The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  As he approached, he heard the distinctive sound of a male gasp, followed by a grunt and the thump of a body shoved against the wall. Pulse racing, d’Artagnan hurried forward on silent feet, wishing suddenly that he had thought to bring a weapon. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered through the gap of the open door and scanned what he could see of the room to assess the threat.

  Expecting to find thieves or worse assaulting his injured host, the sight that greeted him jolted through his chest like a pistol recoil, forcing the breath from his lungs. Athos stood pinned against the wall not by an intruder, but by Milady, naked with her hair hanging in loose curls to her waist. She was beautiful... flawless except for an indistinct mark or scar on her shoulder, half-covered by her hair. D’Artagnan had never in his life seen a sight to compare to the vision of her pale, milky skin and the perfect flare of her hips.

  Athos’ clothing was in disarray, shirt unlaced and hanging off one shoulder. Milady’s lower body pressed close to his, his good arm holding her right leg hitched up to his hip. His head was thrown back, baring his neck to her lips and teeth, eyes closed in ecstasy.

  In the hallway, d’Artagnan stood frozen except for the pounding of his thundering heart against his ribcage. Heat pooled in his belly even as mortification flooded his mind. As a young man, d’Artagnan had bedded his share of lovers, but it had always been a quiet, clandestine affair involving slightly embarrassed fumbling carried out in darkness and secrecy... not against a wall in a well lit room with the door left cracked.

  The open door led d’Artagnan’s thoughts back around to the uncomfortable fact of his presence outside it. He had to leave. Now. Except... surely if he moved, he would only draw attention to himself? As long as they didn’t know he was here, no harm was done, but if they caught him trying to sneak away, it would be disastrous. Certainly Athos would demand satisfaction for the slight. He was injured, and though d’Artagnan had seen that he was still a fierce swordsman, it was possible that he would end up killing his host. That would be a terrible waste, not to mention breaking Milady’s heart.

  D’Artagnan became suddenly, viscerally aware that he was hard in his breeches for the first time in many months. Such weakness of the flesh had not much afflicted him since the death of his family and of the girl he’d been promised to. And to feel it now... at the sight of another man’s wife...

  Humiliation more complete than he had known in years flooded d’Artagnan’s body as he contemplated his sinful, pathetic desire to stay in hiding and watch the lovers. Had he become the same kind of animal as the men they’d encountered in Blois—the ones who had kidnapped the girls? His lust fled in an instant, replaced by nausea. Feeling decidedly ill now, he staggered away on shaky legs, fleeing toward his room with no thoughts of stealth; only escape.

  Chapter 5

  Dawn found d’Artagnan in the stables, sitting in the corner of his gelding’s stall and unraveling a length of stout rope with deft fingers. The animal watched, chewing its hay with heavy, lugubrious movements of its jaw, as he separated the thick rope into three tails, and each of those three tails into three more, knotting them tightly as he went.

  His old cat o’ nine tails had been in his saddlebags when the bandits overtook him on the road and stole his belongings, but this would serve as well. Task completed, he flicked the long-tailed lash across his thighs with a smooth movement of his wrist, listening to the sound of the knots slapping against the leather of his breeches and allowing the contemplation of what was to come to wash over him, calming his stormy thoughts.

  He was drawn abruptly back to the present by a cheerful voice.

  “Ah, I thought I might find you out here,” said Aramis. “I noticed you weren’t in your room when I passed by.”

  The man’s eyes flicked casually to the knotted rope in his hand and away, his affable demeanor never slipping, but d’Artagnan once again had the feeling of being weighed and assessed; understood more deeply than he was comfortable with.

  Not a trace of it manifested in Aramis’ tone or words as he continued, however.

  “If you are sufficiently recovered from yesterday, I thought we might pay a visit to Rosita.”

  D’Artagnan’s brows knit in confusion. “Forgive me, but who is Rosita?”

  “Well, originally, Rosita was a rather lovely young Spanish lady of my acquaintance,” Aramis said patiently. “However, in the present context, Rosita is my horse.”

