The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  By the time he returned to the inn with both horses fully laden, the sun was well past midday. He tipped the stable boy five shiny copper sous to help him carry his purchases up to their room, where he found Athos pacing slowly back and forth, a wine bottle held loosely in his hand.

  The other man turned at the sound of their entrance. “Did you manage to acquire everything?” he asked.

  “I think so,” d’Artagnan replied, dismissing the boy with a wave. “I’ll need Sylvie’s help to get into the kitchens and assemble my mother’s recipe for salve. Some of the herbs have to steep, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

  “We need to continue on to Blois immediately,” Athos said.

  A wave of frustration overcame d’Artagnan, and he slapped both palms down hard on the rough table where he had laid the saddlebags, gritting his teeth as the abrupt motion jarred up the length of his sore arms.

  “We need treatment for our wounds, lest we collapse from a fever on the road and die. In the absence of a town physician, that means taking an extra hour to let me make the damn salve, Athos.”

  Chapter 27

  Athos huffed out his own frustration and turned away. Deciding that action would get him farther than arguing, d’Artagnan chose to interpret the silence as assent. Grabbing the bag that contained what he needed, he headed out the door and back down the stairs. Sylvie was flitting to and fro amongst the afternoon customers, smiling her toothy smile whenever someone called her over. She noticed d’Artagnan almost immediately and indicated that he should meet her by the door to the kitchens.

  “What can I do for you, pet?” she asked upon joining him there.

  “Sylvie, Athos is hurt worse than he’s letting on,” he told her. “I bought ingredients for a healing ointment, but I need access to the kitchen to make it—bowls for mixing, boiling water for steeping herbs, that sort of thing. Can you help me?”

  Sylvie nodded. “Of course. I have to keep serving the customers, but I’ll introduce you to Cook. Follow me.”

  Cook turned out to be an elderly, rough looking man with two front teeth missing, but in d’Artagnan’s book, anyone who had produced the flaky meat pies he and Milady had enjoyed during their previous stay was a person worth knowing. The man only grunted at Sylvie’s explanation and told d’Artagnan to help himself to what he needed, but also to stay out from underfoot. He patted Sylvie’s shoulder fondly as she turned to leave, however.

  D’Artagnan thanked the man politely and quickly gathered what he would need, taking it to a low counter in the corner to work. He separated the egg whites, placing the yolks in a bowl for Cook to use as he saw fit, since he didn’t need them.

  In a separate bowl, he gathered the herbs together. After shooting a surreptitious look over his shoulder to confirm that the older man wasn’t watching, d’Artagnan placed a hand over them, palm down, and pictured them growing stronger... more potent. Weak magical energy flowed out of him, into the stems and leaves. When his ability was exhausted, he crushed the plants with a pestle and poured a scant cup of boiling water over them, leaving them to steep. He beat the milk and egg whites together, grimacing and cursing his sore shoulder under his breath; then added honey until the mixture turned into a thick paste.

  When he was satisfied with the texture, he carefully added first the oil of roses, and then the turpentine, a few drops at a time, stopping after each addition to smell the concoction until it matched his childhood memories. As d’Artagnan was waiting for the color of the steeping liquid to darken a bit further, Cook wandered over to peer in the bowl, throwing him a wink and proclaiming with an unexpected burst of humor that the concoction would make “a right awful pudding, even with all that honey in it”.

  Once the steeping water reached the same golden shade as the honey had been, he carefully strained out the leaves through a folded, loosely woven cloth, and moved the small pot to the fire, stirring it slowly over the heat until the liquid was reduced to a thick brown syrup sticking to the bottom of the vessel. After cooling for a few minutes, he added the sharp-smelling substance to the salve and stirred it in until it was a smooth, uniform color and texture.

  Satisfied, he scooped the finished ointment into the clay pot he had purchased and sealed it tightly with a cork lid. Thanking Cook once again for the use of his kitchen, he offered the old man the unused milk, honey, and egg yolks in recompense and hurried back to the upstairs room.

