by Sarah Hoyt
She was in the middle of it, when the rest of them rode up. As with Athos, it took them a moment to recognize the lady. But when they did and she told her story again, Aramis seemed to grasp it perhaps better than the rest of them. “A sacrifice,” he said. “They mean him for a sacrifice, but . . . Ventre saint-Gris! What can be so special about him that they would go all the way to Paris to capture him and bring him back here? Surely there are other virgins in—”
He was interrupted by a snort of derision from Madame Bonacieux who covered her mouth with her hand immediately, blushing deeply. “I beg your pardon, but he is not, that is to say . . .”
“No,” Aramis said drily. “No, I imagine he isn’t. But even if he were, surely there would be other virgins in Gascony, and nothing would justify their going so far just to capture him and drag him here.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that is it,” she said. “I think they needed to know where the entrance to the tunnel was located.”
“Surely, Madame, they could have looked,” Porthos said absently, looking with half-closed eyes at the walled city as though evaluating it for weaknesses “Not that large a place, and I would think if one of the entrances was the hole by the wall, it would have been easy to find.”
She shook her head and waved her hand. “These mountains hereabouts,” she said, “are as full of holes as cheese. It wasn’t that it was difficult to find a hole, or even a hole that led to a cavern. It wasn’t even finding a cavern underneath d’Artagnan’s house, even if it is known that it should be there. It is more that I think once in the cave beneath the house, which might be—let us remember—centuries old, they would need someone to help them find the particular cave they’re looking for.” She pulled her hair back with both hands and said, “I believe I have proof of this, after a fashion, that is . . . He did sense an evil down there, and I think that’s where the vampires want to go.”
“But why d’Artagnan?” Athos said, thinking of the young Gascon. He remembered an open countenance, perhaps a little too prone to showing all his thoughts upon his features. He then remembered what Aramis had said about d’Artagnan sensing the old vampires massing on the Pont Neuf when Madame Bonacieux, certainly more trained to the task, didn’t. “Oh,” he said. “You mean he is a sensitive for vampires.”
She shook her head, then shrugged. “More than that,” she said. “I would think that . . .” She bit her lower lip. “I think there is a reason the house was built on top that cave,” she said.
“You mean . . . ” Aramis let a laugh tear through his lips though his expression gave every appearance of fighting it. “I was right all along, while being wrong. That he’s a Judas goat—a hereditary Judas goat, raised to protect vampires.”
“Yes. No. I mean, I don’t believe he knows anything about it, or even that he cared about it at all. I am sure he is what he seems to be—an open and amiable young man, a vampire orphan and detesting the breed, determined, by all that’s holy, to fight them. Also, what I heard in the town is that his father was one of the most determined fighters against the blight of vampirism spreading through the countryside.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean he was raised to be a Judas goat, nor that his father was, for that matter. Simply that at some time, probably thousands of years ago, one of his ancestors was chosen for the duty of guarding the army of the undead.”
Athos frowned, and grimaced. “Not his fault then.”
“No,” she said. “His only ability is telling where armies of vampires are. You see, he would be linked to them by rites performed by his ancestors in this place where he was born.”
“Madame,” Aramis said. “Are you telling me they’re using him to locate the army of vampires?”
She nodded, twisting her hands together in distress. “As it is, we’ve wasted far too much time already. We must rescue him!”
Aramis gave the impression of reining in his horse, though the animal had been stopped for a while and showed no signs of impatience other than the occasional stamping of a hoof on the packed dirt of the path. “I believe not, Madame. We’d be unlikely to be able to save him, and if we follow him into a cavern deep underground, we’d be trapped in with the army of the damned. It seems a lost cause, Madame, and that we came this far for nothing.”
She made fists of her hands, and for a moment seemed disposed to pummel the neck of Athos’ mount, but before Athos could do more than put out his hand to grasp her wrists and stop such a foolhardy movement, she controlled herself.
She opened her hands first and turned them toward the musketeers in a gesture of helplessness, then she clasped them on the thighs of her breeches, in great handfuls of fabric. “No, Monsieur, you don’t understand.”
“I understand,” Aramis said, his lips gone thin and aristocratic again, and his head tilting a little up, as if to emphasize his superiority over his circumstances, “that you have a lively concern for the young gentleman’s circumstances, but—”
“No!” she said. “You do not understand. Stupid man!” She shook her head. “These stones were put here to prevent the sleepers wakening. There is a strong quieting spell on them, that would keep the vampire asleep beneath them, should anything happen, only that . . . ”
“Only that?” Athos said, noticing, for the first time, that about half the stones including the one in the center were toppled.
“Only that the stones were toppled and desecrated,” she said, frowning a little and turning to Athos, looking at him only, as though he were her only dependence and her last hope. “Only the key stones were toppled by the vampires, and now the stones no longer protect.” She gave a loud sob, though her eyes remained dry. “And these stones . . . I don’t know if it is about the army of vampires or . . . or whatever they protect, but d’Artagnan told me if they were ever violated it would be the end of the world.”
“Madame,” Aramis said, somewhere out of Athos’ range of vision, somewhere at the periphery of the group, somewhere out of sight. “Surely you know every circle of stones has that legend attached to it.”
