The Black Chalice

Fifty-Seven

Come dawn, Bors opened the door to the cell, unsure what he expected to find.

Alymere lay huddled in the corner of the room, clutching the Devil's Bible to his chest.

He looked up. Tears of blood caked his cheeks.

Bors stared at the young man's ruined eyes, unable to accept what he saw.

He rushed to Alymere's side, cradling him in his arms. "You foolish boy. What have you done?"

"What I had to," Alymere said, tilting his head unerringly toward Bors, as though, despite the deep holes where his ruined eyes lay, he could see him. "It is the only way. I cannot stop the voices, but no matter how seductive they become I can never read the book. He cannot crawl his way back inside me. I have won."

"But at what cost?" Bors said, aghast.

"It was the only way," Alymere repeated, remembering his promise to the Crow Maiden. There is nothing you could ask of me that I would not willingly do, without a second thought. This is what it meant, to be her champion. Sacrifice. The willing offering of everything he was and everything he could ever have been. "Now, one last favour, my friend."

"Anything. You need only ask," Bors said, unhesitant.

"Take me away from this place. Take me somewhere I will never see another living soul as long as I live. Take me to Medcaut."

Bors understood. Isolated, the book's vile voice could not worm its way inside another man. "And that will be the end of it? How will you live? How will you eat?"

"The book will sustain me," Alymere said, thinking of the blind monk, and finally understanding.

"And the Chalice? What of it?"

"It can't stay here."