  “Finished?” Athos asked, a note of impatience in his voice. “Good. Let me help you apply the salve to your wrist, and we’ll leave.”

  “Correction,” d’Artagnan said, feeling his jaw tighten again. “We’ll apply it to my wrist and your burns, and then we’ll leave.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Athos said, his flat tone never wavering.

  D’Artagnan took in the older man’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes, bruised with exhaustion even after a relatively quiet night of rest.

  “This salve is my mother’s recipe. She always used it on our cuts and burns when we were growing up. Claimed it would cure any wound that did not penetrate the heart... though, admittedly, that might have been a slight exaggeration on her part.” D’Artagnan firmly pushed away memories of smearing the fragrant concoction over her unconscious body, in those last, horrible hours; covering the growing patchwork of black spots with a thin, even coating; thinking maybe, maybe. He cleared his throat and continued to speak, driving the knifepoint home. “To dismiss this ointment is to dismiss my mother’s memory, and I will take it as a personal affront, Athos.”

  Athos stared at him for a beat, assessing, before seeming to deflate slightly. “Very well. Let me see your wrist. After I’ve bandaged it again, I will attend to my own injuries while you ready the horses for travel.”

  D’Artagnan looked at him for a long moment. “Your word?”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I am not in the habit of lying to my friends, d’Artagnan. If I tell you I will do a thing, you may rely upon it as a promise.”

  D’Artagnan let himself relax, confident that Athos would do as he had said. “I believe you. Thank you for indulging my concerns.”

  Athos acknowledged him with a single, brusque nod and motioned for his left wrist. D’Artagnan let him unwrap the injury and apply the smooth paste over the angry, seeping flesh, sighing as the initial sting faded, to be replaced with a soothing sense of coolness that brought comfort as much with its old familiarity from childhood as from the lessening of pain. When his wrist was snugly bandaged once more, he gathered the saddlebags containing their supplies and left Athos in privacy.

  He was tightening Rosita’s girth for the final time when Athos rejoined him. D’Artagnan took the proffered clay jar and, under the guise of making sure that the cork stopper was tight, confirmed that a reasonable amount of the salve had been used. The stable boy helped them mount up, and the pair rode out into the early evening air.

  It was late in the day to start traveling, but d’Artagnan still worried that someone might wonder at the two of them leaving the town and heading south after claiming their injured friends lay to the northwest.

  “Should we not travel to the north for a bit before skirting back towards Blois?” he asked quietly.

  Athos shook his head. “It’s unlikely anyone will take notice of it, and at this point I am more concerned with haste than discretion.”

  D’Artagnan shrugged and nodded his understanding. They trotted briskly out of Châteaudun with the sun low in the sky on their right. Once on the open road, d’Artagnan rummaged one-handed in his pack for some dried meat, offering a share to Athos, who shook his head and rode on in silence. They would not make it to another town before dark, d’Artagnan knew, remembering their trip a few days ago in the other direction.

  Athos pushed on until they had almost lost the light completely before indicating that they should stop and make camp. They had only managed a couple of leagues by d’Artagnan’s estimate, or perhaps three. He wondered if Athos inten
ded to make it all the way to Blois the following day, privately thinking that such a plan seemed untenable given their injuries and how heavily laden the horses were.

  Camp was basic, although compared to their night spent after fleeing Illiers-Combray, it seemed positively luxurious. The weather was in their favor—pleasant and calm, requiring no fire. They shared wine from their slowly dwindling reserve, which they had transferred to the waterskins d’Artagnan had purchased in Châteaudun. D’Artagnan ate a good meal of dried rations, aware that Athos was only picking at his own food. The worry that had been gnawing at him since their ordeal two nights ago ratcheted up another notch.

  “I’ll take the first watch and wake you in a few hours,” Athos told him.

  D’Artagnan indicated his agreement and wrapped himself in his newly purchased woolen blanket, resting his neck and shoulders against the seat of his saddle where it lay on the ground, on top of the saddle blankets. The position felt almost comfortable, and he was relieved that his shoulders seemed to be healing well... even the left one.