  “You named your horse after a woman,” d’Artagnan said in a flat voice, wondering how on earth a man as soft as Aramis had come to be a soldier.

  Aramis placed a hand over his heart theatrically. “Nonsense, young d’Artagnan... she practically named herself! The two of them share many admirable traits: beauty, loyalty, bravery, and a sweet temperament, among other things. Now, though, I should like to get Rosita some new shoes before she decides she’s being put out to pasture as a barefoot broodmare. Assuming it is convenient for you, of course.”

  “As you wish,” d’Artagnan said, trying to keep his impatience with being interrupted in his task hidden as he rose stiffly to his feet. “Do you always rise so early, though? It’s barely past dawn.”

  Aramis shrugged. “I don’t tend to sleep well. Particularly without company.”

  Immediately, d’Artagnan’s mind was recalled to the last two people he had seen sharing a bed, and he felt heat travel up his neck and into his cheeks.

  “I see,” he said.

  “If I may say so, you look a bit peaky this morning, as well,” Aramis continued in a light tone, a slight twinkle entering his eye. “I do hope that our hosts didn’t keep you up with their... shall we say... night-time exertions. They can both be dreadfully indiscreet when their blood is up.”

  D’Artagnan’s blood, which had been staining his ears, fled his face completely.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said weakly.

  Aramis raised his eyebrows, and waved a hand dismissively. “Forgive me; it’s not important. Merely the early morning ramblings of a sleep deprived mind. Come, d’Artagnan—brush the straw off your arse and help me rustle up some breakfast. Then we’ll ride back to town and see to Rosita, so you can relieve me of that fifteen livres, eh?”

  D’Artagnan still felt off-balance after the exchange, but he had promised to shoe the horse, and the mention of breakfast was making his stomach rumble.

  “Very well,” he said after a short pause. Aramis smiled and turned to head back toward the castle, leaving d’Artagnan to hang the pristine rope lash neatly next to his saddle, giving it a final, longing look before following the other man out.

  An hour later, he was bent over a bowl of gruel supplemented with the giblets from last night’s chicken, and a round of soft cheese. Porthos entered, dumping a shapeless cloth bundle onto the table. He grabbed a knife and a chunk of bread from the sideboard without a word and flopped into one of the chairs, a huge yawn cracking his face.

  Aramis smiled. “You’ll have to forgive Porthos,” he said. “He’s not a morning person.”

  “Being as cheerful as you are in the morning is unnatural,” Porthos grunted. He finished spreading cheese onto his bread and raked his gaze over d’Artagnan with a frown. “You look like hell. What’s wrong?”

  “I think our young friend’s sleep was disturbed by things that repeatedly go bump-bump-bump in the night,” Aramis said before d’Artagnan could do more than open his mouth to reply.

  Porthos mimed an exaggerated oh of understanding, his face cracking into a smile.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You get used to it.” The smile grew wicked. “Or else you take a page out of Aramis’ book, and find someone else’s bed to warm when you want some peace and quiet.”

  “I resent your implication, and couldn’t possibly comment,” Aramis said in a haughty tone.

  Porthos snorted a laugh, and d’Artagnan was struck once again by the easy rapport within the household. Feeling a bit more at ease now that the conversati
on was moving on from the previous night, he gestured to the bundle at the edge of the table with his chin.

  “What’s all that?” he asked Porthos.

  “Gift for you,” Porthos replied around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed, and continued, “Took ’em off the men we fought. Thought you might find a use for ‘em. Go on, then—take a look.”

  D’Artagnan frowned uncertainly and stood, moving around the table and unwrapping the cloth. Inside, he found a pistol, two daggers, and a serviceable sword belt. He looked up at Porthos, and then over at Aramis, vaguely aware that his mouth was open but no words were coming out.

  Aramis smiled at him, sensing that he was at something of a loss.

  “We couldn’t help but notice when we brought you back to the castle that you appeared to possess only a broken rapier and the clothes on your back,” he said.

