The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  “Yes?” she said.

  “May I speak with you privately for a moment?” d’Artagnan asked.

  Milady let the silence hang for a moment or two before she put down the quill, rose from her chair, and said, “Come in and close the door.”

  He entered and pulled the door shut behind him, clearing his throat.

  “Go on, then,” Milady said impatiently.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “Two, in fact.”

  “Yes, you do,” she replied. “So good of you to notice.”

  “I should not have stayed to listen when the Captain confronted Athos about your past,” he said, “and I should not have spoken before I thought last night.”

  “No, you should not,” Milady agreed. “I will pardon you for the second slight, because I know that you aren’t dealing with Aramis’ illness nearly so well as you would have us believe, and I think that you would not have said such a thing if you had your wits about you.”

  “I hope that’s true,” d’Artagnan said.

  “As for the first, it will take longer for me to forgive, as I told the others when they came to me afterward to apologize.”

  D’Artagnan felt even worse, if that was possible, upon hearing that he was the last who had thought to seek Milady’s forgiveness for impinging upon her privacy when she was not even present to defend herself. However, he was also here for a second purpose, and even in his raw, exhausted state he would not allow himself to falter.

  “I understand your position,” he said. “Would it be crass of me, at this juncture, to humbly request a favor of you?”

  “Yes. Very,” Milady said without hesitation. “But don’t let that stop you.”

  “It’s not for me. At least, not directly. If we survive to leave this place and return to the others, I intend to speak with Constance. Properly, I mean. If she desires it, may I suggest that she seek your counsel about her experiences with her husband? If I may once again be crass, you have found love and fulfillment with Athos, despite the cruelties visited upon you in your youth. Perhaps she can find that sort of happiness as well.”

  Milady looked troubled, and sat back down in the chair by the desk rather abruptly. D’Artagnan, surprised, took a step toward her but stopped when she waved him off with one hand.

  “You’re a good person, d’Artagnan,” she said, looking up at him, “though still quite a young and impetuous one. I’m going to speak to you frankly, because as you point out, there’s quite a good chance that we will not all be leaving these rooms alive.” She paused, dropping eye contact to stare at the window instead. “When I look at Constance, I see the road I might have taken—flinching from physical touch; letting the past define the present. Giving power to the person who hurt me.”

  “Constance is stronger than you think,” d’Artagnan said, unable to hold his tongue.

  “She is,” Milady agreed easily, and met his eyes again. “After I was raped, I vowed that I would learn the ways of physical pleasure, and take as much of it for myself as I could. The priest that helped me escape the convent was a pervert and a criminal, but he was not cruel. I learned what I could from him, both how to give and take pleasure, and how to defend myself. But where Constance built up walls around her body to try to protect herself, I built up walls around my soul. Cynicism. Detachment. Resentment. Had I not found Olivier, my life would have been a sad and unfulfilling one, indeed.”

  “Then I’m very glad that you did find each other,” d’Artagnan said sincerely.

  “If Constance wishes to speak with me, she may. I have kept her at arm’s length because she is an uncomfortable reminder to me of what might have been; however, that is neither her fault, nor yours. We are all of us damaged in one way or another, but if I can help you and Constance be happy together, then I will.”

  “Thank you—” d’Artagnan began.

  “Don’t make a fuss over it,” Milady interrupted. “Now, would you like me to write her a note or not?”

  “Yes,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Please tell her that I miss her and look forward to seeing and speaking with her.”

  “I will,” said Milady. “Now go get some rest... or, failing that, at least go bother the others instead of me, so I can get this done.”

  BY THE TIME THE LIGHT began to fade that evening, Porthos had returned with a hearty vegetable soup for them to eat and a light broth for the reluctant Aramis.

  “You’ve got to eat something,” Porthos pleaded. “It’s been two days.”

  Aramis relented, but twenty minutes later he was vomiting up everything he’d managed to consume, and then some.

  “Mother of God,” he cursed when the retching finally subsided, leaning against Athos and clutching his aching stomach.

