The Black Chalice koa-1

by Steven Savile

  Alymere really couldn't tell whether the big man was joking, or deadly serious. There was no reading his mannerisms, no deciphering his tone of voice, and Alymere wondered which of them was truly the enigma. The stairs climbed through the full height of the seventh tower, high above the rooftops of Camelot, to the aviary. Every fifteen feet or so, arrow slits offered glimpses of the town below, the rooftops getting further and further away until it felt as though they had climbed all the way to the clouds themselves. They passed seven heavy oak doors, each leading on to some other landing, some other passage or chamber, before stopping at the eighth and final door at the top of the stairwell.

  Bors knocked once, rapping his ham-hock of a fist on the oak.

  A moment later the door opened, and through it Alymere saw the rich red of the sky, so close he felt as though he were truly part of it as he followed Bors out onto the rooftop. "Breathtaking, isn't it?" Bors said. Alymere had never seen the land from such a height.

  "This is what it must feel like to be God Himself," he barely whispered, "looking down upon all of creation."

  Bors nodded approvingly. "Look at this and tell me how a man could ever give his heart to another."

  Alymere moved toward the parapet, more and more of the world opening up before him. The first thing he saw was simply the colours. There were so many shades, even in a single field. Every leaf bled into every other leaf, becoming part of the mosaic of creation, and yet somehow remained utterly unique.

  "Albion. Have you ever seen anything quite so beautiful?" Another voice asked.

  Alymere turned to see a man emerge from one of the coops, a hooded falcon tethered to the leather wrist brace on his left arm. He was taller than Bors by three fingers, blonde where the knight was raven-black, beardless with a pitchfork moustache that grew past his chin, with the most beautiful, piercingly blue eyes. Where Bors was barrel-chested, this man was wiry and compact. He was older than Bors, and not by a little; the years he'd lived lined his face. And even over those few paces he moved with the confidence of true power. This was Arthur Pendragon, he realised. This was the king. His king.

  "No, sire," Alymere said, realising some sort of answer was expected of him.

  But, as Arthur stood before him, it was the king who found himself lost for words. He looked as though he had come face-to-face with a ghost. All colour drained from his face, leaving his complexion waxen where moments before the sting of the wind had made it ruddy. "Can it be? Truly? After all this time?" The king asked, caught between reaching out to touch Alymere's face — as though to confirm he actually stood there — and flinching away from the apparition stood before him. He shook his head as though he couldn't quite bring himself to believe the truth of his own eyes.

  "I believe so, my liege," Bors said. For the first time there was nothing jocular about his tone. Alymere didn't understand what it meant. "Roth's blood runs strong in him."

  Why were they talking about his father?

  "It's uncanny is what it is," Arthur said, not taking his eyes off Alymere for a moment. "It's like he's found his way back through the veil to come before us again in the flesh. I understand why you called the boy a puzzle."

  "Indeed, sire."

  Arthur snapped out of his reverie. "Well, Alymere, son of the forgotten knight, whatever are we to do with you?" There was unexpected gravity to the question. Arthur, unlike Bors, was not merely filling the air with words.

  Alymere had practised this moment many a time on the road. He knew exactly what he intended to say, and how he hoped to say it: like a true knight, with humility and honour, underpinned by courage. He assayed a deep bow and spoke to the stone floor. "I have come to serve in any way that I might, sire."

  "Have you now?"

  Straightening, Alymere nodded earnestly.

  "How do you suppose I might put you to work?" Again, it was a serious question. Already, in these few moments, Alymere believed he had seen the true nature of the king. There was nothing in his demeanour that spoke of folly or frippery. There was no smile as he asked, "Do you have any skills to speak of?" The question mirrored Bors' earlier one, but Arthur did not seek to answer himself.

  "I am strong and hardworking. And I learn quickly."

  "I am sure you do, lad. But the sad truth is I have stablehands and kitchen boys aplenty. Is there someone in Camelot who would speak for you? Someone who might offer you a bed, or employment so those idle hands don't make the work of the Devil?"

