The Black Chalice koa-1

by Steven Savile

  "Bring this to me when I call for it. Do not open it. Do not touch it. Your life depends upon it, boy. Do you understand me?"

  The woman behind him looked aghast when she saw his scarred face and heard the threat, before recognising him as the man about to be knighted, and therefore beyond reproach. She struggled to smile at him. The boy didn't seem to care; he reached out for the pouch, delighted with the chance to earn a few coins. Alymere pushed a copper penny into his palm. "Do as I've asked and there are five more where this one came from."

  The boy's face lit up. He nodded eagerly, shuffling his feet in the dirt. He clutched at the cloth pouch as though it were the most precious thing in the whole world — which, of course, it was.

  Alymere said, "Come with me," and worked his way to the front of the crowd. He made sure the boy was beside him. It was going to be a night both of them would remember for the rest of their lives.

  He was mighty. He was Alymere, and in just a few moments he would kill King Arthur.

  Arthur held a crown in his hands. This was the May Crown. It wasn't made of gold or precious metals and stones, but of flowers woven around briar twigs, hundreds of tiny perfect blossoms crammed tightly together. Each petal was a thing of beauty, like the girl about to wear it. But Alymere only had eyes for the torn hem of her dress.

  The girl curtseyed, spreading her skirt and stooping so low she nearly knelt at his feet, and lowered her head, dark curls trailing on the grass. The king smiled down at her, then lifted his gaze and addressed the onlookers. "Friends, we are here this night to join in two-fold celebration. First, to revel in the richness of the land and the renewal of spring as the cycle of life begins once more; and second, to welcome a brave knight, a true man, as he swears the Oath of chivalry and takes his seat at the Round Table." A cheer went up at this. Alymere inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the adulation of the crowd. "Make that three-fold, my friends, for then we shall revel in good company, drink and make merry 'til the sun comes up!" Arthur proclaimed, and the cheers that greeted his words were twice as loud.

  "But first we need a Queen!" Alymere watched as the king's smile widened and his gaze drifted toward his own beloved queen, Guinevere. She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but beside the soon-to-be-crowned Queen of May she was at best merely pretty, at worst plain.

  The king leaned forward, placing the briarwood crown on the girl's head, and moving a stray curl away from her brow.

  "The Queen is crowned!" someone in the crowd shouted. The boy beside him took up the cry, "Long live the Queen!" and others joined in. Again and again it rang out around him, voices raised in jubilation. Alymere studied the woman's face as she looked up, and found that he could not look away from her eyes. Instinctively his fingers drifted toward the favour tied around his arm. Something passed between them; a connection. Not between himself and the woman, but between her and the man he had been.

  He flinched, pulling his hand away from the favour as though burned.

  The May Queen drew herself up to her full height and turned to face the cheering crowd, and the three younger girls ran forward with baskets of petals for her to cast on the wind. Her smile could have melted the stoniest heart as she moved barefoot through the crowd, bestowing her smile, and the softest brush of her lips on cheeks and foreheads, on her worshippers, who loved her all the more. Dirt and grass stains smeared the soles of her feet. She was skipping, a trail of petals strewn across the moonlit grass in her wake, by the time she took the ribbon from the outstretched hand of a grinning lad, and running by the time she finished circling the Maypole. It was all part of a well-rehearsed ritual that ended in the one great truth of life: what comes from the earth needs must return to the earth.

  The May Queen stood with her back against the pole, breasts heaving, curls of hair matted flat to her scalp, and looked around until her eyes found Alymere in the crowd.

  She blew him a kiss, much to the delight of the women in the audience.

  Her smile widened. And in that moment her eyes, her smile, together, were the most beautiful he had seen. He felt his body stir, aroused by her scrutiny.

  He was burning. He reached up instinctively to touch his ruined cheek.

  She waved a signal to the other dancers, who each held a trailing ribbon in their hands, to start the dance, around and around the Maypole, until the ribbons had bound the May Queen completely to the pole at her back. And still they twisted and twined the ribbons around her until they smothered her completely, and not a trace of her white dress or porcelain skin was exposed.

