The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  “I would spar with you, M. Athos,” Christelle called brightly, batting Madeleine’s hand away when the younger girl looked scandalized and tried to shush her. Athos blinked, taken by surprise.

  Aramis came to his rescue, visibly amused by the proceedings. “I’m afraid M. Athos would consider it bad form to raise his sword to any lady, mademoiselle. Perhaps it would be better, for now, to focus on your knife-throwing lessons with Milady.”

  D’Artagnan’s mind slid to a stumbling halt at the mental picture of Christelle and Milady standing before a target in the spring sunshine; Milady correcting the younger girl’s form as she prepared to let fly a slender dagger. As such, he was ill-prepared to respond either to Christelle’s stubborn insistence that in that case, she could always spar with d’Artagnan instead, or to Aramis’ deepening amusement as he replied under his breath to her retreating back, “Indeed, I’m certain that d’Artagnan would be open to engaging in all forms of swordplay with you, mademoiselle.”

  Feeling a blush climb his neck, but unsure of the exact cause of his discomfiture, d’Artagnan excused himself hastily and returned to the relative sanctuary of his room to rest.

  The following days passed in more or less similar fashion, with d’Artagnan and Athos pushing themselves increasingly harder as they sparred. Afterwards, Aramis would often drag d’Artagnan out of the castle for target practice with his pistols, neatly shattering empty wine bottles from twenty paces as he shot left-handed. The first two days, d’Artagnan’s arms trembled from fatigue too much after his earlier fencing to make shooting practical, so Aramis set him to reloading the pistols as he emptied them one after another. From that point on, though, d’Artagnan was able to join him, and he reveled in the feeling that he was finally making solid progress in his recovery.

  Once he was certain that he would not embarrass himself by falling over or passing out during the attempt, d’Artagnan returned to his self-appointed goal of shoeing all the horses in Athos’ stables, partly as a means of recompense for the hospitality he had been shown, and partly as a way to help prepare for their departure to rejoin the others. Her Majesty had taken d’Artagnan’s gelding, of course, and Porthos had his own mount, shod by d’Artagnan on the day that they first met. Aramis had offered de Tréville the use of his Spanish mare, and Athos bade Grimaud to take his horse instead of the servant’s own ill-tempered, broom-tailed nag, so that the first party would all have freshly shod horses for the journey.

  That left de Tréville’s stallion, Grimaud’s mare, Milady’s gelding and a carthorse for their own transportation; all of them with ragged feet and missing shoes since the Curse had claimed the blacksmith in Blois some months earlier. Though he was forced to take it in easy stages, trimming and shoeing a single horse over two or three sessions and resting often, d’Artagnan determinedly worked his way through the string until all the animals were sound and ready for travel.

  When Aramis insisted to the others that the bandaging holding his right arm immobile would not hinder his ability to ride as long as he could claim use of the slow, gentle carthorse, the seven occupants of the castle sat down to plan the details of the upcoming journey.

  “I propose that we leave at first light, two days hence,” Athos began. “Thiron Abbey is roughly thirty leagues away, and we should be able to make the trip in four days unless we encounter trouble. Aramis, does that sound reasonable to you?”

  Aramis quirked an eyebrow at him. “If that’s your way of politely enquiring whether I can keep up, then, yes—I am confident I can manage seven or eight leagues per day.”

  “Very well,” Athos replied. “As we lack pack horses, we will need to stop along the way to renew our provisions. While I still have some gold in the coffers, there is no way of knowing how high the prices for food and wine have soared in the towns along our route.”

  It was true. With so many dead of the Curse, there was a serious shortage of labor across the countryside. With few vintners and farmers left, the cost of basic goods had become vastly inflated despite the government’s attempt to enforce price controls.

  “Barter is better than coin, these days,” Mme Prevette said, and Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “As you say, madame. There are few options for barter that are lighter and more compact to carry than gold, but—”

  “Gunpowder,” Milady cut in. “Ammunition, as well.”

  “Indeed,” Athos agreed. “Your thoughts mirror mine, as usual.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Aramis said. “We’ll bring along provisions for a couple of days, but concentrate mainly on packing as much powder and shot as possible.”