  Alymere did his best to hide the crushing disappointment that came with the answer, and what it most likely meant for his aspirations. "No, sire. I do not know any who live within the castle."

  Arthur did not answer for a moment, instead he gently adjusted the falcon's tethers. The bird ruffled its wings, seeming about to take flight, but then settled comfortably again on the king's wrist. "You know no-one here and yet you chose to serve in Camelot rather than on your uncle's estates? A curious choice."

  "Not so curious, sire. My uncle would rather I were dead with the rest of my kin and I would rather not die quite so young."

  "Hold your tongue, boy," the King of Albion admonished him, the sting of his words twice as hard as any blow might have been. He lowered his head. It had not been like this in his imaginings.

  "Sorry, sire, but denying the truth helps no-one. In the months since my protectors have entered heaven I have come to understand precisely what my life means to my uncle."

  Again there was silence between them, Arthur Pendragon weighing his next few words very carefully. Finally he asked: "And what does it mean? I should very much like to understand."

  Alymere met the king's ice-blue eyes and held his gaze. "It is simple, sire. While I live I am a threat to the estates and holdings he calls his own. I have a prior claim to the title. I am the rightful heir to all that he has stolen, not least the title he usurped from my father. And now I have come of age. I am no longer the boy to be watched, I am the man to be dealt with. I have come to serve and swear fealty to the crown and honour to Albion now so that when I return to claim my birthright you will know who I am and will take my pledge that I have acted only in the name of what is just and right."

  "Those are serious words, boy. Serious words indeed."

  "Aye, they are. And by God, I like this lad," Bors said, his grin returning. "He's his father's son, by Christ is he!"

  "Be that as it may," Arthur brushed aside Bors' declaration, "your uncle is one of my knights and I cannot hear words of treachery spoken within these walls. This is Camelot. Do you take my meaning, boy?"

  He didn't know what he had expected the king to say, but every time he had acted this meeting out in his mind, the king had never sided with the bastard, Lowick.

  Alymere nodded, feeling sick deep in his gut.

  "Good. Time will bring what time will bring, and fate is a fickle mistress, so who knows, perhaps one day I will take your pledge, or then again maybe I never will. That is not for us to reason. You are here now and we need to work out what to do with you."

  "Yes, sire. I am willing to do anything to prove myself, my lord."

  "Did your father's man — what was his name?"

  "Baptiste, sire."

  "That's right. Tell me, did Baptiste see to your training, boy?"

  Alymere nodded. "Every day, sire."

  "The martial arts? Sword and shield? Lance? Maces and morning stars? How broad was your education? Do you know your letters?"

  Again, Alymere nodded, though in truth it was difficult to call the bits of broken wood they sparred with anything other than branches. "Yes, sire. I have read the Holy Book chapter and verse. I can write and reckon. We only had practice weapons, sire, but I believe Baptiste did his best to see to that aspect of my education as well. He raised me to be my father's heir."

  "I would expect no less. Did he school you in the Oath?"

  Alymere nodded.

  "Tell me, then. I would hear it from your mouth."

  Alymere closed his eyes and began to
recite the lesson Baptiste had drilled into him over and over, the Knight's Code. The code by which his father had both lived and died. The words were ingrained upon his soul. "A true man must never do outrage, nor murder. A true man must flee treasons of all kind, making no room for treachery in his heart. A true man must by no means be cruel but rather give mercy unto him who begs it. A true man must always give ladies, gentlewomen and widows succour, and never must he force himself upon them. A true man must never take up arms in wrongful quarrels for love or worldly goods.

  "Though never will a true man stand by idly and watch such evils perpetrated by others upon the innocent, for a true man stands as last bastion for all that is just. A true man is the last hope of the good and innocent. A true man must hold fast to this code above all things. Only then might a true man do honour to Albion and stand as a true knight."

  Bors nodded, appreciatively. "Well said, lad."

  "Are you a true man, Alymere son of Roth?" the king asked.

  "I believe so, sire." Alymere told him.

