The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  WHEN D’ARTAGNAN NEXT regained awareness, he was facedown on a pillow, his jaw damp from pressing into a wet stain of drool. He groaned and rolled onto his side. His head felt thick and sore. His chest still hurt. The rest of him simply felt... empty.

  “Ah, good,” said a raspy voice to his side and slightly above him. “We were starting to worry. Perhaps I should remind you that I’m supposed to be the sick one here.”

  “Aramis?” he croaked, and tried without success to clear his throat.

  “The very same,” Aramis replied, as Athos appeared in his field of vision, proffering a cup.

  D’Artagnan struggled into a sitting position and accepted the drink. The acidic tang of un-watered wine cut through the phlegm clogging his throat, and he drank greedily. When he was finished, Athos took the cup back and placed it on the table by the bed. Though he wasn’t tired any more, d’Artagnan wished for nothing more than to return to the dreamless oblivion from which he had just emerged... better that, than this feeling of being a wrung-out rag slapped carelessly over the edge of a dirty mop bucket.

  “How long?” he asked, knowing it would be expected of him.

  “You slept all day, and into the night,” Athos said. “It’s slightly after midnight.”

  “Oh,” d’Artagnan said.

  “We received another letter from de Tréville,” Athos continued. “We know about the death of your pony last night. I assume that’s why—?”

  “Yes,” d’Artagnan said.

  “Are you hungry?” Aramis asked. “You haven’t eaten in more than a day.”

  “No,” d’Artagnan said.

  Athos made himself at home in a chair near the bed, and it was from there that he spoke. “Then you should both try to rest some more. It is the middle of the night, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’ve always said you were a born leader, Athos,” Aramis said. “And by ‘leader,’ I mean ‘tyrant,’ of course. That said, I do find myself somewhat fatigued.”

  D’Artagnan was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to rest anymore after having slept almost eighteen hours straight. Nonetheless, he lay back against the mattress, flipping the pillow over to get rid of the wet spot of drool, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

  When he opened them again, it was light outside the window.

  “Wha—?” he slurred, drawing Aramis’ attention.

  “Good morning,” Aramis said weakly. “Apparently you really needed to catch up on your sleep.”

  Porthos appeared at the bedside a moment later, shoving a bowl and spoon into d’Artagnan’s hands.

  “Here,” said the big man. “Eat.”

  D’Artagnan carefully squirmed into a sitting position, mindful of spilling gruel on the blanket. He dipped the spoon into the congealed gray mass and raised it to his lips. After rolling it around in his mouth and swallowing, he turned to Porthos.

  “This is absolutely disgusting,” he said, and promptly went back to eating.

  “Yes,” Aramis agreed. “It really rather is.”

  “Should’ve put salt in it, probably,” Porthos said. “That’s how we used to eat it at home.”

  Aramis made a face. “No offense, dear Porthos, but that sounds even worse.”

  “Huh,” Porthos huffed. “And here you are, always going on about your refined palate.”

  “I do not ‘go on’ about my palate,” Aramis replied.

  D’Artagnan ate his disgusting gruel and let the familiar bickering wash over him, trying to ignore the raspy weakness in Aramis’ voice.

  He mentally poked at the empty space in his chest, the way one might poke at the gap left by a lost tooth. While he didn’t necessarily feel better after his embarrassing display, he did feel... different, he supposed. Fragile, perhaps. The thought bothered him, even if the others didn’t seem to be treating him any differently than before.

  Milady entered the room and d’Artagnan looked up, grateful for the distraction.

  “There’s another note from de Tréville this morning,” she said, “along with a letter specifically for you, d’Artagnan.”

  D’Artagnan’s brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued almost despite himself.

  “From Constance,” she clarified, and handed him the sealed rectangle of folded paper.

  Porthos crossed his arms, leaning a shoulder against the wall as he caught d’Artagnan’s eye.