  D’Artagnan sat very quietly a few feet away, his mouth hidden behind a clenched fist, remembering. It was going to get even worse soon... it was going to get so much worse, and he didn’t know if he could do it all again. He was so tired he could barely remain upright. It was all becoming too much. Porthos glanced at him. His gaze caught and narrowed.

  “D’Artagnan,” said the big man, “You need to go rest now. You’ve been awake for a day and a half. Get out of here for a bit. Go take a nap in Athos and Milady’s room.”

  “I’m all right,” d’Artagnan said quickly.

  Athos glared at him from where he was easing an exhausted Aramis onto his side on the bed. “D’Artagnan. Go. Sleep. Now. Or I’ll knock you out myself and you’ll sleep that way instead.”

  “Bedside manner, Athos,” Aramis chided weakly. “Please.”

  “He’s not in a bed,” Athos growled, pinning d’Artagnan with a blatantly threatening look. “Yet.”

  D’Artagnan rose and slunk from the room without a word, defeated.

  The room next door had been cleaned and aired, but it was far too quiet. He sat on the bed, his weight sinking into the soft mattress. Perhaps he could merely sit here and rest his eyes for a couple of hours before returning to the others, he thought as he scooted around to lean against the sturdy headboard. That wouldn’t be too bad.

  As long as he didn’t sleep...

  Some unknown amount of time later, he heard noises coming from the other room—wet coughing, and the sound of a woman’s low voice. Alarmed, he struggled up from the bed, feeling strangely heavy and disconnected. Forcing his limbs to carry him, he crossed to the door and dragged it open. The hallway seemed to have grown in length, but he stumbled forward to the next room and grabbed the doorframe to steady himself as he took in the sight within.

  Aramis lay limp and still on the bed in a puddle of his own vomit. Porthos was bent over him, rocking silently back and forth with his back to the doorway. Across the room, Athos began coughing again, hunching forward in pain as he spat into a white linen handkerchief. When he straightened, d’Artagnan could see the stain on the cloth, scarlet in the candlelight.

  Unable to make a sound, d’Artagnan’s eyes flew to Milady, standing a few steps in front of her husband with a pistol clutched in each hand.

  “Do it. Do it now,” Athos rasped, and she raised the pistol in her left hand, shooting him through the heart.

  “No!” d’Artagnan cried as Athos crumpled to the floor without a sound.

  Milady turned to look at him. “I told you my life would have been nothing without Olivier,” she said, and raised the barrel of the second pistol to her lips, taking the cold metal into her mouth. Blood sprayed as she pulled the trigger, and d’Artagnan fell to his knees on the unforgiving marble even as her body hit the floor.

  “Porthos—” the entreaty should have been a cry, but was barely a whisper as it passed d’Artagnan’s lips.

  The familiar figure by the bed coughed, shoulders shaking. When it turned, however, it was not Porthos, but d’Artagnan’s father who looked over at him with rivulets of frothy blood trailing down his chin to stain the front of his shirt.

  “Is this how you care for your friends, Charles?” his father ask
ed. “No wonder you can’t save anyone you care about.”

  D’Artagnan jerked awake, gasping as if he had been running for his life. The darkness surrounding him was impenetrable. He flailed, falling off the mattress and onto the floor where he sat clutching the cool wooden bed frame, heart pounding, clammy sweat trickling down his forehead.

  It wasn’t real... it wasn’t real... it wasn’t real...

  But it was real—parts of it, at least. Aramis was sick. Aramis was almost certainly going to die. Porthos was at grave risk, and just because Athos and Milady had survived the Curse at La Fère didn’t mean they would survive it a second time. Maybe he would die this time, too. That would surely be better than...

  He should go check on the others. He tried to listen for any noises in the next room, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his breath wheezing, shallow and fast. He should go check... but what if he found part of his dream made flesh? Aramis fading, or even dead. The others succumbing to the sickness. In his present state, he would shatter like spun glass. He needed to calm down first. He needed...

