neck, the pounding of it through your temple, and I know what it means. You are afraid. 'How can you know that every word in the book you found is true? How can you know that he had not sown the seeds of discord and discontent in the lies therein?' I know because I know, he wanted to scream. I know because I am he and he is me and we, together, are the end of you! 'No, I will not drink. Tell me, why are you so eager that I drink? That, to me, is a far more interesting question.'

Alymere licked his lips and leaned forward, taking his hands from the table.

He had to battle down the urge to snatch up the Chalice and swallow down a second and a third gulp, merely to put the fear of the Devil into the king.

Beneath the table, Alymere felt himself reaching for his sword, and clenched his fists. He couldn't draw steel on the king — his head would roll before he was halfway across the table. Arthur was the greatest swordsman in all of Albion; Excalibur and its wielder, the stuff of legend.

Just drink it, damn you!

But he knew the king was not going to. Not without… help.

I do not want to kill the king. I do not. I do. I do not. I do. I do not. I do… not! I do… not. I… do… not…

And again, louder than all the denials, shouting him down, the Devil's voice cried: I do! And there was nothing he could do to silence it. All he could do was try to claw back control of his own body. It didn't matter who his father was; Alymere, son of Corynn, was still in there, fighting for his very survival. Both Lowick and Roth would have been proud of the boy they had raised, regardless of which of them was his father.

His hand trembled violently.

'You have no answer for that? Curious. I would have thought you would.'

'Have you heard the voice yet?' Alymere asked. He had no control of the words as they left his mouth. It was as though the other part of him was speaking. The buried part.

'What voice?' The king asked sharply. Something in his frown betrayed the fact that he had. In the hours since he had come into contact with the book, the voice of the Devil's Bible had wormed its way insidiously into the king's mind, and it wouldn't stop worming away at him until it had complete and utter control.

'The book. The Devil. Have you heard the voice yet?'

'Oh, dear God,' Arthur said. And then nothing more. With no words there could be no lies.

Fifty-Five

Sir Bors appeared behind Arthur's shoulder.

He drew back a stool and sat himself down. 'You've got a skull like granite, lad,' the big man said, rubbing his fist, his familiar affable grin on his face. It was as though nothing had ever happened between them. But that was what the king had said, wasn't it? Quick to anger, quicker to forgive.

'I don't mind saying I've worked up a devil of a thirst. Ah,' the big man reached out for the only full goblet on the table. 'You truly are a wonder, lad,' he said to Alymere. 'Every time I think I understand you, you go and do something utterly idiotic…' He trailed off, grimacing. 'It's a bad habit, lad, and one that could get you in an awful lot of trouble.' Sir Bors rolled his head on his bull-thick neck, and worked his shoulders. There was an enviable affability about the man, even now. He truly could never hold a grudge for more than a few minutes.

'Now, I believe a toast is in order to mark this auspicious occasion. So, if you will allow me, I think there is one in particular that lends itself to the situation. Never has a young man been so loved: Corynn, Roth, Lowick, all good people, good friends — even that old bugger Baptiste would have died for you, lad — and to look at you now would make them so proud. You have grown into a good man. A true man. And for that, we all owe them a debt of thanks.' His meaty fist closed around the stem of the Black Chalice and he lifted it to his lips. 'To absent friends!'

Alymere reacted without thinking.

And this once it wasn't the book, or the Devil, or well-crafted schemes that controlled his actions. It was simple instinct, rising from the Alymere of old, driven by anguish. By loss.

No! He had lost too much in his short life; he would not lose any more. He sprung from his seat, dashing the Chalice from Bors's lips even as they parted to drink from the poisonous cup. Ale sprayed everywhere: down Bors's shirt, across his face and the table in front of him. The Chalice struck the table, spilling what was left of its contents over the king as it rolled away and fell to the dirt.

Alymere, breathing hard, loomed over Bors. The big man couldn't look away from the war going on behind the new Knight's eyes.

'What is happening to you, lad?'

'The Devil,' Arthur said, staring at the damned cup where it lay on the ground. 'That is what is happening to him.'

Kill the king! Do it. Now! Snatch up our sword and drive it through his withered heart! Do it! Gut him! It is our destiny!

Alymere drew his sword in a single smooth action. The blade shone deadly in the moonlight.

Kill him!

No! I will not! I will not kill Arthur! Alymere's heart screamed in protest, and his entire body shook. The tip of the sword wavered.

His eyes darted from the king's exposed chest, to Bors, and back to Arthur. No-one seemed capable of moving, trapped as though by a spell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blodyweth's ragged linen favour, still stubbornly tied around his arm. It had slipped down to his elbow, where he could ease it down and be free of the damned thing, and whatever hold it had upon him.

'Blodyweth,' he said, tasting summer on his lips again as he did, and drawing strength from her name. 'Blodyweth,' he repeated. His chest heaved. His arm trembled violently, the sword's tip swinging wildly between Arthur and Bors. And he heard her again, in that moment when he most needed her. Be my champion. Save me. Stay true. Save me, my champion. Save me, or the Devil take both our souls.

I will not kill! I. Will…

And then with one triumphant surge of will, Alymere hurled the sword aside. Not!

He collapsed to his knees. 'You will not have her,' he said, having barely the breath to say the words. 'And you will not have me.'

And then Bors's thundering right fist hit him again.

A Man Redeemed Fifty-Six