  “Well... that and a pony the same color as a buttercup,” Porthos added with a grin. “Athos told us that he intended to provide you with provisions for your journey as payment for shoeing his mare, and this seemed a good place to start. A man should have weapons to protect himself.”

  “I... I don’t...” he floundered, before settling on, “Thank you.”

  Porthos waved him off. “With the mess we’re in these days, people need to stick together. Help each other instead of fighting over scraps like rabid dogs.”

  D’Artagnan’s eyes dropped. “Until I came here, I hadn’t seen much of the former for a very long time—and far too much of the latter.”

  He was interrupted by Athos’ entrance, as the man stumbled to the table, bleary-eyed, and flopped gracelessly into a chair.

  “Well, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said, “we may have some dogs inside the castle, but I guarantee none of them are rabid. Speaking of which, good morning, Athos. You’re looking particularly radiant today. Sleep well?”

  “Shut up,” said Athos pithily, applying himself to a bowl of gruel without looking up.

  “Perhaps I should mention that Athos isn’t much of a morning person, either,” Aramis said with a fond smile. “If you’re done eating, shall we saddle up for Blois?”

  ON THE RETURN TRIP to the castle, after d’Artagnan made good on his promise to shoe Rosita and had, in return, received his fifteen livres along with copious words of thanks from Aramis, the two chatted amiably enough about light topics—the state of the crops; the unseasonable cold snap earlier that month.

  D’Artagnan’s guard was beginning to drop when the older man began to speak of his boyhood desire to join the clergy, before circumstances conspired to change his plans.

  “You and I share an interest in religious matters, I perceive,” Aramis said. “I gather you are a flagellant?”

  Immediately on the defensive, d’Artagnan replied, “I don’t see how that’s anyone’s business but mine.”

  “Well,” Aramis said, “one might argue that it became part of my business when de Tréville and I spent two hours cleaning and dressing the wounds on your back after you collapsed. However, that’s neither here nor there, since I was merely making conversation. As far as I am aware, most practitioners don’t make a secret of it.”

  “It’s not a secret,” d’Artagnan mumbled.

  “As it happens, I was briefly inclined in that direction myself, during the second summer of the Curse, when things seemed at their worst,” Aramis continued. “I heard a very persuasive abbé arguing that until humanity showed a willingness to punish itself, our Heavenly Father would not intervene to save us from Spain’s Curse. It made sense at the time, but I must admit, once I actually engaged in the practice, I simply could not reconcile it with my own belief in a loving, compassionate God.”

  “You still believe God is loving and compassionate?” d’Artagnan asked, his tone turning bitter. “Truly?”

  “I have to,” Aramis said. “Otherwise, what is the point of any of this?”

  “The point?” d’Artagnan said, bringing his horse to a halt as anger bubbled up in him and unexpectedly spilled over. “The point? Yes, do please tell me what is the point of your loving God allowing an entire family to die, yet leaving a single son untouched to go on alone, without his loved ones! Without friends or the girl he was promised to! What is the point of leaving that son to be responsible for property that had been in his family for generations, only for him to lose it to his neighbors, who rose up and drove him off the land when he refused to share it with them simply because they asked him to!”

  D’Artagnan desperately wanted someone with whom to fight; someone who would scoff and belittle and give him an excuse to lose himself in fists and swords until the noise drowned out his thoughts and memories, but Aramis merely regarded him with compassion from Rosita’s back and replied, “I don’t know, d’Artagnan. I’m sorry. I wish I did.”

  Eyes burning, d’Artagnan wheeled and spurred his old gelding into an ungainly gallop, fleeing back toward the castle. He glanced behind him through vision blurred by the wind—it was only the wind, he told himself—and was relieved to see that Aramis was not chasing after him.

  Chapter 6

  Arriving back at the stables, he put the pony away blowing and sweaty, tamping down ruthlessly on the voice in his mind that berated him for doing so as he threw the saddle onto a nearby rack and grabbed up the cat o’ nine tails.

  That voice sounded far too much like his father’s.

