The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

“Get some sleep, d’Artagnan,” Athos said when they were down to their shirts and smallclothes, the fire slowly roasting the chill from their bones. “No one will be out tonight in this weather.”

  “Except, apparently, us,” d’Artagnan said pointedly, though there was no heat behind his words. Athos silently toasted him with the wineskin he was holding, acknowledging the gentle dig.

  “Except us,” the older man agreed. “Fear not. Tomorrow will see our errand completed. I, for one, have no wish to drag things out any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  “No, indeed not,” d’Artagnan replied, understanding how deeply Grimaud’s betrayal had pierced the other man’s heart.

  They settled down next to the fire, listening to the crack and snap of burning wood and the occasional soft snuffling of the horses. D’Artagnan’s exhaustion warred with his continued worry about his companion, their mission, and the future, keeping him from all but the lightest of dozing. He heard Athos moving around in his bedroll periodically, and worried that the older man wasn’t getting much rest either, though he needed it even more than d’Artagnan did.

  It was hours later, the fire burned down to embers and the rain slowing to a stop, when the two men finally dropped into troubled sleep. When Athos roused d’Artagnan to wakefulness the next morning, there was a feverish glint to his eyes and two spots of high color on his otherwise ashen cheeks.

  “Come,” he said. “It is past time to finish this.”

  Sunlight was streaming through the cracks and gaps on the eastern side of the dilapidated structure in which they had sheltered, making a mockery of the previous night’s storm. D’Artagnan rose and ate quickly, wanting nothing more at this point than to see an end to Athos’ self-imposed mission so that the man might finally be cared for properly. Athos did not even make a pretense of eating this morning, but still insisted on treating d’Artagnan’s wrist once it was determined that the milk and egg whites in the remaining salve had not yet gone off. In return, d’Artagnan insisted that Athos use the rest of the ointment on himself, again offering to see to the horses in order to give the other man the privacy he seemed to need.

  They left in good time, stopping to let the horses drink from one of the deep puddles by the side of the road. The going was still heavy, but something about the blue sky seemed to give both horses and men a burst of energy, and they steadily ate up the remaining distance to Blois, until the first of its buildings appeared on the horizon shortly after the sun passed its zenith.

  “He will be at the castle,” Athos said with certainty. “We will go there first.”

  The castle was slightly west of Blois. It seemed impossible that it had been a mere two weeks since d’Artagnan had last seen the place. So much had happened in the intervening days that it felt more like a different lifetime. As they rode up the rocky drive leading to the gates, a familiar face looked up from a garden plot set back in the grounds.

  “Madeleine!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, feeling a smile split his face despite the grim nature of their errand.

  “M. d’Artagnan! M. Athos!” Madeleine called back, her own face lighting up with happiness. “We did not expect you back!”

  “How is Christelle? And your grandmother?” d’Artagnan asked as they approached and halted their horses in front of the girl.

  “Mémé is faring well,” Madeleine said with a smile, “and Christelle is to be engaged to a very nice boy from down the road. Truly, our fortunes have finally turned, and much of it is thanks to you and your friends.”

  At the news of Christelle, d’Artagnan felt his own smile fade, but he quickly covered his reaction and said, “That’s good to hear, indeed.”

  “Madeleine,” Athos said, a faint note of impatience coloring his voice, “we are here seeking Grimaud. Has he returned?”

  Madeleine’s brows drew together. “Yes, M. Athos. He arrived at the end of June, and has been living in the castle since then. He... has not seemed himself, to be perfectly honest, and he would not speak to us of the rest of you. We were beginning to think something horrible had happened.”

  “I suppose you could say it has,” Athos said grimly.

  Madeleine looked from Athos to d’Artagnan with a questioning expression.

  “Grimaud betrayed us, Madeleine,” d’Artagnan explained. “He sent word of our location to the Queen’s enemies and brought them down on her—both here, and at Thiron-Gardais. We are here for justice.”

  Madeleine’s shock was palpable. After a moment, she gathered herself and asked, “But Her Majesty still lives? Yes? And the rest of you?”

  “Yes,” Athos said. “But it was a close-run thing.”