  Alymere stared at her, watching the shallow rise and fall of her breast beneath the shroud of ribbons, and thought of her fighting for breath, suffocating under there. Of course, the ribbons were not wound so tight that she couldn't breathe. And soon the men would rush from the crowd and cut her free, but it would be 'too late,' and they'd bear her down to the river where they'd lay her down on a raft on a bed of spring flowers, and sail her down the river. But not yet. Her release would come at the end of the feast.

  First, Alymere had to kneel and swear the Oath to Arthur, and then the king must die.

  He broke the circle and walked toward the king.

  Fifty-One

  "Kneel, lad," Alymere recognised the voice, and for a moment thought it was another hallucination. He turned to see Sir Bors de Ganis place a meaty hand on his shoulder. The knight smiled reassuringly, as though their fight of a few days before was forgiven, or at least forgotten. Perhaps it was. Still, his presence unnerved Alymere; he had not allowed for it. He sank to one knee and lowered his head, thinking desperately. Did the knight's presence at Camelot change things? Had he come looking to stop Alymere from fulfilling his destiny? He looked up at Bors. There was pride in his face, not anger. He had no intention of stopping the ceremony. Far from it, he was here to watch Alymere fulfil his destiny. Despite the arguments, despite the harsh words and threats, two years and a day from when they had first met, here on this open field, Bors had returned to watch Alymere be knighted. He was the closest thing the young man had to family.

  If he hadn't sensed the threat the big man posed, Alymere might have been touched by such loyalty.

  As it was, he hated the big man. He would be the first to die.

  Second, he amended. Arthur would be the first; in just a few moments they would toast his triumph together, and the screaming and dying would begin. But first he had to mouth useless platitudes and empty promises.

  Bors stepped aside to make room for the king.

  Alymere looked around at all of the expectant faces.

  Arthur held Excalibur, the tip of the great blade piercing the ground between his feet. He braced both of his hands on the cross-guard. The king smiled broadly at him. "Do you recall the code?"

  "I do, my liege," Alymere said. Oh, I do, I do, the voice inside crooned expectantly.

  "Good, for on this hallowed night, and in the presence of all Camelot, beneath the skies of God, I would hear you swear to uphold it."

  "I swear to uphold the honour of Albion, my liege."

  Arthur nodded. "With these words you will not only become a true man, but a Knight of Albion. Think on, before you speak. These are no rash promises you make tonight; you will bind yourself to me, and to Camelot, for the rest of your days. Now, Alymere son of Roth, tell me, do you swear to hold life sacred above all else?"

  "I do so swear," Alymere said, releasing the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

  "Do you swear that treason shall have no place in your heart, and that you will honour and serve the will of Camelot above all others?"

  "I do so swear," Alymere said.

  "Do you swear that you will offer mercy to all deserving of it?"

  "I do so swear."

  "Do you swear that you will offer succour to those in need if it is yours to offer?"

  "I do so swear," the words came easily to him now.

  "Do you swear never to take up arms in wrongful quarrels for love or worldly
goods?"

  "I do so swear."

  "Do you swear never to stand by idly whilst such evils are perpetrated by others upon the weak and innocent?"

  "I do so swear."

  "And do you so swear to be noble, worshipful and just in all things?"

  "I do so swear," Alymere concluded, the lie tripping easily off his tongue.

  The king raised Excalibur. "I will hold you to this oath, Alymere, for now you are no longer the son of Roth, but a Knight of Albion, witnessed before all here present. Serve your king and your country well, Sir Knight." He touched the blade first to Alymere's right shoulder, then to his left, and bade him, "Arise, Sir Alymere."

  The applause was rapturous, heady. He breathed it in. They loved him. He closed his eyes, savouring it for a moment more before he stood. He rose slowly, and turned to summon the boy, but before he could, the king clapped him on the back and put an arm around his shoulder. "I think it only fitting that your first duty as my knight should be to save the fair maiden. What say you?" he called out to the gathering, who met his question with a roar of approval. "Go, Sir Alymere, cut the Queen free from her prison."