  “You know, she came here yesterday morning, to let us know something was wrong. She didn’t come inside,” Porthos hastened to add, seeing d’Artagnan’s alarm at the idea that Constance might have endangered herself. “She stood outside and threw gravel at the window until Athos opened it. Said she couldn’t sleep and had been taking a turn around the grounds when you ran past her, carrying a whip and not even seeming to realize she was there. Told us which door you’d gone in, so we knew where to start looking.”

  “I heard someone call my name, but I didn’t recognize who it was,” d’Artagnan admitted, stricken.

  “She’s quite a woman,” Porthos said, “and she really cares for you, you know.”

  “I think I’m finally starting to understand that,” he said, his voice a bit shaky.

  Milady had been skimming de Tréville’s note, and said, “There’s a message here from the Queen regarding your pony, d’Artagnan. She says she was saddened to hear of the animal’s passing and will always think upon him kindly. She adds that the pony saved her life when she was hiding from her enemies, and she wishes you to choose any horse you desire from among the enemy’s captured mounts, in recompense for allowing her to use him.”

  D’Artagnan hadn’t even started to come to terms with the loss of the pony itself, and he was still struggling hard with the symbolic loss of the connection to his family. He was appalled to find tears flooding his eyes once more upon hearing the Queen’s kind words, and he hunched forward over his knees, hiding his face in his hands. Fingers carded through the fine hair at the base of his skull, settling in a firm grip on the back of his neck, for all that the hand trembled noticeably.

  “Your pony was a fine and valiant animal, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “He lived a long, rich life and carried the Queen of France on his back, riding at the head of her army. Also, he brought you to us, for which we are all very grateful.”

  D’Artagnan’s shoulders shook, and he held his breath, trying to bring himself back under control.

  “I don’t think you’re helping, Aramis,” Porthos said. “He’s right, though, d’Artagnan—Buttercup lived quite an amazing life for a strange-looking yellow pony of dubious parentage.”

  A completely inappropriate bubble of laughter rose inside d’Artagnan’s chest, and that turned out to be the thing that allowed him to rein in his emotions. He scrubbed his hands over his face to clear the tears and mock-glared at Porthos, Aramis’ hand still resting on his neck. “My horse’s name was not Buttercup, Porthos.”

  Porthos grinned, completely unrepentant. “Well, the Queen herself named him, so I think you’ll find that it was.”

  “You named him, you great—” he cut himself off, unable to think of a suitably cutting insult, but Porthos only continued to grin at him.

  “Really?” said the big man. “Strange, that’s not how I remember things at all.”

  Aramis snorted. “Your memory can be shockingly selective in some areas, Porthos. D’Artagnan, pay him no mind. Go find yourself some privacy to read your letter from Constance. As for me, I believe I’ll try to sleep again.”

  D’Artagnan started to get out of bed, but frowned. “I should have asked earlier, Aramis,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  Aramis shrugged the shoulder that was not painfully swollen, and tried to smile at him. “The stomach cramps come and go. The rest of it is what it is. I haven’t forgotten my promise to you. Go read your letter. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  D’Artagnan nodded in acknowledgement after a slight, troubled pause. He rose to his feet, taking a moment to steady hims
elf against the bedpost after having been in bed for more than a day. The room on the far side of Athos and Milady’s was mostly empty, except for a few items they had stored there to keep them out of the way. Rather than bother with a chamber pot, d’Artagnan relieved himself out the window, into the shrubbery below. With a deep sigh of relief, he laced up his breeches and seated himself at the room’s dusty desk and broke the seal on the letter, smoothing the page so he could read Constance’s light, curving hand.