  A frown marred the girl’s forehead. “And you are certain it was M. Grimaud?”

  “We have proof,” d’Artagnan said gently. “De Tréville devised a trap to discover the traitor, and there can be no doubt.”

  “Do you know where we can find him?” Athos asked.

  Madeleine’s face was troubled, but she answered without delay. “I believe he is in the kitchens, hanging herbs on the drying racks. I saw him only two hours ago.”

  “Thank you,” Athos said, and whirled his horse around, cantering toward the stables.

  D’Artagnan looked from Athos’ fast-retreating form to Madeleine. “I’d better go with him,” he said, and Madeleine nodded her understanding, still frowning unhappily.

  Grimaud’s mare was eager to regain her old, familiar stable, and they caught up with Athos as he was dismounting. Athos and d’Artagnan put their horses in the stalls next to Athos’ own gelding, which he had loaned to Grimaud for the trip to Thiron-Gardais. They quickly secured feed and water for the tired animals, but did not unsaddle them.

  Athos seemed fired with new energy, steadier and more focused than d’Artagnan had seen him since before his torture outside of Illiers-Combray. His eyes burned and his face was flushed with heat, as if animated from within by the force of his righteous anger over Grimaud’s betrayal.

  D’Artagnan followed along in the older man’s wake as he swept into the castle, striding over and around the debris left in the main hall after the bomb attack; taking the stairs down to the kitchens two at a time. Athos unsheathed his sword and stalked into the cool, echoing space where d’Artagnan could make out a stooped figure bent over a wooden frame in one corner.

  “Grimaud,” Athos said, his voice a low growl that seemed to roll through the large room like distant thunder.

  The man straightened slowly, only to let his head fall forward again as if in resignation. Athos and d’Artagnan crossed the room side by side. Grimaud turned to meet them as they approached, his face gaunt and pale.

  “Why?” Athos asked, the word cracking like a musket shot.

  Grimaud’s expression slowly transformed from sick dread to a sort of twisted disbelief.

  “Why?” he echoed as if the word tasted bad on his tongue. “You can ask me that, after you have spit and trodden upon your family’s legacy? Would it not be more appropriate, sir, for me to ask you why you have thrown everything away to follow this reckless course, tilting at distant windmills like some addled hero in a romance?”

  Athos’ face was stone. “I am seeking to return the rightful heir to the throne of France, as any good Frenchman should, and to free the country from the tyranny of a Spanish puppet ruler.”

  “You are consorting with a Protestant apologist, seeking to topple a good Catholic regent and bring chaos and confusion back to the land!” Grimaud nearly shouted, pressing forward as if unaware or uncaring of the blade leveled at his heart. “You are concerned with politics, while I am concerned with our immortal souls!”

  D’Artagnan stared at Grimaud. “If you wanted Her Majesty dead so badly, surely you could have poisoned her food or stabbed her in the breast a thousand times over. How the hell does sending armed soldiers and sell-swords after a pregnant woman not put a stain on this soul of yours that you seem so worried about?”

  “I have never killed another liv
ing soul,” Grimaud said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “I’m not like the rest of you—with your blades, and your guns—taking lives as easily as reaping grain from the fields. I am merely a messenger of God’s will!”

  “Then you’re a coward and a hypocrite, as well as a traitor,” Athos said, “and you should know that the lives of thirty-five Benedictine monks—good, devout Catholics from the abbey at Thiron—are on your conscience. Burned alive by the army you sent after our friends and the woman we are pledged to protect.”

  Grimaud’s face crumpled, and his voice was high and desperate as he said, “If they were knowingly harboring that woman, then they were not good Catholics! I heard her, you know. I heard her trying to convince her husband to give the Protestant scum equal rights as a bribe to gain their support against Isabella and her son! That she—a daughter of magical bloodlines—should stoop to do such a thing! God punished Louis with the Curse... but He left it to me to punish his temptress Eve, with her rotten apple.”

  “God’s teeth!” Athos swore. “I will kill you for this treachery, Grimaud.”