  It was the middle of the night. The stable would be deserted; he wouldn’t be putting anyone at risk. He could visit his father’s pony, lean against the sagging back for a few minutes. Bury his face in the shaggy mane and breathe in the familiar smell until his chest unlocked and his lungs started working properly. Just a short visit to get himself under control, and then he would check on the others. Only a few minutes, and he would be back without anyone knowing he’d left. Even if he dragged a little bit of the miasma of the Curse with him to the stables, it was a big, airy building and it would disperse long before anyone else arrived. Wouldn’t it?

  It would be all right.

  He rose on shaky legs and opened the door silently. Trying without success to keep his breathing measured and slow, he walked quietly down the hallway and descended the back staircase, clutching the banister to steady himself. The large door at the rear of the wing creaked slightly as he opened it just enough to slip through, and he paused, trying to pull in some of the humid night air against the constriction in his chest, hoping to clear his lungs.

  The stables were set across the grounds, no great distance from the south wing. D’Artagnan headed for the darker blur of the long, low building against the cloudy night sky. He could no longer rely on the cat o’ nine tails, but this would do instead, he told himself. This would be enough. It had to be. He would visit his old gelding and reconnect with the memory of his father as he had been in life, kind and loving—not the angry specter from his dream.

  He entered the building, letting the low noises of animals breathing and rustling their hay and bedding wash over him, and felt his distress begin to ease. His gelding was near the north end of the row of stalls, stabled next to the broom-tailed mare. He lit one of the lanterns hanging near the entrance and picked it up, carrying it down the alleyway to hang on a hook near his horses’ stalls.

  His attention was drawn by the broom-tailed mare’s nervous snorting. Concerned that she was suffering from colic or had perhaps tangled herself in her rope somehow, he moved forward to check on her. His pony was apparently lying down, since he couldn’t see the animal’s back over the door. Not surprising; the old gelding often seemed to be sleeping when d’Artagnan came to see him these last few weeks.

  The mare, on the other hand, was up. She was not tangled, and rather than stamping her feet and snapping at her flanks as if her belly hurt, her attention was focused on the low wall that separated her stall from the pony’s—ears pricked, nostrils flared, and snorting out soft, distressed breaths.

  Brow furrowing, d’Artagnan moved to the gelding’s stall and looked in. The pony was, in fact, lying down—legs curled underneath his body, but... wrong. Too still. Head jammed awkwardly against the front wall. No slow rise and fall of breathing.

  Peaceful, but not asleep.

  The peace of a soul fled from an aged body.

  D’Artagnan pulled in a single sharp breath. Another. His mind began to make sense of the scene before him, almost against his will.

  He couldn’t...

  No. He...

  No.

  The world went soft and gray at the edges. It jerked into focus for an instant as his back hit with the wall behind him, only to fade out again. Time passed in a long, shapeless blur. With a flash of awareness, he realized he was in the tack room, his hand on one of the whips hanging from a rack on the wall. Awareness fled once more.

  Outside. Gray pre-dawn light was streaking the eastern sky. A voice. Female. High-pitched. Nearby.

  “D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan! What is it? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  He ran. Left the voice behind.

  North wing. No. No... south wing. But... the others. They would stop him if they found out.

  Far end. Downstairs. Room... empty. Door... closed. Click of a lock.

  Gray blankness. How long? Cold flagstones under his knees. Painful. Unyielding. Shirt off. Whip in hand. Quickly, quickly.

  Noise at the door. Voices. Knocking.

  This whip was different from his old one. Only one tail, made of thin, braided leather. Balance—strange in his hand.

  The knocking became pounding. Voices. Shouting.

  He grasped the whip handle, ready to swing. So, so ready.

  The door crashed open. Porthos and Athos charged in.

  “I’m getting really tired of having to kick open locked doors, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said. “Just so you know.”

  “Put the whip down.” Athos, this time. “Whatever has upset you, this isn’t the way.”

