Steven Savile - The Black Chalice

Alymere stood slowly, looking around the room. "Yes," he said. "It is mine."

The sky outside was bruise-purple and moonless. He padded over to the window, which he saw was broken. He touched the crack in the glass, unable to remember how it had happened. The world beyond it was still deep in sleep.

And as he cut the pad of his index finger on the broken glass, he remembered what the Devil had asked of him:

Bring it to me. Bring me the Chalice. Go first to the great Laird's cairn; you will know your way from there. The words came to him like ghosts. He knew who the great Laird had been; his father had told him stories of Nectan, clan-lord of Tay, and the constant thorn he had been in Alymere's grandfather's side, leading his raiders deep into his protectorate, pillaging, raping and burning. And Alymere knew where the stones had been laid to mark his burial place. North of Dun Chailleann, high in the mountain ranges of Sidh Chailleann. 9His father had called it the Constant Storm, and told stories about how it never stopped raining there, but said that others, more superstitious, called it the Fairy Hill 10for the uncanny air that clung to it. But it didn't matter what they called it, really. The Caledonian mountain was far over the border, beyond both Rannoch and Tay lochs, and through the deep woods of Coit Celidon into the heart of reiver country, and for Alymere that made the journey suicidal.

But he could no more refuse the Devil than he could save his own soul, book or no book.

His travelling cloak was draped over the back of the room's one chair, his pack bundled into the corner of the room. He fastened his cloak around his neck, ignoring the reek from his clothes. The pack was empty, but he shouldered it anyway. He would need something to carry the Chalice when he found it. And he had no doubt that he would recover it, with the Devil at his back.

And then he saw something he had thought lost: the strip the Crow Maiden had torn from her dress and given to him as a favour. He had not worn it since the fire. She had set him on this course. He remembered his promise to her, how naive he had been to think love would conquer all. Still, he took the linen and tied it tightly around his forearm. He couldn't have explained why he did it, nor accounted for how important such a little thing would prove to be. It just felt like the right thing to do. He was a grail knight now, albeit a dark one, riding off into peril. It was only right he wear his lady's favour; after all, she was the only one who had never lied to him, he realised bleakly.

He took one last look around the room he had grown up in, feeling that he would never return, and closed the door behind him. It settled in the frame with an air of finality.

He did not look back.

He found Sir Bors de Ganis in the Great Hall, the book open in his lap. He looked up as Alymere walked toward him. He hadn't slept all night; that much was painfully obvious. His usual jovial demeanour had deserted him. His face was grave, his eyes dark hollows. His skin had a sickly waxen cast to it and his beard, where usually it was well groomed, was unruly and wild. Had he been pressed, Alymere would have said it looked as though the big man had been fighting for his life all night, and fighting hard, but there wasn't a mark on him, and nothing to suggest he had left his seat in hours.

"What is this terrible thing, lad?" Bors asked.

Alymere stopped, still five paces short of Bors' seat.

"It is a book," Alymere said, aware that his words were laced with sarcasm. He did not smile. The old Alymere would have, trying to be affable, looking to please the big man, but no more. He wanted the book back.

"I can see that, but that is not what I mean, and well you know it."

"Then perhaps you should be more precise in your questions, no?"

"I'll let you have that one, but talk to me like that again and — "

"And what? You'll strike me down? I don't think so. You don't have it in you. So, give me the book. It is mine."

"I don't think so, lad. I might be many things, but I am not a fool. Listen to yourself. You're changing. I don't think I should let you anywhere near it. There's something not right about this thing, I can feel it. And I can feel what it is doing to you. No good can come of it, you mark my words."

"You are so sure you know what's best for me, aren't you? So sure that you lied about who my father was, to my face, and now you expect me to honour you? Go to Hell," as Alymere spat the last words out, his face twisted into a sneer.

His words hit their mark. Bors closed the Devil's Bible, dust wafting up from the pages to dance and drift in the first rays of dawn that crept in through the high windows. For a moment, a single heartbeat frozen in time, the knight's face betrayed his true revulsion of the man before him, before he mastered it. "You want it? Take it." He said, without offering it. He didn't move.

Alymere took a single step forward, closing the gap between them to just a few feet. He was still a few steps shy of being able to snatch the book out of the big man's grasp. His eyes flicked from Bors' face to the book in his lap and back again.

"Take it, lad, if it is so damned important to you," Bors repeated. There was no kindness in his voice. "I will not stop you. Take it and be damned right along with it. Who am I to prevent you destroying your life?"

"No-one," Alymere said, taking a second step. "And I owe you nothing. Not anymore. Whatever bond I thought we might have shared, you severed with your secrets and lies. So whatever game you are playing won't work on me. Now, give me the book."

The big man shook his head. "No. Take it. I'll not be party to ruining a good man. I owe your father more than that."

"And which father would that be?"

"You won't goad me into a fight if that is what you are trying to do, lad. If you want the damned book, on your head be it, but you have to take it. You have a choice, lad. Take it, carry it to the fire burning in the hearth, and consign it to the flames, and be free of whatever hold it has on you, or take it and walk out of here. The choice is yours, but if you chose not to burn the damned thing, then I advise you to get as far away from me as you can, because I swear I don't ever want to see your face again. Do you understand me? You're better than that. Stronger. You have the makings of a great man. Don't throw your life away, son."

"The one thing I am sure of right now is that I am not your son," Alymere said.

He held out his hands for the book.

Bors did not move. He said nothing.

Alymere covered the last few steps in a rush, snatched the book out of Bors's lap and backed off before the knight's hand could snake out and snag him.

"So what's it going to be, lad? Fire or damnation?"

Alymere didn't answer him, not with words. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Sir Bors de Ganis sank lower in his chair, reduced by the exchange, broken. He had genuinely thought — hoped — that Alymere would do what he couldn't, burn the book. He had gambled everything on it. And lost.

But it wasn't just that he had lost, it was the manner of that loss. It went far beyond a battle of wills. He had put his faith in the lad, not realising just how lost to himself he was.

The dilemma he faced now was a simple one: was he the sort of man who would break his oath in order to save a friend? Or was he stubborn enough to turn his back on one during the time of their greatest need?

Oath-keeper?

True friend?

Couldn't he be both? Why did it have to be one or the other?

Alymere fled the Great Hall. He clutched the book to his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly against it. And for a moment he could have sworn he felt its corresponding heartbeat pushing back against him. But that was impossible. Wasn't it?