  "But our toast? The Chalice?" Alymere hated the way he sounded, like a whining child, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

  "There will be time enough for that later, Sir Knight. The night is still young. Right now there is a damsel in need of saving. And what sort of man would my newest knight be if he left her trussed up like some prize pig? Besides, it is customary for the hero to claim a kiss, is it not?" Arthur offered a crooked smile.

  Alymere had no choice but to cut her down. He couldn't force the king to drink.

  Once again his hand moved to touch the linen favour tied around his arm, and he pulled it away sharply. The boy took the sudden motion to be his signal and came scurrying forward with the Chalice clutched in both hands.

  Fifty-Two

  Alymere was torn.

  He started to call out to the boy to stop, raising his hand, but saw the way the king eyed the Chalice in his hands expectantly and stopped himself. There was nothing he could do, the die was cast. Now it was down to the Fates.

  "Is that it?" Arthur breathed beside him.

  "It is," Alymere said, nodding. His mind raced. He needed to think through the alternatives open to him, even as they were rapidly diminishing. He could always snatch the Chalice from the boy, he realised, but before he could reach out for it, the king said, "I'll take that, boy," and, coins or no coins, there was no way a guttersnipe was going to disobey his king.

  Alymere's heart sank. He clenched his fist and ground his teeth, then turned his back. It was out of his hands now, literally and metaphorically.

  The king had the Chalice.

  It would work its pervasive magic on him, just as the book itself must have done. He had been canny in allowing the king, even encouraging him, to feel the curious flowing script inked deep into the pages, just as Alymere had after taking the book from the blind monk. Touching the book gave strength to its voice, allowing them to soak into the reader and draw them back to the pages, again and again until they utterly possessed him. And then, likewise, he would be driven to possess the book, which would mean killing Alymere.

  Arthur was damned if he drank from the Chalice, and damned if he didn't. But he had no desire to die. He liked this body.

  He had to trust that the seed he had planted — that one sip from the Devil's cup would grant Arthur the perception to see through lies — would be enough to make the king willingly choose to drink from the Chalice.

  It didn't need to be a public spectacle; as much as he wanted to savour the king's humbling, an unseen death served him just as well. The thought raised a bitter smile. Indeed, there were several advantages to privacy, the most obvious being that there would be nothing to link Alymere to the deed, and he wouldn't have to partake in the wailing and gnashing of teeth as the commoners mourned. There was only so much lying even the Devil was prepared to do.

  He turned his back on the king, allowing a smile to spread across his face. He had no need to mask his excitement anymore, he realised. He could be himself. More fool them, if they believed he was sharing their high spirits.

  The crowd parted around Alymere as he walked to where the maiden was tied to the Maypole.

  He strode confidently through them, offering a smile here, accepting a hearty back-slap there, until he stood before the bound woman. He started to pull at the streamers, tearing them away from her face and body. Others came up to join him and soon there were ten men crowded in around the Maypole, shredding the ribbons. Once she was free, with nothing to support her, the May Queen slumped forward into Alymere's arms. She was surprisingly light. He looked down at the woman, her name bubbling up in his mind, along with a bewildering rush of recollections and desires.

  She opened her eyes, done with playing dead, and looped her arms around his neck to draw him down into a kiss. As the kiss broke, much to the delight of the crowd, she breathed the words "Do you love me?" into his mouth, and Alymere's buried voice cried out: Yes! Yes!

  Before he could say anything, the other men claimed her, taking the May Queen into their arms and carrying her away from him.

  Alymere touched his lips. The taste of her lingered there; the taste of summer.

  A meaty hand clamped on his shoulder. He didn't need to turn to know it was Sir Bors; the big knight was always there when he least wanted him. "So, Sir Alymere, am I to take it you are smitten with our new Queen?" He said it lightly enough, but the ghostly Yes! Yes! of that buried voice still answered him.

