The Black Chalice

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 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.