The Black Chalice

Forty-Nine

His return to Camelot was not the hero's homecoming he had always imagined. His arrival was as unremarked as his first had been, long months before. Not even Bors was there to greet him.

Alymere had been a child the first time he'd set foot in the great castle. He was a man now. As he walked beneath the portico, his journey was complete.

Pennons snapped in the wind. The lists had been decorated with all manner of devices, displaying the arms of every Knight of Albion. Brightly coloured tents were being assembled by sweating men. The sound of steel striking steel rang out from the smithy. Men with axes hewed branches from trees, that were in turn stripped and shaped into lances. To Alymere's left, people bustled around the carts and stalls, while to his right maids wound ribbons around the Maypole for the summer feast. The scraw-scritch-scraw of a prentice honing tools and arms provided a grating, atonal accompaniment to the rest.

Children laced garlands of flowers and laid them around the foot of the Maypole. Girls laughed and giggled at boys playing the fool. The air smelled of cinnamon and sweet mince, mulled wine spices and freshly baked bread. Camelot was filled wall to wall with life. No-one looked at him. Why should they? He had undergone a transformation since he had left Camelot with Lowick — he couldn't call the dead man uncle or father, as he was neither — and now he was unrecognisable, even to himself. He was a stranger in their midst. Their lives would go on without him after he made the short walk through their number and climbed the stairs to the castle door. He might just as well have been a ghost… Alymere stopped himself from finishing the thought.

He saw a familiar face as he crossed the outer bailey. The maid Bors had flirted with during that first visit to Camelot — the one who had brought his father's tabard to them in the armoury.

He struggled to recall her name. Caroline? Claire? Katherine?

Was that what Bors had called the maid? Katherine? He found his lips shaping her name, as though to call it.

As though she sensed his scrutiny, the woman looked up from the well where she was labouring to draw a pail of drinking water up. She was pretty, in a sensuous rather than sweet way, and every bit as dangerous as Bors had warned. He watched the way her body moved beneath the skirts, appreciating it.

Alymere saw recognition pass fleetingly across her eyes, but they clouded and quickly something else replaced it. Shock? Revulsion?

No. It was worse than either of those, he realised. It was pity.

He drew himself straighter, defiantly, and strode towards her.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. There was no lust in her gaze this time, though. Of course, she hadn't seen him like this before. She had only seen the pretty boy he had been, not the burned man he had become.

He stopped two steps before her. Alymere hawked and spat into the dirt at his feet.

"Not so pretty now, eh?" he said, by way of greeting.

Katherine looked away. "Beauty belongs on the inside as much as it does on the outside, my lord," she mumbled, eyes downcast.

He barked out an abrasive laugh. "Then perhaps this," he touched his cheek, "is my ugliness clawing its way out. Or maybe if you kiss me I shall transform into a handsome prince?"

She had no answer for that: no coy smile, no batted eyelashes, no flirtatious offer to make a man of him.

"I thought not."

He left her at the well.

A young girl ran up to him, a chain of daisies in her hands and a summer flower tucked behind her ear. He turned, snarling, but was stopped by her pretty little face, so full of happiness and excitement. He reached out to take the daisy chain and looked down at them, the perfect little flowers on his scarred palm, and as he did, the little girl caught sight of his face. Her breath caught in her throat, but she did not scream or run away from him. She seemed oddly fascinated by him. There was something uncannily familiar about the child, although he had never seen her before.

The daisy chain slipped through his fingers. Alymere stooped quickly, picking the flowers up from the dirt before they were ruined, and slipped the chain over his head. He smiled his thanks, earning an uncertain smile before he kissed the centre of her forehead and sent her back to play with the others. Rather than being frightened, she seemed delighted. He listened to her as she skipped away, singing the refrain of a madrigal he vaguely recognised. He caught the words "Kingdom of Summer," before she was too far away for him to hear the rest of her song.

He looked down at his left arm where Blodyweth's favour was tied around his bicep, and for just a moment, perhaps, the lost Alymere might have reached up from the darkness where the Devil had cast him, but then the moment was gone.

He rolled his shoulders and stretched before continuing the short walk across the bailey to the keep's doors.

No-one got in his way.

The two guards standing sentry over the main doors didn't block his entry into the castle itself. They looked at him from head to toe before lowering their pikes and stepping aside to let him through. They offered no hint of recognition.

He nodded to them.

He was back. It wasn't the allotted two years and a day, but with both Lowick and Roth dead, there was no-one left to see to his training. And besides, he was more of a man now than they had ever been, he thought bitterly.

His footsteps echoed hollowly through the passageways of the place.

