Steven Savile - The Black Chalice

For a moment it looked as though Sir Bors was going to strike him — his entire body quivered with barely supressed rage — but as quickly as it had flared, he mastered his temper.

Alymere didn't care. She was here. He felt her presence before he saw her, hovering around the edge of the gathering. He saw her crooked back, and her hair, wild with thorns and briar twigs. She watched him intently, a mocking smile on her leathery face.

"You!" he yelled, levelling a finger at her accusingly.

Help me! Alymere's true voice cried out suddenly, filling his mind so completely there was no room for the Devil. They locked gazes in that moment, as though she had heard his plea, but she turned away. The hag disappeared back into the crowd before he could stop her.

He felt trapped; people crowded in on all sides. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He wanted to scream. He spun around again and again, clutching at people's clothes, at their throats, yelling: "Where is it? Where is the Chalice? Bring me the cup!" Each demand more maddened than the last. He would drink from it once more. He would spill his blood into the cup and banish this damned voice once and forever so that he was free of it. "Bring me the Chalice! Now!"

And with the true soul of Alymere rising inside him, clamouring to be heard, he ran blindly forward, arms outstretched, yelling for the Chalice. He pushed at the front rows of people, trying to force his way through them, and when they didn't immediately shrink away from him, screaming at them. They flinched away from the madness in his face. He was burning.

Be my champion. Save me. But this wasn't Alymere's voice. It was hers. The woman. The Queen of May. The Summer Maiden. The Crow Maiden.

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.

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.

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?"