The knight gathered Alymere into his arms.
He lifted him and carried him to the cot, where he laid him down, stroking the matted hair away from his brow with curious tenderness. Alymere didn't move; didn't make a sound. It took a moment for Bors to realise he wasn't breathing. He couldn't think. He feared the worst, ready to beat on the boy's chest and try to hammer the life back into him, but as he leaned in close he heard a sound, so quiet he almost missed it: a gasp as the breath caught in Alymere's lungs escaped. It might almost have been a death rattle, but it was followed by a second and a third breath. He felt the warmth of Alymere's breath against his cheek as he began to breathe again.
Bors closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.
He took the blanket from where it was bundled up at the bottom of the bed and covered Alymere with it.
Seeing the book on the floor, Bors stooped and turned a few of the pages, but could make no sense of the scrawled words. Something about the book, however, the very physical presence of it, repulsed him. It was wrong in a way he couldn't begin to explain. Looking at it, he had the overpowering desire to take it across to the hearth and consign it to the flames.
His skin crawled as he reached down to close the book, and as he did, he broke whatever connection Alymere had to it, but when it came to it he couldn't throw the Devil's Bible into the fire.
It didn't matter. Even with the book closed, Alymere truly was no longer himself. Burning it would not have saved him.
Bors did not see the single white feather that had caught in the broken window. Even if he had, he could not have known what it meant, nor how far his young friend had fallen.
Grail Knight
Forty-Three
Alymere regained consciousness some time before dawn. He came to slowly, still groggy and, while not feverish, sheened with sweat. He pushed back the blanket. The first thing he did was reach for the book, but it wasn't where he had left it and wasn't in its hiding place beneath his bed. A surge of panic rose within him, and he threw himself out of the low cot and scrabbled about on the floor, looking around frantically for the Devil's book. He clawed up the rug and tugged at the corners of several floorboards to pry them free, but while they creaked and groaned beneath his weight none of them were loose enough to lift. He turned, still on his hands and knees, and saw the ash in the hearth, all that remained of the fire that had burned out during the night. He crawled across to it, a low, feral moan escaping his throat as he sifted through the ashes. There was no sign that the book had been burned. But where was it? He felt as though half of his soul had been stolen from him. He didn't need the book. The words were alive inside him. But be that as it may, he wanted the book. It was near, somewhere — he could feel it — just not in this room.
Who had taken it?
And then, some thing, some trace of his nightmare, crossed his mind and he saw Bors looming over him in the open doorway. Bors had taken the book. He must have. He had put Alymere to bed after he collapsed, and had found the book lying open on the floor. Had he tried to read it? Had he tried to steal it from him? Had he found it, started to read, and then the book offered up its secrets? No. No. That couldn't have happened. Bors couldn't have read a single word of it, so pure was the knight. The thoughts raced crazily through Alymere's mind, each coming before the previous one had time to fully form. He tried to think, to reason, as his uncle had taught him to; to think through the problem using only the evidence at hand, not chasing flights of fancy. Bors had taken the book. No other explanation made sense. And for his reasoning to work, that meant, surely that the big man had taken it simply to destroy it? But why would he do such a thing? Why would he take the one thing left to Alymere, the last good thing in his life, and crush it?
Because, the voice crooned at the back of his mind, like everyone else, the knight only cares for himself. That is the extent of his virtue. You are nothing to him. Why should it matter to him if you are whole? Why should he care if you are fulfilled? He treats you like a child. A joke. You are neither. We are neither. Go, find him, take the book from him, and if he tries to stop you, cut him down.
Alymere stood slowly, looking around the room. "Yes," he said. "It is mine."
The sky outside was bruise-purple and moonless. He padded over to the window, which he saw was broken. He touched the crack in the glass, unable to remember how it had happened. The world beyond it was still deep in sleep.
And as he cut the pad of his index finger on the broken glass, he remembered what the Devil had asked of him:
Bring it to me. Bring me the Chalice. Go first to the great Laird's cairn; you will know your way from there. The words came to him like ghosts. He knew who the great Laird had been; his father had told him stories of Nectan, clan-lord of Tay, and the constant thorn he had been in Alymere's grandfather's side, leading his raiders deep into his protectorate, pillaging, raping and burning. And Alymere knew where the stones had been laid to mark his burial place. North of Dun Chailleann, high in the mountain ranges of Sidh Chailleann.9 His father had called it the Constant Storm, and told stories about how it never stopped raining there, but said that others, more superstitious, called it the Fairy Hill10 for the uncanny air that clung to it. But it didn't matter what they called it, really. The Caledonian mountain was far over the border, beyond both Rannoch and Tay lochs, and through the deep woods of Coit Celidon into the heart of reiver country, and for Alymere that made the journey suicidal.