He heard the strains of music — a piper — filling the distance. It was a pleasant enough tune, if made rather funerary in the echoing halls. The castle had not changed. He knew where he was going without knowing where he was headed; he paused at the stairway that led up to the aviary where he had first met the king, turned and set off in the direction of the great hall.

The huge double doors groaned heavily on their iron hinges as he opened them. He hesitated a moment on the threshold, as though unsure he could enter the heart of Albion, but then he smiled without warmth and strode into the hall. He felt himself growing in stature with every step as he marched down the aisle toward the Round Table.

He was no longer a child. He was Alymere, Killer of Kings.

There was nothing left of the young man he had been.

We are not here begging for approval, nor are we hoping for freedom from old ills done to loved ones. This is our right, our destiny. We are here to claim our destiny. And if the fool king dares refuse us, we shall take it. There was no doubt in the voice of the Devil. It filled him. It thrilled him.

He commanded the chamber in a way that Sir Bors never could.

This time he was not awed by the kite shields hanging on the walls. He didn't care that the devices belonged to Sir Dodinal le Savage and the brothers Sir Balan and Sir Balin, Sir Helian le Blanc, Sir Clariance, Sir Plenorius, Sir Sadok, Sir Agravaine of Orkney and Sir Ywain of Gore or any of the other brother knights. His own device would sit amongst them soon enough, once they took down Lowick's leaping stag. He only had eyes for a single seat at the table, the Siege Perilous.¹² His face twisted from a smile into something approaching a sneer as he walked towards it, determined to break whatever bond the sorcerer, Merlin, had set upon it and claim it for himself.

It was only the first of many things he intended to claim, including Camelot itself and, in time, the kingdom beyond its walls.

He knelt at the foot of the chair, as though in worship, and pressed his hands flat against the cold stone floor. He could feel the power of the earth flowing through the stones, the sheer thrill of it coursing through his veins. His expression as his head came up had passed beyond supplication into the realms of adoration. The weight of the book and the Chalice, wrapped carefully and stowed in his pack, pulled on his back; the chair was the heart of the chamber, which in turn was the heart of the castle, which in turn was the heart of Albion, making the Siege Perilous the centre of all things — and there was magic in the symmetry of that.

Alymere breathed it in, and then rose to his feet.

He reached out for the chair, though whether to steady himself or claim it for his own it was impossible to say — but before he could lay a hand upon it, a voice rang out across the chamber. "You think to claim the seat even before you take the Oath?" The quiet question reverberated in the stone hall. "Did your time with Lowick teach you nothing then?" Arthur's voice was resigned, almost wistful.

Alymere wheeled on his king, snatching his hand back, and for the second it took for him to master his face, his eyes burned.

"No my liege," he said, forcing himself to sound meek. "I was overcome, sire. It is an extraordinary thing, is it not?"

"It is."

"It is not often in my life that I have come face-to-face with something worthy of legend. My apologies."

For a moment he was sure the king would not be so easily mollified, but he need not have worried.

"I heard about your uncle," Arthur said.

"Anyone would think I was cursed," Alymere said.

"Not words to say lightly, b-" he had been about to say boy, but caught himself. "So, tell me, what have you learned about yourself?"

Alymere's smile was genuine. "It is safe to say I am not the man I was."

"That is good to hear. So, tell me then? There is much I would hear."

And so, for the best part of an hour, the king and the Devil sat side-by-side in the great hall of Camelot, while the Devil spun a tale as full of lies as any that had ever been spoken.

It began in the snows of the borderland and the reivers' pillaging as they sought their prize, the Black Chalice, the Devil's Grail.

The Devil remembered lying in the snow with the maiden, making promises to save the world, and could not help but smile at his naivety. The very best lies had their roots in the truth. He tapped the intense love that had fired Alymere's soul, his fear for Arthur and Camelot, and his desire to be a true man, and used it as the foundation for his lies. What fiercer passion could there be to fire the memory of Medcaut's inferno and the slaughter of the monks at the hands of the reivers? He touched his ruined cheek once during the entire telling but otherwise barely mentioned his injuries, highlighting the knightly qualities a true champion of the unfortunate ought to have. The lies he told may have mirrored the path Alymere had walked, but where each step had in truth led him deeper into darkness, he retold it now as something heroic.

It was the classic quest against insurmountable odds, where, still, somehow, the hero returned with the spoils, the day saved. More than that, it was what the king wanted to hear. Arthur sat silently, attentive.