  “Of course you will,” Grimaud said, sounding defeated. “You have been lost to me for years, Master—ever since you took that... that creature you call your wife into your bed, and into your life. She has turned you weak and sinful with her own wickedness! You know what she is.”

  D’Artagnan felt a shock behind his ribcage. Was Grimaud talking about Milady? He was unable to stop himself from glancing at Athos to see his reaction, but the older man’s face could have been carved from the mountain that was his chosen namesake.

  “Yes,” Athos said. “I do. I know exactly who and what my wife is. And now I know who and what you are, as well.”

  “Then know this,” Grimaud said in a voice like a death-knell. “I finally figured out what de Tréville must have done to trick me, and sent word to my contact. Troops will descend on La Croix-du-Perche before you can possibly warn them. The deed will be done, and there is nothing you can do about it. You will all burn in Hell for your sins, while I go to sit at God’s right hand.”

  D’Artagnan’s heart stuttered and skipped a beat at the words. Athos’ lip curled into a snarl, and he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword.

  “To Hell I may go, Grimaud,” Athos said, “but no just God would accept such an inconstant servant as you into His embrace.”

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Grimaud’s features in the instant before Athos lunged forward and ran him through. The old servant’s body slid to the flagstones, blood gushing from the wound as the blade slipped free. Athos staggered sideways a step as if he, too, had been wounded, and d’Artagnan moved quickly to support him. The other man sagged for only a moment before dragging himself upright and shaking d’Artagnan off.

  “We must ride for La Croix-du-Perche as if the very Devil himself was behind us,” Athos said in a voice made hoarse by strain and weakness. “Our friends’ lives depend upon it.”

  Chapter 29

  “Gather supplies,” Athos told him. “Bread, cheese, wine. Enough for two days; no more.”

  “Right,” d’Artagnan said, his mind flying over the logistics of what they needed to do as he swept around the kitchen, grabbing a cloth bag and rummaging for what they needed while avoiding the slowly spreading puddle of blood on the floor. “We should take all three horses. Aramis’ mare is the most worn down. We can load her with the supplies—it will be quite a bit less than the weight of a rider, and it will also ease the burden for the other two.”

  “Good,” Athos said. “Yes. That’s good. You have a tactical turn of mind, d’Artagnan. There isn’t enough money left to pay for fresh horses along the way, but perhaps we can rotate through the three we have. Let the weariest one carry the lighter burden of the supplies.”

  They hurried out of the castle, leaving Grimaud’s body cooling slowly on the stone floor. D’Artagnan was alarmed to see that all of Athos’ newfound strength seemed to have died along with his faithless servant, and he staggered as if drunk, bracing himself on whatever wall or piece of furniture came to hand until d’Artagnan surreptitiously slid his right arm through Athos’ left to steady him.

  At the stables, he left Athos to arrange the supplies on Rosita while he saddled Athos’ fine bay mare, the only horse of the three that was rested and hale. In minutes, he was assisting Athos onto the animal; trying not to think about the clammy sweat on his companion’s face or the fine tremor he could feel beneath his supporting hands. He took Rosita’s reins in one hand and mounted Grimaud’s weedy little mare himself—well, Grimaud’s mare no longer, he supposed. The horse of a dead man.

  Their pace on the journey would be determined by the slowest of the three animals. Athos, however, was not going to let either his own weakness or the horses’ hold them back at the start, and headed out of the yard at a steady canter. A small crowd seemed to be gathering near where they had spoken with Madeleine; d’Artagnan felt a pang as he recognized Christelle, her hand clasped in that of a rangy lad perhaps a few years younger than he was. She raised her other arm in a wave. Athos and d’Artagnan were too far away and moving too quickly to make communication possible, though d’Artagnan raised a hand in return.

  Within minutes, the familiar castle was once again fading into the distance behind them.

  FOR D’ARTAGNAN, THE mad dash to reach La Croix-du-Perche was a gradual descent into hell. After reaching Oucques, Athos led them slightly northwest toward Cloyes-sur-le-Loir rather than straight north toward Châteaudun. Already, the evening darkness was nearly complete, and d’Artagnan was utterly unfamiliar with the route. Without the moon, waxing gibbous in the relatively clear night sky, travel would have been completely impossible. As it stood, it was still undoubtedly foolhardy.