  Chapter 49

  Dearest d’Artagnan,

  I wish you were here, so we could speak face-to-face. The Queen explained about your pony—how you had ridden him since you were a boy, and how he was one of the last connections you had to your family. I wasn’t sure what to do the other morning when I saw you and you seemed so distraught. I hope I was right to tell the others; I hope they found you and were able to help.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about things, these past few days. You’ve been so kind to me, but I know that I’ve disappointed you because I can’t seem to act like the other women that I see with their sweethearts. Kissing and giggling and sitting in their beaus’ laps. I don’t know why I’m so broken, why I can’t enjoy it like everyone else seems to... but, I’d like to try again. If you’ll have me, that is.

  I’m frightened for you, d’Artagnan. For all of you, of course, but for you, especially. I know you’ve lost so much already. You don’t like to talk about it, but I can tell. Maybe it’s because I have lost people as well. Please come back to me, when this is over. And in the meantime, write to me. I think that would help.

  Your loving friend,

  Constance

  THE THRICE-DAMNED TEARS were returning again, and d’Artagnan blinked them back angrily, the words blurring on the page. Since there was no one present to see, d’Artagnan dropped his head onto his forearms for a few moments and let the tears come as they would.

  His heart was torn between hope at Constance’s words, and dread of what they faced in the next few days. It had been three-and-a-half days since Aramis fell ill, and it was generally the third or fourth day when those with the Curse began the final descent into death—growing delirious, with their hands and feet blackening as the body died from the extremities inward.

  He could not allow his terror at what was to come show to the others. That would be sheer cruelty—they shared the same fears as he did, and chose to cloak them in banter and stoic bravery. There was no one he could turn to for solace as long as Aramis still lived... or perhaps there was. He raised his head, scrubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, and looked down at the letter. The ink was smeared now in places where his tears had landed on the paper.

  He would write to Constance. He would try to share some of the broken places within himself with her, as she had shared hers with him. With new determination, d’Artagnan rose and folded the letter, placing it within his jerkin, next to his heart.

  He returned to Aramis’ room and washed his face and arms in the bowl of water on the table in the corner. Not wanting to wake Aramis or Porthos—who was dozing on the settle—he caught Milady’s attention and mimed writing with a quill. She nodded her understanding, gracing him with an approving twitch of one finely drawn eyebrow. Disappearing through the door, she returned silently a few moments later with paper, quill, ink, sand, and wax. D’Artagnan mouthed a thank you as he took the items and returned to the desk in the dusty storage room.

  The words came slowly, and with difficulty. Twice, he crumpled up the paper on which he was writing and started over from the beginning. He told Constance that any disappointment he had felt was because he thought that she was rejecting his advances outright and did not care for him. He told her the idea that she wanted to try again filled him with joy, and that he wished only to make her happy.

  He talked a bit about his family, trying to explain how their loss had made him want to wall up his grief so he would not have to feel it, how those walls seemed now to be crumbling, and how he feared to discover what would be left within the rubble when all was said and done. It helped, he told her, to think of her waiting for him, and to know that he could look forward to more letters from her. When he could think of nothing else to add, he signed it “Your devoted friend” and sprinkled the fine, powdery sand over the page to dry the ink before rolling it up and sealing it with a blob of melted wax.

  After delivering the missive to Milady to be added in with their usual daily report, d’Artagnan wandered down to the kitchen to make them a meal. De Tréville continued to supply them with food, but the selection was becoming less varied and it was apparent that the siege was starting to take its toll. He started a fire and set more grain to cooking, then stared at the basket, trying to think of something that could be made using turnips and onions. There was a bit of the chicken broth from the other day left in a pot, sitting in a cool, shadowed nook in the stone wall. A fine dusting of mold was growing on the yellow cap of congealed fat floating on top, but when he scooped the fat away and discarded it, the broth below was clear and smelled all right.

  It needed to be used anyway, so he set it next to the fire to boil while he chopped the root vegetables into thin slices. Throwing everything into the pot along with a bit of wine for flavoring, he pulled it away far enough that it would simmer, cooking the vegetables and grains while the broth slowly reduced. The bread from yesterday was stale but not moldy. He crumbled up some of it and threw it into the pot as well, to further thicken the broth. The rest, he sliced and toasted over the fire on a long metal fork while the other things cooked.