  “Leave me alone.” Was that his voice? Something was wrong with it, if so—it sounded more like an animal growling. The gray fog was threatening to lift, leaving him at the mercy of cold, sharp reality.

  He raised the whip again, and Athos strode forward. D’Artagnan stumbled to his feet in response. Tried to back away, but his body was clumsy and slow, and Athos was in front of him, reaching for the whip.

  D’Artagnan jerked it away in desperation, and took a wild swing at Athos’ jaw with his left fist.

  Chapter 48

  Athos grabbed d’Artagnan’s wrist, deflecting the blow with a grunt of effort. The block redirected d'Artagnan's momentum forward, trapping him against Athos’ body. A too-strong hand wrested the whip from his sweaty grip—Porthos. He heard it hit the wall with a dull thump, and fall to the floor across the room where the big man had thrown it.

  Rage overcame him. He fought the arms trapping him, frantic to escape before the gray fog receded completely and he was lost. Before he had to feel—

  Oh, God.

  His father. His mother. His baby sister.

  Aramis.

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  He writhed against Athos’ hold... cursed and spat and clawed at the leather jerkin under his hands, trying to free himself—not recognizing the embrace for what it was until he felt Porthos’ solid warmth settle against his back, pinning him even closer against Athos’ body. D’Artagnan froze, every muscle rigid. There was an agonizingly long pause, and finally an awful noise tore itself free of his chest, only to be repeated with the next choking breath, and the next, and the next.

  Porthos’ voice, low and rumbling. Warm breath against his ear. “Shh. There now... That’s it. Let it out. We’ve got you, whelp. This has been a long time coming. Let it out, now. We’re right here with you.”

  D’Artagnan keened his grief into Athos’ shoulder, his hands fisting in the other man’s clothing. His knees buckled, but strong arms kept him upright, pressed between two solid bodies. He couldn’t breathe with the force of his sobs... the thick snot and tears smothering him. It felt as though it went on for hours. He was absolutely certain he would never again be able to gather all the broken shards of himself together and mend them, but his friends wrapped him up tightly and did not let the shattered pieces scatter away on the wind.

  Finally, exhausted, his chest as
sore from weeping as if he’d been kicked by a mule, d’Artagnan managed to draw a deep, unhindered breath, and then another.

  “Sorry...” he whispered into Athos’ collar, barely recognizing his own voice. “I’m s-sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry...”

  “Hush,” Athos said severely. His voice softened slightly as he continued, “How great a heart you must have, d’Artagnan, to grieve so. Would that I still had such tears within me.”

  Porthos eased him back a bit, away from Athos, slinging one of d’Artagnan’s arms over his shoulders and wrapping his own arm around d’Artagnan’s waist. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  D’Artagnan let himself be led, feeling as though not an ounce of strength remained in his body. He was vaguely aware of steps leading upward... a hallway... and then they were entering Aramis’ sick room, where Milady rose to her feet upon seeing their strange procession. Aramis was awake, sitting up against the headboard. D’Artagnan pulled away from Porthos; stumbled to the bed and fell to his knees beside it, clasping one of Aramis’ hands between both of his own. Aramis looked at him, worry clouding his pale, haggard features; then looked at Athos and Porthos, a question in his fever-bright eyes.

  “Please don’t die. Please, Aramis,” d’Artagnan begged, bringing the sick man’s captured hand up to press it to the side of his tear-stained face. Aramis’ eyes flew back to his. Held for a moment. Softened. The hand cradled d’Artagnan’s cheek, thumb wiping at the wetness there. He could feel the fine tremor of fatigue and illness in the long, callused fingers.

  “I’ll do my very best,” Aramis vowed, his voice sober. “Now, though, come rest with me for awhile.” He looked at Porthos and Athos again. “Help him up on the bed.”

  Hands lifted d’Artagnan onto the bed and removed his boots. Aramis pulled him into a loose embrace. D’Artagnan could hear the older man’s heart beating with a steady thump under his ear. Darkness claimed him, and he knew no more.