  He was almost running by the time he reached his room in the castle. No other sounds could be heard in the guest wing, and none of the other rooms he passed were occupied at this time of day, but d’Artagnan still wished for a door he could close as he unbuttoned his doublet and unlaced his shirt, pulling them off roughly. The bandages around his torso were in his way; he removed them.

  The instant after the first cut of the lash, but before the pain registered was a welcome friend. Then came the shock of the impact... the slow burn, growing sharper and deeper with each blow... tingling warmth spilling outward from the base of his skull to flow down his limbs and into his fingers and toes... his mind, blessedly blank of everything except sensation. Peace flowed over him for the first time in days, wrapping around him like the old rag quilt his mother had made for his bed when he was small.

  His nerves sang with a sensation both similar to and different from the rush that had overcome him during the battle on the Rue Chemonton. Like his actions to help the others free the two sisters from their abductors, this was right. This was something he deserved—punishment for having survived when his loved ones had not. Punishment for having felt inappropriate things while secretly watching his hosts last night; for sneaking into places where he had no business; for staying when he should have left.

  The lash rose and fell hypnotically over first one shoulder, then the other. Left... right... left... right. D’Artagnan let himself drift over the spikes of pain, eyes closed and brows drawn together—until a voice broke into his consciousness, jarring him from his reverie.

  “You know, we just fixed that back of yours a couple of days ago,” said Porthos. “Seems a bit ungrateful to go messing it up again so soon.”

  D’Artagnan gasped and whirled to face the doorway, wincing as the sudden movement flared more pain across his shoulders. Feeling unaccountably as though he had been caught doing something shameful, he grabbed for his discarded shirt and shrugged into it stiffly, caught between anger and embarrassment at the interruption.

  “You know how crazy it seems to whip yourself until you bleed, right?” Porthos asked, looking at him quizzically.

  A second voice heralded Aramis’ arrival.

  “Leave the lad alone, Porthos,” said the other man, appearing next to Porthos’ shoulder at the doorway. Porthos shook his head in apparent dismay.

  “Oh, yeah—that’s right,” said the big man. “I’d forgotten that you used to be into this kind of nonsense as well.”

  Aramis scowled up at him. “It was one time,” he said in the plaintive tones of someone who had already hashed and rehashed a
n old argument to little effect.

  “Yes, you’ve said,” replied Porthos. “And that, of course, makes it a totally reasonable response to the circumstances. For God’s sake, talk to him, won’t you, Aramis?”

  He clapped Aramis on the shoulder once, and, still shaking his head, left them to it.

  Aramis sighed. “Don’t mind Porthos,” he said. “Whipping is a bit of a sensitive subject with him. May I see your back? I could bandage it again for you.”

  “It’s fine,” d’Artagnan said tightly, sitting on the edge of the bed and fiddling with the cat’s tails, just barely starting to stain rusty with his blood.

  Aramis’ lips quirked unhappily, but he nodded and leaned against the arch of the door, crossing his arms.

  “It helps you cope, doesn’t it,” he offered. “You feel better when you... indulge?”

  The words sat heavily for a few moments, filling the space between them.

  “Sometimes, it’s—I don’t know. Necessary,” d’Artagnan mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “It feels like the right thing to do.”

  “And doing the right thing is important to you, isn’t it?” Aramis said. “Even after everything that’s happened.”

  D’Artagnan shrugged, tensing as Aramis entered the room and seated himself on the edge of the bed, careful to leave a space between them. He glanced at the older man out of the corner of his eye, but Aramis’ gaze was fixed on his own hands, clasped loosely between his knees.

  “I told you that I have to believe in a compassionate, loving God and that’s true,” he said. “I realize, however, that not many would agree with me in this day and age. I would ask you this, though, d’Artagnan—do you take up the whip as a way to show God your willingness to punish yourself for humanity’s sins? Or do you take up the whip because using it makes you feel better in the moment, even though it hurts you physically? Because the second option is not precisely punishment. Survival, perhaps. Understandable, certainly. But not punishment.”