  When it was done, he ladled the stew into a large dish, arranging the slices of toasted bread on top. Covering the dish, he grabbed a bottle of wine from their diminishing supply, and carefully made his way upstairs to the others.

  “I made food,” he announced, entering Aramis’ room to find everyone awake and gathered there.

  “Ah! I knew there was a reason I liked you!” Porthos said “Smells good, too.”

  “Actually...” Aramis’ weak voice drew d’Artagnan’s attention to the bed, and to the sick man’s greenish complexion. “D’Artagnan, I’m so sorry... but could I prevail on you to take the rest of that next door? The smell is a bit much for me just now.”

  “Aramis, forgive me!” d’Artagnan apologized, feeling awful. “I didn’t think! I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no,” Aramis said with a wan smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take Porthos with you—he seems to be on the verge of starvation, based on the way his stomach is rumbling.”

  D’Artagnan nodded and exited the room, hearing one of the others cross and open the window to let in some air as he did so. Porthos followed him and took the bottle of wine from his hand to open it.

  “Don’t feel bad. Like he said earlier, the stomach problems come and go,” Porthos said.

  “Tonight will most likely be the turning point,” Athos said from the doorway as he entered.

  “That has been my experience as well,” d’Artagnan said. He paused, torn between not wanting to talk about it, and needing to know. “How did Milady’s illness progress?”

  “She reached the crisis point on the third day,” Athos replied, his voice carefully even. “She became delirious, and the skin of her feet began to blacken. But where everyone else died, she... did not. She lingered at death’s door for days, and on the seventh day she began to get better. It was weeks until she was able to leave her sickbed, and months before she was completely recovered... but she lived.”

  “I did lose the tips of two toes, though,” Milady said, joining them in the room. “Sometimes I still miss them.”

  “Enough of this talk,” Porthos said, sounding uncomfortable. “Let’s eat.”

  The others agreed, and took turns scooping soft vegetables and broth onto the slices of golden bread.

  “This is really good, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said around a mouthful, and the others murmured agreement.

  “If there’s one thing Gascons are good at,” d’
Artagnan said, “it’s food.”

  “Food, and stubbornness,” added Athos, who had ample reason to know.

  D’Artagnan silently toasted him with the bottle of wine, taking a swig before passing it around, since no one had thought to bring cups. Porthos finished his meal quickly, excusing himself to return to Aramis. The others lingered over the food and drink for a few more minutes before joining them.

  As they left the room, Athos stopped abruptly. D’Artagnan had to dodge a step to avoid running into him, at which point he saw the female figure at the far end of the hall.

  “Your Majesty!” Athos said sharply. “What are you doing? You mustn’t be here!”

  Anne of Austria ignored his words, approaching them with regal grace. “Nonsense, Athos. My brother’s Curse holds no sway over me. If it did, I would not be the Queen France needs right now. Where is Aramis?”

  Athos seemed every bit as taken aback as d’Artagnan felt. “He is resting, Your Majesty. But he wouldn’t want you to risk—”

  Milady pushed past him. “Has your milk dried up?” she asked without preamble.

  D’Artagnan felt himself flush at such a blatant question in mixed company—and of a queen, no less. A memory bubbled up... Constance, on the night he’d first brought her to M. Rougeux’s home to meet the others. The infant King Henry had started crying, hungry to be fed. Constance, her breasts still full after losing her baby daughter, had leaked milk, staining the dress she’d borrowed from Milady. That same evening, she’d become the child’s wet nurse.

  That had been... how long ago had that been? It seemed like a lifetime, yet it was far less than that in reality.

  “It has,” the Queen replied, answering Milady’s question. “Which means it is finally time to see if God has answered my prayers.”

  D’Artagnan caught his breath.

  “You’ll try to heal him?” he asked.

  “I will try, yes,” she said solemnly.