  His left hand and wrist still pulsed with heat in tandem with his heartbeat, but it was bearable as long as he didn’t move it around too much. Still, worry about Athos’ injuries, what they might find in Blois, and what was happening back in La Croix-du-Perche spun his mind in fruitless circles that gradually grew tighter and tighter. His thoughts turned to the last purchase he had made from the leather smith—one that he had not mentioned to Athos—a thonged lash lying coiled at the bottom of his saddlebag, waiting to be used.

  Soon, he told himself firmly. Not tonight, but soon.

  Eventually, his mind quieted enough for him to fall asleep. It seemed as though only moments had elapsed when Athos woke him with a hand on his arm.

  “It’s going to rain,” the other man said. “Help me put up the tent.”

  D’Artagnan could indeed smell incipient rain, and the breeze was picking up. He rose wordlessly and helped Athos set a pole under some sturdy branches so they could drape the canvas tarpaulin in an upside down V-shape, fumbling slightly in the dark. Fat drops were just beginning to fall when they finished dragging their supplies inside and hunkered down in the small space.

  “Get some sleep, Athos,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll keep watch.”

  Athos grunted and stiffly eased himself down between d’Artagnan and the supplies, while d’Artagnan wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and crouched down by the tent’s entrance. It was unlikely that anyone would be out looking for mischief tonight and stumble across them, but after falling asleep while on watch during the night of their escape, he was determined to stay alert. His mind seemed only too ready to return to earlier worries, and though the time passed grudgingly with rain pattering against the oiled cloth above his head, he did not doze.

  Daylight came slowly, the unrelenting drizzle casting everything in muted grays. When it was finally light enough to see, d’Artagnan woke Athos. The older man seemed to take an extra few moments to get his bearings, and d’Artagnan wondered if it was lack of sleep or his injuries that left him slow to return to awareness. When he had finally roused himself sufficiently, he reached back into the saddlebags and searched until he found their rations.

  “Eat,” he told d’Artagnan. “Given the conditions and how much ground we have to cover, the day promises to be an unpleasant one.”

  D’Artagnan noticed that again, Athos himself ate very little, instead dedicating himself single-mindedly to the wine once more. He pressed his lips together, certain that bringing it up would be pointless. When they had each partaken of their preferred form of sustenance, Athos checked d’Artagnan’s wrist, covering it with more ointment and bandaging it carefully.

  Aware that Athos seemed unwilling to let d’Artagnan see his injuries for some reason, the young man quickly suggested that he saddle and pack the horses while Athos used the salve on himself. Athos hesitated, but agreed when d’Artagnan added, “Please, Athos. The ointment will only last for a couple of days before it starts to go bad. There’s no point in having it here and not using it.”

  Awkwardly navigating around each other in the cramped space, d’Artagnan took out his new traveling cloak and secured it around himself. He was thrilled to find that his left shoulder was noticeably better, and his right was more stiff than actively painful at this point. Wrapped up against the rain and damp, he left the shelter of the tent and began to ready their mounts. The animals appeared unhappy but resigned to the dismal weather.

  Athos emerged after a few minutes, and together they packed the things that would least benefit from getting wet on Rosita before taking down the tent and covering her saddlebags with the canvas to protect everything as much as possible. D’Artagnan assisted Athos into the saddle and mounted himself, thrilled anew to feel the strength and flexibility in his arms starting to return. The pair headed south at a faster pace than d’Artagnan would have chosen under these conditions, and he wondered if Athos truly thought to cover the remaining fifteen leagues to Blois in a single day.

  It seemed both unrealistic and foolhardy—two things that he did not generally associate with Athos. Still, all he could do was to keep up and watch the other man as closely as he could for signs that his strength was failing. Perhaps d’Artagnan would be able to persuade him to stop for a rest in Oucques, and cover the final leg of the journey tomorrow.