  Arthur stretched out his hand. It took Alymere a moment to understand, and then he gripped the king's hand, trying to grapple with what, exactly, the gesture meant.

  "Good, because I have as much need of false men as I do stablehands and scullery boys. Welcome to Camelot, Alymere," Arthur said, releasing his hand. He turned to Bors. "See to it that he is fed, then take him to the armoury and equip him for the practice fields. Come dawn, run him through his paces. We will talk again when you are done."

  It was a dismissal, but Alymere found himself asking one last question of the king. "Forgive me, sire, but might I ask, did you know my father well?"

  "Know him well? As well as any might know another. That is to say, I counted him as a friend. Does that answer satisfy your curiosity?"

  Alymere nodded. "A little, sire. I find it hard to remember him."

  "That is understandable. It has been a long time, and memories fade, especially for the young. But I will tell you something now, young Alymere: this day you give me the opportunity to do something I should have done many years ago, and that is to honour the memory of a good friend. For that, I thank you, and in your father's honour I pledge now that I will make a place at the Table for you if you prove yourself worthy. It is the least I can do."

  Alymere did not know what to say to the king's promise. He felt the emotions broiling inside him. He struggled to find the words. Any words. Finally, he made a pledge of his own. "I will not disappoint you, sire."

  "It's not me you would be disappointing, boy."

  Two

  The coming days brought three surprises, each greater than the last, and only two of them pleasant.

  The first came in the form of simple generosity. Random acts of kindness are things to be treasured, as they so often come when most needed.1 In this instance the kindness was nothing more than a few words, reminiscences about his father, but that didn't diminish the impact it had on young Alymere. There was something immediately comforting and familial about the hour spent in the company of Maeve, the ruddy-cheeked cook, and the scullions. He felt as though he belonged; it was something he hadn't felt for a long time.

  Maeve sat him at the big table and fed him chunks of cheese and freshly-baked bread with a thick buttery crust, the remnants of a haunch of venison — really little more than a few bites left on the bone — and a mug of honeyed mead. It wasn't exactly a meal fit for a king, but after more than a week on the road the mead might have been ambrosia and the meat nectar. Grease ran down his fingers and smeared his chin as Alymere worried away at the meat stuck between his teeth. His belly ached long before he had finished feeding his face. He couldn't help himself; he ate like it might be his last meal, because that was how he had always eaten, bolting the food down.

  Maeve's hands were never still. She kneaded dough, shaping oat cakes and loaves for the morning. She stoked the oven's fire. She sliced and diced and peeled without looking down at the vegetables she threw into the stew pot. She had the bold air of a seasoned veteran, although her weapons of choice were the cleaver and rolling pin. She was the absolute and uncontested mistress of this place.

  And all the while she didn't stop talking.

  She maintained a stream of cheerful babble in between shouting instructions at the scullions and scattering them left and right with culinary purpose. The focus of her conversation was reminiscences of his father. This was where the kindness lay. She could simply have cut off a hunk of bread from the loaf and a slab of cheese and been done with it, but instead this busy woman chose to talk about the only thing they had in common. She seemed to know everything about everyone in Camelot, as surely all stories made their way down to the kitchens eventually when hungry bellies brought fighting men below stairs. She had a hundred recollections of Roth, from his first day in the service of the king when he was little older than Alymere was now, to his proudest moment, taking his seat at the Round Table side by side with Sir Kay, Gawain, Bedivere and the others. Her pronunciation of their names was distinctly Gallic. Indeed, everything she said, as she diligently worked away, was touched by her foreign tongue. He found it strangely comforting to know that he was not the only refugee in the castle; that the old woman had not only made it her home but had become a vital part of the place. To hear these stories, and within them, glimpse his father's life through the eyes of a stranger had to be one of the most precious gifts he had ever been given.

  Dusting the flour from her hands, Maeve started to tell him how his parents had first met, in that very room, with the help of the brothers Percival, Lamorak and Aglovale playing Cupid, but then, seeing Bors return, she promised to tell the story another day, but only if he promised to tell her a few stories of his parents' life after Camelot. It was a promise he was only too happy to make.