But Athos didn’t pay any attention to him and neither did Madame Bonacieux, because they both were thinking of d’Artagnan down there with a menace so great and primitive that men of a civilization long lost had created this circle of massive stones to protect the world from it, seeking to keep it inviolate through the centuries.
He could feel something dark and dangerously seductive nearby. It felt like his pull to Charlotte and her desires, the glamour they’d said he’d been caught under. Only this was stronger and somehow more frightening, like being caught in a river current pulling him inexorably toward it, yet fainter than a whisper he’d strain to listen to. “I think this legend is true,” he said gravely. His voice was heavy freighted with meaning, and Aramis gave him a look of enquiry. Athos sighed in reply. “I can’t explain it Aramis, not coherently. But I feel the pull of something dark and dangerous . . . it’s like . . . the pull of a river approaching a rapids. I have felt this pull since I was turned. I felt it for the vampire who turned me. But now I feel it—and much stronger, for whatever lays, probably no longer asleep—beneath those stones.”
Aramis studied Athos’ face in silence for a long moment, , while the woman stood by, her face pale with anxiety. “If you will not help me,” she said at last, “I will, once more, have to go by myself and do what I can to rescue him .”
Porthos shook his head. “We will come,” he said. “Of course we will come.”
Aramis could only slowly nod in agreement.
Mutiny and Turmoil
“YOU will wait for me here,” Athos said to Grimaud, reading mutiny in his servant’s eyes.
“If that is your wish, Monsieur le Comte,” the man said, his voice deceptively meek.
Athos sighed. “Grimaud, it is not that I don’t prize you or wouldn’t wish your company, but this is likely to prove . . . ” He paused. He’d almost said, "likely to prove my death.” which he felt was true, even if the concept of his dea
th had altered somewhat now he was a vampire. And yet, if he said it, he knew as he knew himself that Grimaud would only insist all the more on going along. Athos, who had lost his father when he was just ten, had no idea what promises Grimaud had made to the old count, whom he’d served so faithfully for decades. But whatever it was, he was sure it involved keeping Athos from all danger that could be averted until—possibly, his father having spent most of his life in such an endeavor—a successor to the lands and title were assured. Possibly even after, since Athos’ father had been inordinately fond of his young son.
Athos took a deep breath. “It is likely to prove the end of the world if we fail. And if we fail, you are to return to La Fère,” he said. “Make it ready to withstand the onslaught to come and help my successor as best you can.” His successor being the rather dull cousin who now governed the land on Athos’ behalf, but all possible help would be needed, including divine intervention.
Grimaud pushed his lower jaw forward, in an expression of obstinacy that made it far more credible than ever that he had served as a fighting man. “Monsieur le Com—” he started.
But before he could do more than open his mouth, Porthos spoke. “No, Grimaud, your master is right and you must do as bid.” It was so rare for the shy musketeer to speak with such a commanding voice that Grimaud stopped his speech and looked at him, astonished. “For you are, by far, the most experienced fighting man of all our servants and Planchet has no experience at all. It is our duty, sworn, to fight for others, but it is not yours, my friends.” His kind gaze encompassed the group. “Bazin would probably do better to pray for all our souls and the world itself, and Mousqueton . . . ” He smiled affectionately at his own servant. “.”It is my wish, Grimaud, that if I should die, you tell Monsieur de Tréville that Mousqueton becomes, at my death, my adopted son and my successor to the tunic of the musketeers and my spot left in the rotation. I do believe Monsieur le Comte was right when he told you to look after his domains. I’ve met that cousin of his. What do you think Monsieur le Comte’s father would say if he were left without resort to your wisdom, and the domain fell to vampires? No. You must return to La Fère to guide the new lord and train the boy, Planchet, to wait on the lord’s son, so that together both will know that vampires must be fought.”
“Will you do that Grimaud, my friend, my second father?” Athos said, extending his hand to his servant.
For a moment the man neither spoke nor moved, and Athos thought his gesture would be rebuffed. In the others too, there were signs of mutinous rebellion boiling just beneath the surface. It peeked out of Mousqueton’s furrowed brow, because Mousqueton—and Athos had no idea what his history was, though from something Porthos had said once, he thought the young man had been left a vampire orphan very young—might be honored beyond speech at the idea of becoming his master’s adopted son. But he also loved Porthos with all his heart, and gloried in Porthos’ exploits more than his own. Perhaps he was afraid he was not quite good enough to become a musketeer. He looked at Porthos, his eyes wide, and a hint of protest started to form at his mouth.
Then there was Bazin, who in the last moment had crossed himself twice and set his hands in prayer five times, but whose right hand nonetheless kept caressing the stock of his stake in its scabbard. And Planchet—well, Planchet was good and furious and, Athos would guess, putting all his will into stopping himself from telling them he would see them in hell before he stayed behind while they went to risk their lives. This from a boy whose greatest martial accomplishment was the pitching of stones at birds.