The king wanted to believe that his judgment had been right — that, in sending Alymere off to learn from Lowick he had made a man of him — so Alymere gave him what he wanted, a tale filled with damsels in distress and selfless heroism, burning buildings, battles to the death, honour, and, at the end, the triumph of good. He transformed Lowick into a valiant knight, and twisted the story of the book and the Chalice until it was a tale worthy of Lancelot himself. And, at the tale's height, he withdrew the book from his pack, opening it and spreading flat its pages, knowing that the king couldn't read a word that it said.

Arthur studied it for a moment, running his fingers over the unintelligible text, mouthing the shapes of words that didn't exist in his mother tongue, and then looked up at Alymere. "I don't understand. How could this lead you to the cup?"

"It is a treasure map, my lord."

"But how could you decipher it? Do you read this script? Is it a language known to you?"

"Aye, sire. It is a tongue common to the Saracens. Baptiste schooled me in it. I must admit I am unfamiliar with its subtleties, but I can muddle my way through most of it, given time."

"Incredible. And these heathens knew the secrets of the dark grail?"

It was an easy lie to tell; how the Devil's cup had been smuggled out of the Holy Land and delivered to a Saracen prince, only to be lost during the wars with the Crusaders and taken to Byzantium as spoils. They knew it as the Cup of the Threskeians — the Deceivers.

"And what properties did the Saracens believe the grail to hold?"

"It is the Devil's Grail, my king, the very antithesis of the cup of Our Lord. And the Devil is the Father of Lies."

"To drink from it brings death?" the king asked sharply.

"Not so literally, sire. The Devil was always a creature of subtlety. It is more insidious, creeping root and branch into every aspect of the drinker's life and twisting it, corrupting and withering it to the point that it bore no resemblance to the life it had been." His words were so close to the truth, but like all great lies, it left one telling 'truth' out — that the drinker must sup of human blood if he was to be spared death.

"And the book told you this?"

Alymere nodded. "It is all in there, my king. All you need is a willingness to believe."

"Where the Holy Father is the key to creation, and his blessing grants life, the Devil's gift is subversion, deceit, and all that is wrong with the world."

The king nodded solemnly.

Alymere continued, warming to his tale. "To sup from the Black Chalice once is to taste the lie. When those around you are hiding the truth, you can see to the heart of the matter. To sup twice from the cup is to live the lie, allowing the drinker the gift of tongues, the Devil's language, allowing him to spin the most plausible lies that speak to the heart of their listeners."

"A dangerous gift," Arthur acknowledged.

"But worse, by far, should the drinker drain the cup of every last drop. The Chalice will grant the drinker the power to conjure the ultimate lies, to bring to life the heart's desire. Imagine: whatever it is the listener needs, the drinker can fashion out of nothing. That is the true power of the Black Chalice; deception. Planting seeds in the needy mind so that they believe what they see and hear is real."

"Sorcery!"

"Of the most heinous kind, my king."

"Then this treasure must not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. You have done well, Alymere. Very well."

The greatest king Albion had ever known believed every word of it. He could see it in his eyes. It was like telling a story for a child.

He had planted the seed.

One sip was all it would take. Arthur would not be able to resist. He was surrounded by people who told him what he wanted to hear, which was not necessarily the truth. His was a court of equals, but who could he really trust? What man wouldn't want to know when he was being played for a fool by the people he thought of as allies and friends? More to the point, what king wouldn't want to sit at the Round Table and listen to the arguments of his knights and know who among them was dissembling, who harboured selfish motives, and who was driven by lust and other impurities. Who, in other words, might have their sights set on the throne?

It was the perfect trap for a king, no matter how great he was.

Alymere's smile spread.

"And now," he concluded, lowering his head diffidently, "I have returned with both the book and the Chalice, prepared to take the Oath, if you would still have me as a knight, my liege?"

"It would be both a pleasure and an honour to see you take your seat at the Table." The king rose slowly from his chair and held out his hand to shake.

Alymere grasped his forearm, sealing the bond, and then started to kneel, but the king stopped him, hauling him back up to his feet with one strong arm.

"No. Not like this. A feat like yours deserves more. Tonight, after the feast when everyone's bellies are bloated and they've shed a tear at the crowning of the May Queen, let us make a proper celebration out of it." He looked over Alymere's shoulder. No words passed between them, but the younger man knew the king was looking at the white stag and recalling a lost friend.

It was only fitting that it should end here tonight amid the revels, Alymere thought.

Let them drink and dance and sing in celebration of his triumph. Let them fete him and shout his name as the bonfires crackled and pretty maids danced around the Maypole. Let them toast his rise to the Table with the poisoned Chalice, let them call him the hero of the feast. Let them cheer his knighthood and mourn for the dead Arthur both at once. "I owe that to your father at the very least."

"Then so it shall be, my king," Alymere said, his voice thick with anticipation.