  He left with Bors.

  The second surprise came in the armoury.

  Bors unlocked the heavy oak door and slipped the brace beam, pushing it open, and Alymere followed him inside. The room itself was somewhat smaller than the kitchen, and replaced the scents of cooking with the metallic tang of mail and goose grease. All manner of swords were stowed in racks along one wall, from single-handed broadswords polished to a shine, through hand-and-a-half bastard swords and great two-handed longswords to short one-handed stabbing blades for close combat. Three windows filled the armoury with the dying light. Motes of dust turned lazily in the dwindling shafts of sunlight. One shaft struck a breastplate, transforming it from simple metal into something breath-taking. There were twenty-five such harnesses around the room, but only one captured the sun. Alymere walked across to it and placed his hand over the heart, feeling the sun's heat thrill through him. It was almost as though the empty metal were alive, as though somehow it held the spirit, the essence, of the warrior it protected.

  Bors moved to stand beside him. "I do not think Lancelot would take kindly to your greasy hand-print in the middle of his chest, lad. So best not touch. Just between us, those Bretons can be a touchy lot and they're not exactly renowned for their sense of humour. Put it this way, lad, it'd be a crying shame if I was picking bits of you up off the practice field come sunrise because of one of Maeve's greasy roasts."

  Alymere recoiled, pulling his hand away as though suddenly scalded by the metal, and stood there staring in horror at the greasy outline of his palm planted in the middle of the breastplate and then down at his treacherous hand.

  Bors dropped a rag into his hands and chuckled, but Alymere was too mortified to realise what he was meant to do with it until Bors said, "There's leather strips in the bucket over there. I suggest you make it shine, lad. But clean the grease off your hands first or you'll be at it all night."

  By the time he was done with the buffing rag the breastplate was gleaming. He had been so consumed by the task that he'd not noticed Bors searching the sword racks, picking out a single-handed broadsword and working the whetstone along the edge to hone its bite. When he was satisfied with it, he set the swor
d aside and turned his attention to all manner of shields — kites, bucklers and heaters — stacked up in the racks, again taking his time to gauge the size and weight before making his choice. He discarded the bigger, sturdier shields in favour of a relatively thin wooden heater overlaid with leather. It would withstand a number of solid blows without encumbering Alymere, allowing him freedom of movement on the battlefield. It would most certainly do for the practice field tomorrow. He laid a simple pair of leather gauntlets on the table beside the sword and shield, and finally he chose a helmet, a simple cervelliere skull cap, rather than a bascinet or more elaborate closed or great helm. There was nothing either embellished or decorative about any of the equipment the knight had selected; it was all chosen for its functionality.

  Alymere set aside the leather buffing cloth and saw the equipment that had been set aside for him.

  "Try this for size," Bors said, tossing the helmet over the table to him. It nestled snugly on Alymere's head, flattening his wayward hair as he secured it in place. Bors helped him pull on the leather gauntlets. He stood back. "Let's have a look at you then, shall we?"

  Bors looked him up and down without a word. He didn't need to say anything. Alymere was all too conscious of what he must have looked like in his mismatched armour and too-big mail shirt.

  "I'm sure we could find you a shirt that you'd fill out, lad. Something that doesn't make you look quite so much like an orphan playing dress-up."

  "No," Alymere said before he could stop himself.

  If his refusal surprised the knight, he didn't let it show. Bors merely inclined his head slightly, as though considering a problem, then cast about the room and found a leather belt to cinch the long mail shirt at his waist.

  "Better. Now there's just one thing missing. We'll make a knight of you yet, lad."

  And with that, Bors gifted him the second surprise. There was a soft knock on the armoury door, and a moment later Katherine, the feisty serving girl they'd met on the stairs, entered the room. She carried a tabard draped over her arm, and on it was a familiar crest: a leaping white stag on a black engrailed slash across a white cloth.