  Athos explained that this route through Cloyes-sur-le-Loir and several smaller hamlets—most of them abandoned—was more direct than the route they had travelled back and forth from Thiron-Gardais and Illiers-Combray. The roads—if they could even be called that, d’Artagnan thought sourly—were smaller, barely used these days. While that seemed at first as if it would be a detriment to them, d’Artagnan quickly came to understand Athos’ reasoning. The grassy, overgrown tracks they were following had not been churned into mud after the previous night’s deluge. True, they were wet and slick, dotted with water-filled potholes. They were not, however, sucking at the horses’ legs with every step, slowing them down and sapping their strength.

  They rode through the night, stopping only to trade horses when one of the riders’ mounts tired more than the animal serving as their packhorse. Puddles still sufficed to keep the beasts watered, and d’Artagnan ate rations in the saddle during the periods when they slowed to let the horses regain their breath. He was painfully aware that Athos ate nothing.

  The older man appeared to be navigating by the stars, confirming the route by noting the abandoned villages they came across. D’Artagnan decided that his previous distaste for riding through these ghostly reminders of lives snuffed out by the Curse was nothing compared to his dislike of doing so at night. In the moonlight, tattered curtains in gaping black windows seemed to glow faintly as they fluttered in the light breeze, in counterpoint to the scrabble and scratch of wild animals gradually reclaiming the area from the previous human inhabitants.

  As the night wore on, Athos began to flag visibly. D’Artagnan entreated him to at least eat and drink something, if he would not stop and rest.

  “Wine,” Athos replied in a weak, croaking voice, and d’Artagnan handed him one of the skins. He could barely hold it up to his lips, but at least it was something.

  Morning saw them skirting slightly west of Cloyes-sur-le-Loir. Despite being nearly healed, the damaged muscles in d’Artagnan’s left shoulder were aching with the tension of remaining awake and upright on his horse. Athos was slumped in the saddle. His face was ghastly white, with gray, cracked lips and eyes nearly hidden in dark hollows.

  “Athos, we must rest,” d�
��Artagnan said, shocked by his companion’s appearance in the dawning light. “Just for a few minutes. You can have more wine; perhaps try to eat something.”

  Athos shook his head slowly, as if even that small movement took all his energy. “I mustn’t. If I dismount, I’ll not be able to continue. Give me the wine, though.”

  D’Artagnan reluctantly rode close, handing the wineskin over once more and steadying it with one outstretched hand as Athos drank. For the first time, he allowed himself to truly worry that Athos might not survive the trip, and felt the faint stirrings of panic lodge behind his ribs.

  They trekked on, Athos’ growing weakness and the horses’ mounting exhaustion slowing their pace by increments. D’Artagnan forced himself to eat and drink, knowing that were he to succumb to weakness as well, it would surely be the final straw for them. Athos clung stubbornly to the saddle, ignoring all attempts to inquire about his welfare, or to press him to eat and rest. Dawn slowly colored the sky as another deserted hamlet came and went, and another, and another.

  The sun was sliding like molasses toward the western horizon when Athos finally consented to a bit more wine, mixed with water d’Artagnan had added from a clean brook they’d passed two hours ago to replenish their supplies.

  Fifteen minutes later, all d’Artagnan’s fears were realized when the older man groaned and reined his mare to a halt, doubling over to vomit a thin stream of yellow bile down the animal’s sweaty shoulder. D’Artagnan cried out and jumped off his own horse before it had even come to a stop, but he was too late to prevent Athos from collapsing sideways and sliding to the ground in a heap.

  “Athos!” he cried, ignoring muscles cramped by long hours in the saddle as he rushed over and slid to his knees next to the unresponsive man.

  Athos was unconscious, his skin radiating dry heat and stretched tight over the planes of his face. D’Artagnan shook his shoulder and slapped him lightly on the cheeks, all to no effect. He looked around at the deserted landscape, trying to force his sluggish, sleep-deprived mind into action.