  Alymere lowered his hand from his lips self-consciously. "She is quite something," he said, even as the inner voice mocked him with the promise that had started it all, and the gift with which she sealed their pact, so that I am always close to you, wherever you may be. But he could not remember her name. He clenched his fist until it hurt; he struggled to impose his will upon the voice, but it wouldn't be silenced.

  "Enchanting is the word you are looking for my young friend. She is a woman worth pursuing, eh?"

  Enchanting… Witchery…

  No, Sir Bors was wrong. The word he was looking for was love.

  He had said it to her before, he now knew with shocking clarity. He had said those very words to the girl with the daisies in her black curls, even as he had lain with her, and again, after, as they lay spent. He had sworn to love her. And he knew this now because her kiss had set him free, providing the spark within him the fuel it needed to burn once more, in the engulfing darkness where the Devil's cup had banished him.

  He looked around for the woman, the May Queen, but she was gone, swallowed by the revellers.

  That didn't stop the sense of turmoil rising in him. Alymere sniffed the air as though he might smell her on it — her briarwood, her hawthorne and spruce, her daisies and bluebells and buttercups and all the flowers of spring — but all he could smell was sweat and ale.

  And then he heard it. An ear-splitting caw. He spun around, scanning the skies.

  They were all involved, the hag and her damned bird, the maiden, all of them, one and the same.

  It took him a moment to find it in the oppressive sky, a single speck, blacker than black, flitting across the moon, but he knew beyond any doubt that it was the crow with the streak of white feathers, watching from afar. He watched it bank and turn and expected to see it swoop closer but it was gone, lost in the black sky. It didn't cross the moon again.

  He lowered his eyes and scanned the faces in the crowd instead, looking for the hag. Surely if the crow was here, the old crone couldn't be far removed? They were bound.

  "Where are you?" he demanded harshly. "Where are you, woman? Face me!" He yelled, shrilly. "What game are you playing, witch? Damn you! Face me!"

  The people closest to him looked at Alymere as though he had lost his mind. Bors tried to reassure him that the pretty young thing who had obviously stolen his heart was fine, and that he'd have th
e rest of his life to plight his troth, if that was what it took. Alymere shook off his hand.

  "Ignorant whoreson!" Alymere roared, startling Bors with the vehemence that drove his words. "Get out of my sight, or so help me G — " he stumbled over the word God, and instead raged: "Go! Go, damn you! Leave me be!" Alymere placed his hands flat against the big man's chest and pushed him, hard.

  For a moment it looked as though Sir Bors was going to strike him — his entire body quivered with barely supressed rage — but as quickly as it had flared, he mastered his temper.

  Alymere didn't care. She was here. He felt her presence before he saw her, hovering around the edge of the gathering. He saw her crooked back, and her hair, wild with thorns and briar twigs. She watched him intently, a mocking smile on her leathery face.

  "You!" he yelled, levelling a finger at her accusingly.

  Help me! Alymere's true voice cried out suddenly, filling his mind so completely there was no room for the Devil. They locked gazes in that moment, as though she had heard his plea, but she turned away. The hag disappeared back into the crowd before he could stop her.

  He felt trapped; people crowded in on all sides. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He wanted to scream. He spun around again and again, clutching at people's clothes, at their throats, yelling: "Where is it? Where is the Chalice? Bring me the cup!" Each demand more maddened than the last. He would drink from it once more. He would spill his blood into the cup and banish this damned voice once and forever so that he was free of it. "Bring me the Chalice! Now!"

  And with the true soul of Alymere rising inside him, clamouring to be heard, he ran blindly forward, arms outstretched, yelling for the Chalice. He pushed at the front rows of people, trying to force his way through them, and when they didn't immediately shrink away from him, screaming at them. They flinched away from the madness in his face. He was burning.

  Be my champion. Save me. But this wasn't Alymere's voice. It was hers. The woman. The Queen of May. The Summer Maiden. The Crow Maiden.