Steven Savile: The Black Chalice

"Then maybe there's hope for you yet."

The third surprise awaited Alymere in the Great Hall that night.

He had spent the remainder of the day with Bors. The big knight worked him to exhaustion and beyond, pushing him every step of the way. They ran for miles across the open ground, side by side, Bors urging him to dig deep and find another burst of speed, to stretch his legs, to push on, and then, bathed in sweat, they stripped to the waist and began sword practice. Bors tried to explain how the body moved, demonstrating the most common moves he was likely to face so Alymere could learn to read his intentions before the blows came. Bors delivered cuts and thrusts, urging Alymere to watch his legs and torso for tell-tale signs of where his strength was being directed. It was enlightening. And as the day wore on, Alymere began to make sense of what his opponent had meant, but making sense of it and being good at it were two distinct things. When Bors put him through his paces an hour before sunset Alymere was disarmed again and again and again, the knight sending his wooden blade spinning with a roll of the wrist or a rap on the knuckles. Each time, though, Alymere came a little closer to anticipating the move before it caught him.

Bors seemed pleased as they packed up their things.

As they walked back through the bailey into the castle it seemed almost as though the morning's bout had been forgotten and Alymere walked tall, new-found pride in each step. He belonged here. He might not be the knight his father had been, and he might still have a lot to learn, but neither was he the boy who had embarked upon this journey only a few days ago. He had changed.

One of the guards drew Sir Bors aside as they approached. Alymere couldn't hear the words being exchanged, but Bors returned with a face like thunder. He pushed open the great double doors, grinding them back heavily on their iron hinges, and strode into the hall. In that moment there was no doubting Sir Bors's nobility. He commanded the room and seemed to stand a head taller as he swept down the central aisle toward the great Round Table that dominated the middle of the vast chamber. Alymere hurried five steps behind him, eyes everywhere as he tried to absorb it all. He had imagined this room, but never in his wildest dreams had he come close to the reality of it.

Huge kite shields hung around the wall, a hundred or more, each painted with a distinct crest. Baptiste had schooled him in the coats of arms of all the noble families of Albion as well as those of Breton and beyond. Ignorance, the man had always maintained, was worthy of scorn, nothing more. So now, as he walked into the Great Hall, Alymere found himself naming the devices in his head as his gaze moved from one to the next; Sir Dodinal the 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 among so many of the others. It was a humbling sight; one that reminded him very much of his place. Here he was, surrounded on all sides by the shields of every knight who had ever taken the vow of fealty to Arthur; of every knight who honoured the tenets of chivalry and upheld them to the highest order; of every knight who had risen to take a seat at the fabled Round Table through the years since its formation. Here, in this room, was the true history of Albion.

And among them, Alymere saw his father's leaping stag on the wall. He swelled with pride at the sight of it, side by side with the likes of Galahad and Kay and, perhaps the greatest of them all, Lancelot du Lac.

It did not last.

There were two men in the chamber. Arthur himself, seated at the great oak table, the other with his back to Alymere. There was something uncannily familiar about the man, he realised, as he knelt before the king. Arthur rose to stand over him. He said something, but the words did not carry.

Bors stopped shy of the men, and turned to face Alymere. The big man blocked his view of the two men behind him. "This is your second test, lad, do not fail yourself," he said when Alymere was close enough to hear his low-pitched warning. "Not when the sting of this morning is still so keenly felt."

Alymere did not understand what was happening.

Bors stood aside to let him approach the king.

He walked slowly down the aisle toward Arthur's chair.

Again, Alymere was struck by the familiarity of the penitent's shape, even with his head down and shoulders stooped, although it wasn't until the armoured man rose and slowly turned to face him that he recognised who it was. In that moment the world ceased its turning, and then the man broke the silence.

"Nephew," he tilted his head slightly in place of a bow. "You truly are my brother's ghost, standing in his old clothes. For a moment I could almost believe…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head slowly, in seeming disbelief. "Remarkable."

Alymere's mouth refused to obey him. In his mind he offered the simple acknowledgement — "Uncle" — in response, but shock would not allow him even that little dignity. He tried to cling on to Bors' warning, not wanting to fail twice in the eyes of the king in a few short hours. But it was hard. He could not move. He could not talk. He stared at his uncle's face, looking for murder in those cold grey eyes. He saw only gentle mocking amusement, which was in its way far worse.

Arthur rose from his seat. "Well met, Alymere. I trust you have had a good afternoon with Sir Bors?"

"Yes, sire," Alymere said, unable to take his eyes off his uncle.

"Good," the king said. "Upon learning of your intentions to take the oath and pledge yourself to Camelot, your uncle rode day and night, arriving but a few short hours ago. He was keen to bear witness to the ceremony."

"Your father would be so proud to see you now," Sir Lowick said, and Alymere's mind reeled. He wanted to scream. He felt as though he had been punched in the throat. He couldn't breathe.

"Kneel, lad," Bors urged, placing a meaty hand on his shoulder. Alymere felt his legs buckle. He stumbled forward a step and sank to his knees. The big man stepped back as the king moved to stand before him.

Arthur drew the huge blade, Excalibur, from the sheath at his hip and held it over Alymere's head like the threat of execution. "I asked you privately if you knew the Oath, but now, in this most sacred place, the heart of Camelot and in turn the heart of our great nation, and before blood witnesses, I would hear you swear to uphold it. Think hard before you do this, boy, for believe me, I will hold you to every part of it. These are no rash promises you make today; with these words you bind yourself to me and to Camelot for the rest of your days. Do you understand the importance of such a pledge?" Alymere nodded. The king held his gaze. He thought for a moment he glimpsed a flicker of pity there, but it was gone before he could be sure. Pity, because surely Arthur knew what Alymere would have to forego to uphold the promises he was a being asked to make, and pity because there was no way he could refuse to make those promises, either. "In making the oath you swear to set aside personal disputes and live by the Oath of Pentecost," the king explained. Again Alymere nodded his understanding. There was nothing else he could do. This was why he had come to court. "Then, Alymere son of Roth, tell me, do you swear to hold life sacred above all else?"

"I do so swear," Alymere said, trapped by that simple promise. The king was no fool. In demanding his oath he was bound now, and all thoughts of justice for his father, of reclaiming his birthright, were stymied. To raise a sword against his uncle now would be tantamount to treason and raising his sword against the king himself.

As though reading his mind, Arthur continued, "Do you swear that treason shall have no place in your heart and that you will honour and serve the will of Camelot above all others?"