But he could no more refuse the Devil than he could save his own soul, book or no book.
His travelling cloak was draped over the back of the room's one chair, his pack bundled into the corner of the room. He fastened his cloak around his neck, ignoring the reek from his clothes. The pack was empty, but he shouldered it anyway. He would need something to carry the Chalice when he found it. And he had no doubt that he would recover it, with the Devil at his back.
And then he saw something he had thought lost: the strip the Crow Maiden had torn from her dress and given to him as a favour. He had not worn it since the fire. She had set him on this course. He remembered his promise to her, how naive he had been to think love would conquer all. Still, he took the linen and tied it tightly around his forearm. He couldn't have explained why he did it, nor accounted for how important such a little thing would prove to be. It just felt like the right thing to do. He was a grail knight now, albeit a dark one, riding off into peril. It was only right he wear his lady's favour; after all, she was the only one who had never lied to him, he realised bleakly.
He took one last look around the room he had grown up in, feeling that he would never return, and closed the door behind him. It settled in the frame with an air of finality.
He did not look back.
Forty-Four
He found Sir Bors de Ganis in the Great Hall, the book open in his lap. He looked up as Alymere walked toward him. He hadn't slept all night; that much was painfully obvious. His usual jovial demeanour had deserted him. His face was grave, his eyes dark hollows. His skin had a sickly waxen cast to it and his beard, where usually it was well groomed, was unruly and wild. Had he been pressed, Alymere would have said it looked as though the big man had been fighting for his life all night, and fighting hard, but there wasn't a mark on him, and nothing to suggest he had left his seat in hours.
"What is this terrible thing, lad?" Bors asked.
Alymere stopped, still five paces short of Bors' seat.
"It is a book," Alymere said, aware that his words were laced with sarcasm. He did not smile. The old Alymere would have, trying to be affable, looking to please the big man, but no more. He wanted the book back.
"I can see that, but that is not what I mean, and well you know it."
"Then perhaps you should be more precise in your questions, no?"
"I'll let you have that one, but talk to me like that again and — "
"And what? You'll strike me down? I don't think so. You don't have it in you. So, give me the book. It is mine
."
"I don't think so, lad. I might be many things, but I am not a fool. Listen to yourself. You're changing. I don't think I should let you anywhere near it. There's something not right about this thing, I can feel it. And I can feel what it is doing to you. No good can come of it, you mark my words."
"You are so sure you know what's best for me, aren't you? So sure that you lied about who my father was, to my face, and now you expect me to honour you? Go to Hell," as Alymere spat the last words out, his face twisted into a sneer.
His words hit their mark. Bors closed the Devil's Bible, dust wafting up from the pages to dance and drift in the first rays of dawn that crept in through the high windows. For a moment, a single heartbeat frozen in time, the knight's face betrayed his true revulsion of the man before him, before he mastered it. "You want it? Take it." He said, without offering it. He didn't move.
Alymere took a single step forward, closing the gap between them to just a few feet. He was still a few steps shy of being able to snatch the book out of the big man's grasp. His eyes flicked from Bors' face to the book in his lap and back again.
"Take it, lad, if it is so damned important to you," Bors repeated. There was no kindness in his voice. "I will not stop you. Take it and be damned right along with it. Who am I to prevent you destroying your life?"
"No-one," Alymere said, taking a second step. "And I owe you nothing. Not anymore. Whatever bond I thought we might have shared, you severed with your secrets and lies. So whatever game you are playing won't work on me. Now, give me the book."
The big man shook his head. "No. Take it. I'll not be party to ruining a good man. I owe your father more than 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 that he was on the right path.
Not that the Devil inside him would confirm that. The book had been strangely silent for days. He found himself missing its voice, something he would never have thought possible.
And then he saw it no more than two hundred feet above him on the slope, the pile of broken stones laid one atop another to form a huge cairn. Even from this far below, it was obvious that the cairn was huge — a fitting monument for a fallen king, he thought. Three, four times his height and vast in circumference.
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