  The air was still warm and humid, but the rain itself was chilly where it trickled down the back of his neck, under his cloak. D’Artagnan cursed himself for not having bought them both wide brimmed hats, but it was too late now. Sometimes there was merely a slow drizzle, but other times it became heavier, turning the road to muddy slop under their mounts’ hooves and forcing the animals to work twice as hard to make progress, blowing with exertion.

  They should have made Oucques by early afternoon, but it was nearing evening when the two waterlogged travelers finally rode into the town. D’Artagnan had been distracting himself with thoughts of a dry room and the steaming rabbit stew they had enjoyed in the town’s inn on their earlier trip north, but when he shared the sentiment with his companion, Athos replied, “There is daylight left to us. We will press on for Blois.”

  D’Artagnan looked at him steadily. “Athos, we will not reach Blois today.”

  “Nonetheless, I, at least, will continue,” Athos said. “If you wish to stay here overnight, you may join me in Blois tomorrow.”

  D’Artagnan sighed internally at the man’s cursed stubbornness.

  “We shouldn’t separate. We’re both injured and we need each other’s assistance. I’ll stay with you.”

  Athos nodded once in acknowledgment, dipping his chin sharply.

  They rode on.

  Chapter 28

  Oucques disappeared into the gray mist of rain behind them. The times when they were forced to slow the horses to a walk and let them rest came more frequently. The quality of the light changed slowly as the evening progressed, until a sudden darkening heralded the first true downpour they had faced that day. The wind came up; the temperature went down. The rain felt as though some giant was dousing them with water thrown from a huge bucket.

  It was absolutely miserable. Cloak or no, d’Artagnan was soaked right down to his skin within minutes. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he peered into the deluge in vague hopes of finding shelter, but could make out nothing beyond the dark shape of Athos hunched stoically in his saddle. There was nothing for it but to keep going, and try to stem the shivering that was slowly overtaking his body.

  What seemed like a small eternity later—but was probably only a few minutes—d’Artagnan felt his mare perk up her head and tug against the reins, moving forward into a brisk jog despite the sucking mud under her feet. Having had several reasons of late to trust the animal’s instincts, he turned back and shouted, “Athos! We have to get out of this storm! I think there’s shelter ahead!”

  Athos indicated with a wave of his arm that he should lead on. D’Artagnan twisted to fac
e forward again, searching the murk ahead for whatever had caught the mare’s attention. Moments later, the skeleton of an old barn loomed out of the encroaching dark. The little horse put on a burst of speed, skirting neatly through a gap in the wall between two bare timbers and heading without fail for a dry corner under part of the roof that had not yet fallen in. Rosita was only seconds behind.

  The sudden lack of rain was almost a shock in itself. After a beat, unable to help himself, d’Artagnan turned to Athos and asked in his driest voice, “I assume you’re amenable to stopping here for a bit?”

  To his credit, Athos only raised a self-deprecating eyebrow and said mildly, “It would seem to be prudent at this point, yes.”

  D’Artagnan huffed, caught between irritation and perverse amusement at the ridiculous nature of their situation. He dismounted, shaking the water out of his eyes and taking inventory of their surroundings as best he could in the little light that remained to them.

  “I think there are enough loose boards in this dry area to make a decent fire, assuming the flint and tinder didn’t get soaked,” he said.

  Athos had slithered unsteadily to the ground, and was leaning against Rosita’s steaming flank as he carefully untied the tent material and removed the oilcloth from over his saddlebags.

  “Damp, but not soaked,” he said. “The inside is dry.”

  “Well, thank heaven for that,” d’Artagnan said with heartfelt relief.

  The pair shed their outer cloaks and quickly set to gathering materials for a fire. Seeing how unsteady Athos appeared, d’Artagnan indicated he should light the fire, and set himself to caring for the sodden, exhausted horses. A few minutes later, the first flames were licking at the splintered, half rotten wood they had torn from the building’s bones. Athos built the fire up until it was roaring, and d’Artagnan arranged their belongings around it, hung and draped as best he could manage to facilitate drying.