He remembered her name then: Blodyweth.
And with that, he remembered what it was that she had given him to seal their pact. He clawed at the favour 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 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 ba
rked 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
"This is becoming something of a habit," Bors said, looking down at him.
Alymere didn't know where he was. The only thing he could remember was asking the king if he had heard the Devil's voice. Before that, nothing; after that, nothing.
There was nothing familiar about the room. It was dark, the single source of light a torch guttering in a sconce behind Bors's shoulder. It was cold; looking down, he realised all he had to fight the chill was a thin blanket. It was the most uncomfortable bed he had lain on in years. The wooden slats of the cot dug into his back and side.
"Where am I?" he asked, groggily. He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles.
"Ah, well, hmmm," Bors said uncomfortably, shuffling from foot to foot. "You did draw a weapon on the king…"
Alymere eased himself around so that he sat on the low cot, and in doing so saw the thick timber door and the week-old straw scattered across the cold stone floor. He knew where he was: one of the dungeon's cells beneath the castle.
"This wasn't how I dreamed I'd spend my first night as a knight," Alymere said, nursing his tender jaw.
"Not the most auspicious of starts. What possessed you to — " Bors stopped, lost for words.
Alymere held his head in his hands. He felt like himself for the first time in ages, all thanks to the ruined favour still tied around his left arm. She had saved him.
Had she always known of the weakness in his heart that the Devil might exploit?
Surely she had, and that was why she had given him her favour.
"Take me to the king. I need to see him. Please."
"I don't think that would be such a good idea, lad. Let him cool down first."
"Please," Alymere pleaded.
Bors shook his head. "I don't think so."
Frustration welled up within Alymere. There was no vile voice driving it, this time. The frustration was his own. He knew what he had to do.
And then it hit him.
The Black Chalice was only part of the threat. It was the book; that was where the real danger lay. The book could transform a man, letting the Devil into his soul.
The king had handled the Devil's Bible. He had run his fingers over those tainted whorls of ink. And, when Alymere had asked if he had heard the voice, Arthur had not denied it.
"The book," he said. "Where is it?"
"What book? What are you talking about?"
"The Devil's Bible. The book. Where is it?" Alymere demanded, rising unsteadily to his feet. The entire cell pitched and rolled around him, and he reached out for the wall to stop himself from falling. "Does Arthur have it? Please God, tell me he doesn't." But he knew that he did. That would explain the silence in his head.
Bors reached out a hand to steady him. "Slowly, lad. Slowly. Now, tell me what this is all about."
And he did, confiding his fear — that the Devil had found a way into the king, and it was his fault. Bors paled, his usually jovial face strained as Alymere explained how the voice whispered its demands and insinuations until they became irresistible. How it became a part of you, slowly driving your sense of self down until it was buried in the darkest recesses of what passed for your soul. And the more he talked, the sharper the memories of confinement in that Hell became. He was trembling by the time he finished, a fine sheen of sweat peppering his brow.
But it was his eyes that convinced Bors he was telling the truth: they were haunted. Alymere had seen things no man ought to see, things that had changed him. That much was obvious. And it explained his behaviour these past weeks. That, in itself, was almost a relief, until Alymere asked again: "Does Arthur have the book?"
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