All of it seemed to hang on Grimaud’s lowered head, his hands gripping the horse’s reins. If he raised his face and it showed Athos a rebellious expression . . . if he uttered as much as a sound of protest—
But when Grimaud’s head came up, his hand did too. He clasped Athos arm just below the elbow, his grip strong enough to be painful. “Be careful, M’sieur,” he said, his voice clouded with tears. “You are too good, too fine to throw yourself away without need.” The sincerity of his voice shook Athos to the core.
How could the man say this who had seen Athos that disgraceful night in the woods, when he had allowed the inner beast to rule?
“The world needs you, Monsieur le Comte and many like you. Your mother said you were sent by the warrior archangels to battle evil, and Monsieur, I’ve seen nothing to make me disbelieve it.
Grimaud’s eyes, ordinarily so calm and sensible, seemed to burn with an inner fire akin to fever. “Go with my blessing,” he said, and hesitated. “My son.”
Athos felt tears prickling his eyes, at this acknowledgment of their relationship which both men knew to be true, but which neither would have otherwise admitted, hiding instead behind the facade of their roles and class differences.
“Thank you,” he said clasping Grimaud’s arm in turn, in a greeting of war-brothers, then letting it go. “You will wait here,” he said, looking at the other servants and finding that, though Planchet was looking at Grimaud with something akin to admiration and Bazin with shock, they no longer seemed to wish to dispute the order to wait. “And if we do not return or you have reason to fear we will not, you are to go and fulfill your destinies and continue our fight for us.”
He wheeled his horse around and looked at the others. “Now we must go to the city, and Madame must show us the way to these catacombs beneath the wall. Be prepared, for I think the guard of the city is a vampire.”
“He is,” Madame said. “Or at least he might be, since the leadership of the city ricochets everyday between Pierre d’Astarac, the leader of the mortals, and his father the leader of the vampires. As well to be prepared, for as soon as we enter the city, at the very least the Judas goats there will try to stop us, and perhaps worse. They tried to kill me! I spent the day in magical battle with them, and I am exhausted.”
Athos inclined his head. “As well, then, Madame, you tell us where the entrance to the cave is, and then you wait here, with my friends.”
She shook her head. “No, Monsieur,” she said, her voice almost sweet in its absolute unshakeability. Turning to the servants, she said, “One of you, lend me a horse. I will try to return it, if you need to retreat. And has anyone a spare sword?”
“Madame!” Aramis said, sounding shocked. “Will you try to fight when your profession is—”
She rounded on him like a furious cat, her pretty little face distorted by a snarl. “The same as yours, Father d’Herblay, and you fight because in these sad days we can’t be contented to simply pray for people’s souls. If we do not also defend their bodies, it will all be for naught.”
“But for you to pretend to be a warri—” It was perhaps clear only to Athos that behind Aramis’ censorious attitude hid a very real concern for Madame Constance Bonacieux. Of different religions they might be, but in the last several years of hard fighting, holy men and women of all religions had learned to trust each other and even to admire each other, and those two were no exception.
Athos had always suspected beneath their endless quibbling on theology, the nature of the divine, and her highly inappropriate behavior for a female, there lay something akin if not to romantic love, then to platonic love. He could tell from the frantic expression in Aramis’ eyes that he aimed to save the lady if he could.
But she was in no mood to see it or to credit his kindness. Even if she had been, Athos thought, the truth was a that woman like her, who did battle without fear in the spiritual realms and in such an unorthodox way, would not now stay still and meek awaiting her rescue. Instead, she rounded on Aramis, fury in her eyes and voice, “Pretend to be a warrior?” she said. “Oh, such presumption, when you know all of us, all who are chosen to guard her majesty are as well able to defend her physically as spiritually! How can you say that? You must know I trained with arms and in unarmed combat too, before I was accorded the honor. I was—” She raised her small face up, so that in the light of the moon she looked undeniably proud and strong. Were she a little tall
er and male that pose would be the thing monuments were made of, the ones that would be extolled to future generations as examples of the steely qualities of their ancestors. “The only daughter of a musketeer, and by him trained in all the arts of combat as though I were a boy. I beg you to believe I can fight as well as any man, and better than most.”
Aramis opened his mouth, but said nothing, and Athos seized the opportunity to say, quietly, “Planchet, let her have your horse. If need be, you’re light enough to ride double with Grimaud till you can acquire another. As for a sword—” He reached into his own luggage. He always brought extra swords, because, habit told him swords still got broken or lost. “This, Madame,” he said, extending her a sword in its own scabbard, “ is my second best sword. Wield it in honor and do not stain it with surrender. It has not been accustomed to that.”
She reached for the sword and for just a moment, their fingers touched—hers warm and vital and alive, his cold and hard and dead. A vision of his body pressed against hers, his fangs piercing the smooth pale skin of her neck, made him recoil. The beast, he thought, was dangerously close to the surface, brought there by the tension in his muscles and nerves, by the inexorable, continuous pull of the . . . thing beneath the earth.
Madame Bonacieux did not seem to see it or sense it. She adjusted her attire, buckled the scabbard on, and looked up, “Even though we have different ideas of honor,” she said, “I will use it to protect the weak and defend the defenseless, and I’ll never surrender it while living.”
He inclined his head. “I can ask no more.”
Then they were mounted, galloping fast toward the gate.
