He backed away from the bed.
His mind raced.
It was such a gross betrayal… how could Lowick have lived with himself for so long…? How could… and suddenly an idea struck him. He didn't want to believe it. Couldn't. Wouldn't. But once the thought had taken root it was impossible to dig it out.
But it was idiocy. He'd seen his father die, that slow collapse of the self. It hadn't been self-inflicted. It had been cruel fate. Hadn't it? Could he have poisoned himself? No. Alymere shook his head. He was jumping at shadows now. He couldn't let his imagination run away with things. Roth hadn't committed suicide, but so many things made sense now. Making sense didn't make them better, though.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling the coarseness of the burned skin beneath his fingertips. He turned away. He found himself staring at the door and wishing he could just walk back through it, out into the hallway with its creaks and groans and sighs and pretend his uncle had never made his confession.
His father…
If only he could step back a few moments in time. Just two, three; to the moment before the knight unburdened himself.
He could have lived out his life without ever knowing why his mother had refused to live in the same house as the knight.
It didn't help him to know why she had chosen to live in the filth and squalor of the village hovels and scraped and scrimped for food. It didn't make the humiliation of it all any more bearable. They had lived off the charity of others for years instead of in their rightful home.
He ran his hands down his face, stretching his features like dough.
It was too much.
He knew it would help one day, but not yet. It was all too raw. Too much, too soon. For now, the only person this unburdening of the soul helped was dying and had chosen to pass the knowledge on to him like some insidious canker. It soothed the knight's conscience. Alymere understood that, but he still couldn't bear to look at the man on the bed.
He paced the room, frustration welling up inside him — and beneath it, anger. The intensity of it surprised him. His breathing came harsher and faster, each breath shallower than the last, until he had to reach out to steady himself before he swooned. His vision swam. He clenched his fist, squeezing it so tightly his dirty fingernails dug into his palm and drew blood. It trickled between his fingers and down the back of his hand as he raised his fist. Alymere couldn't feel a thing. He looked down at the blood numbly, walked across to the window and braced himself on the sill. The world outside was unchanged. How could it be so? How could it be that everything inside this room had turned the world upon its head, and yet outside nothing looked in the least bit different?
He desperately wanted to lash out and hit something, to let the rage vent out of him.
He imagined driving his fist through the streaked glass.
Words raged within his mind. So many accusations, so much hatred. He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the cold glass.
Had Alymere been in his right mind he would have recognised the source of the voice — and its bleak nature. It was the same insidious voice the book used to goad him. But he was far from his right mind.
"I have to know," he said, staring out at the world through the window, "did she… were you… was it love… or… did you?" he danced around the word, unable to bring himself say it. Alymere drew in a deep breath and forced himself to ask, "Was I conceived in violence?"
"I am sorry, son."
Alymere closed his eyes. He felt his anger thickening. He dug his fingernails into the wooden sill, not feeling the splinters.
Do it.
He heard it plainly.
Kill him. End his life in violence. Take the pillows from behind his head and smother him. He's too weak to fight you. Do it. Make his death the mirror of your birth. In violence the son is begat, in violence the father is slain.
Alymere felt every bone and fibre in his body sing to the black anger coursing through it. The voice of the book was more than merely seductive, it was empowering. It spoke to his soul in a way that only another creature born out of violence could. They were aspects of the same hate. It went beyond a disembodied whisper, becoming in that moment a distinct voice within him — not of him, but in him. It didn't stroke his fragile ego or stoke his disgust at his own origin, it merely suggested:
Offer his death as a gift to your mother's shade. Let her spectre know vengeance. Let her rest, content that the bastard who raped her is burning in Hell for his sins. You owe her that much.
And it sounded so reasonable.
Thirty-Nine
Alymere stood over his father.
It was true, the familial resemblance was strong. Stronger than it had a right to be, he thought.
"Why?" he asked. He could have been asking so many questions, but what he really wanted to know was why the dying man had chosen to burden him with his crime?
"Love," the old man said. "I loved her."
The voice of the Devil's Bible crooned inside his skulclass="underline"
The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son a thousand times.
"No," he said, though whether denying the knight or his own fate he neither knew nor cared. "Don't say that. Don't lie. Not now. Don't lie to me."
Fathers shall not be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sin.
"I want to hear the truth. If you are going to burden me with your guilt I want the whole truth. I don't want you painting yourself as a tortured hero unable to resist the maiden's charms, none of that. I want the truth."
The soul who sins is the one who will die. The son will not share the guilt of the father, nor will the father share the guilt of the son. The righteousness of the righteous man will be credited to him, and the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against him.
Kill him. Do it. Take the pillow from beneath his head and put an end to his lies.
For every living soul belongs to me, the father as well as the son — both alike belong to me. The soul who sins is the one who will die.
Tell me he did not sin, tell me he did not betray the greatest trust of all, and in that act forfeit his right to life. Tell me. No; show me.
"I loved her. Every day of my life."
"Not good enough," Alymere said, not recognising the voice that came out of his own mouth. He reached down and tugged the bolster from beneath the knight's head. He held it between them for a moment, staring down with nothing but hatred and disgust for the man in the bed. Something passed between them, unsaid. Lowick understanding what was about to happen, accepting it, even. Alymere leaned forward and pressed the bolster down over the old man's face, holding it firm as the knight's heels kicked at the mattress. His face twisted as Lowick reached up with frail hands to scratch and claw at him. He felt one of Lowick's fingernails break off in the back of his hand. The scratch wasn't deep. He watched with grim fascination as a single drop of blood broke and ran across the back of his hand and fell, staining the perfect white of the bolster. Alymere didn't stop pressing down until Sir Lowick stopped kicking and clawing at his hands and went still.
And then, with grim economy, he placed the pillow beneath the dead man's head, arranging his body so that it looked as though he had passed peacefully, closed his accusing eyes, and left the room.
It was an illusion. There was no peace in the death mask Sir Lowick wore — he looked as though he had just come face-to-face with the Devil himself. The horror of it was wrought plain upon his face for all to see.