Alymere's smile was genuine. "It is safe to say I am not the man I was."
"That is good to hear. So, tell me then? There is much I would hear."
And so, for the best part of an hour, the king and the Devil sat side-by-side in the great hall of Camelot, while the Devil spun a tale as full of lies as any that had ever been spoken.
It began in the snows of the borderland and the reivers' pillaging as they sought their prize, the Black Chalice, the Devil's Grail.
The Devil remembered lying in the snow with the maiden, making promises to save the world, and could not help but smile at his naivety. The very best lies had their roots in the truth. He tapped the intense love that had fired Alymere's soul, his fear for Arthur and Camelot, and his desire to be a true man, and used it as the foundation for his lies. What fiercer passion could there be to fire the memory of Medcaut's inferno and the slaughter of the monks at the hands of the reivers? He touched his ruined cheek once during the entire telling but otherwise barely mentioned his injuries, highlighting the knightly qualities a true champion of the unfortunate ought to have. The lies he told may have mirrored the path Alymere had walked, but where each step had in truth led him deeper into darkness, he retold it now as something heroic.
It was the classic quest against insurmountable odds, where, still, somehow, the hero returned with the spoils, the day saved. More than that, it was what the king wanted to hear. Arthur sat silently, attentive.
The king wanted to believe that his judgment had been right — that, in sending Alymere off to learn from Lowick he had made a man of him — so Alymere gave him what he wanted, a tale filled with damsels in distress and selfless heroism, burning buildings, battles to the death, honour, and, at the end, the triumph of good. He transformed Lowick into a valiant knight, and twisted the story of the book and the Chalice until it was a tale worthy of Lancelot himself. And, at the tale's height, he withdrew the book from his pack, opening it and spreading flat its pages, knowing that the king couldn't read a word that it said.
Arthur studied it for a moment, running his fingers over the unintelligible text, mouthing the shapes of words that didn't exist in his mother tongue, and then looked up at Alymere. "I don't understand. How could this lead you to the cup?"
"It is a treasure map, my lord."
"But how could you decipher it? Do you read this script? Is it a language known to you?"
"Aye, sire. It is a tongue common to the Saracens. Baptiste schooled me in it. I must admit I am unfamiliar with its subtleties, but I can muddle my way through most of it, given time."
"Incredible. And these heathens knew the secrets of the dark grail?"
It was an easy lie to tell; how the Devil's cup had been smuggled out of the Holy Land and delivered to a Saracen prince, only to be lost during the wars with the Crusaders and taken to Byzantium as spoils. They knew it as the Cup of the Threskeians — the Deceivers.
"And what properties did the Saracens believe the grail to hold?"
"It is the Devil's Grail, my king, the very antithesis of the cup of Our Lord. And the Devil is the Father of Lies."
"To drink from it brings death?" the king asked sharply.
"Not so literally, sire. The Devil was always a creature of subtlety. It is more insidious, creeping root and branch into every aspect of the drinker's life and twisting it, corrupting and withering it to the point that it bore no resemblance to the life it had been." His words were so close to the truth, but like all great lies, it left one telling 'truth' out — that the drinker must sup of human blood if he was to be spared death.
"And the book told you this?"
Alymere nodded. "It is all in there, my king. All you need is a willingness to believe."
"Where the Holy Father is the key to creation, and his blessing grants life, the Devil's gift is subversion, deceit, and all that is wrong with the world."
The king nodded solemnly.
Alymere continued, warming to his tale. "To sup from the Black Chalice once is to taste the lie. When those around you are hiding the truth, you can see to the heart of the matter. To sup twice from the cup is to live the lie, allowing the drinker the gift of tongues, the Devil's language, allowing him to spin the most plausible lies that speak to the heart of their listeners."
"A dangerous gift," Arthur acknowledged.
"But worse, by far, should the drinker drain the cup of every last drop. The Chalice will grant the drinker the power to conjure the ultimate lies, to bring to life the heart's desire. Imagine: whatever it is the listener needs, the drinker can fashion out of nothing. That is the true power of the Black Chalice; deception. Planting seeds in the needy mind so that they believe what they see and hear is real."
"Sorcery!"
"Of the most heinous kind, my king."
"Then this treasure must not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. You have done well, Alymere. Very well."
The greatest king Albion had ever known believed every word of it. He could see it in his eyes. It was like telling a story for a child.
He had planted the seed.
One sip was all it would take. Arthur would not be able to resist. He was surrounded by people who told him what he wanted to hear, which was not necessarily the truth. His was a court of equals, but who could he really trust? What man wouldn't want to know when he was being played for a fool by the people he thought of as allies and friends? More to the point, what king wouldn't want to sit at the Round Table and listen to the arguments of his knights and know who among them was dissembling, who harboured selfish motives, and who was driven by lust and other impurities. Who, in other words, might have their sights set on the throne?
It was the perfect trap for a king, no matter how great he was.
Alymere's smile spread.
"And now," he concluded, lowering his head diffidently, "I have returned with both the book and the Chalice, prepared to take the Oath, if you would still have me as a knight, my liege?"
"It would be both a pleasure and an honour to see you take your seat at the Table." The king rose slowly from his chair and held out his hand to shake.
Alymere grasped his forearm, sealing the bond, and then started to kneel, but the king stopped him, hauling him back up to his feet with one strong arm.
"No. Not like this. A feat like yours deserves more. Tonight, after the feast when everyone's bellies are bloated and they've shed a tear at the crowning of the May Queen, let us make a proper celebration out of it." He looked over Alymere's shoulder. No words passed between them, but the younger man knew the king was looking at the white stag and recalling a lost friend.
It was only fitting that it should end here tonight amid the revels, Alymere thought.
Let them drink and dance and sing in celebration of his triumph. Let them fete him and shout his name as the bonfires crackled and pretty maids danced around the Maypole. Let them toast his rise to the Table with the poisoned Chalice, let them call him the hero of the feast. Let them cheer his knighthood and mourn for the dead Arthur both at once. "I owe that to your father at the very least."
"Then so it shall be, my king," Alymere said, his voice thick with anticipation.
Fifty
A new moon lit the sky.
Men gathered around the bonfires, waiting for the signal to light them. Flaming brands, held aloft by smiling page-boys, bathed people of every station — from the poorest to the most noble — just the same, making them equals for one night. Standing side by side, the knights and farriers, smiths and serving girls, dukes and priests, were all swept up in the spirit of the evening. As far as they were concerned, the only person counted higher than any other that night waited to be crowned Queen of May.