  “It will have to be packaged carefully to make sure the powder stays dry,” d’Artagnan pointed out, and the others nodded.

  “And if worst comes to worst,” Milady said, straight-faced, “we can always rent out d’Artagnan’s horse-shoeing skills.”

  The others smiled, but d’Artagnan had just thought of something else. “Athos, what of your castle and estate? Once we leave, there will be no one to ensure that it does not fall into the hands of the first people to force their way past the door.”

  “I was coming to that,” Athos said, unperturbed. He turned again to Mme Prevette, including her two granddaughters in his gaze. “Madame. Mesdemoiselles. If the building or acreage here is of any use to you after we leave, you are welcome to it. As you are aware, the structure has suffered some considerable damage, but I feel it would be remiss of me not to make the offer.”

  Chapter 13

  D’Artagnan felt his jaw drop open, certain that he could not have heard correctly. All thought of manners and propriety fled, and he looked at his host in disbelief.

  “Athos,” he said, “you cannot possibly mean to give away your estate! It has been in your family for years!”

  Athos blinked at him in apparent confusion. “What use have I for a castle and grounds if I am living elsewhere? A building and some dirt in Blois does me no good if I am in Thiron-Gardais or Paris.”

  “But...” D’Artagnan stared at him as if he had gone mad, before turning to Milady for support. “Surely you do not agree with this?”

  “It may not have been my idea to tilt at these particular windmills, d’Artagnan,” Milady said, “but it would be as impractical to attempt to hold this property from a distance as it would have been to attempt to hold La Fère when we left it to come here.”

  D’Artagnan felt thrown yet again. “You gave away the lands at La Fère as well?” he asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  Athos was still looking at him as though he’d grown a second head when he replied, “Not formally. I merely let it be known that anyone who could make use of it was welcome to do so.”

  Milady was also regarding d’Artagnan in a distinctly unimpressed way. “Would you have had us attempt to hire guards to hold the property on our behalf against our own tenants and neighbors, while the land lay fallow and grew over with weeds? I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, d’Artagnan, but two-thirds of France’s population is dead. Guards who would stay loyal for a pocketful of coin are rather thin on the ground these days. As are farmers to work the fields and shepherds to tend the flocks.”

  D’Artagnan felt his stomach turn over with sudden nausea, bile rising in his throat as memories assailed him. He looked around the table. Christelle and Madeleine were watching him with wide, worried eyes, while Athos, Milady, and Mme Prevette just looked confused. It was the knowing look on Aramis’ face, however, that drove him to his feet to retreat from the room with a muttered, “Please excuse me—I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”

  An hour later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his room and contemplating the deepening rust color dying the tails of the lash hanging on the wall across from him. The fabric of his shirt tingled and burned against the flesh of his back, but his mind was quietly, blessedly blank when a figure appeared in the doorway. He had been half expecting Aramis to come, but it was A
thos who called into the room.

  “May I enter?”

  “Of course,” d’Artagnan said, after a brief hesitation.

  His host came in, and positioned the single chair a short distance away from d’Artagnan before seating himself.

  “I owe you an apology,” d’Artagnan began in a flat, lifeless voice, still clinging to that soft, fuzzy place in his mind where he didn’t have to think or feel. “It was not my place to speak to you or Milady in such a manner.”

  Seemingly ignoring his words, Athos leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.

  “Aramis told me that your neighbors drove you off of your family’s property after your parents died,” he began, blunt as ever.

  Serenity fled like a cloud before the sun as d’Artagnan was forcibly thrust back into the memories of that horrible winter. “Yes,” he managed.

  In his mind’s eye, d’Artagnan relived the moment when big, broad Bezían knocked on the door, flanked by Arnald, Gilem, and Nadal. The newly turned earth had not yet settled over the shallow graves of his mother, father, and little sister; d’Artagnan had been seated at the kitchen table, eyes fixed blankly on the cold fireplace when the sound of knuckles on wood jerked him into awareness.

  “Ye won’t be able to keep this place up on yer own,” Bezían said gruffly. “Me an’ the others’ll take over the fields an’ the cattle. Works out better for everyone, I expect, since yer father’s ground is better for crops than ours.”

  D’Artagnan stared at the taller man, his mouth hanging open as his muddled wits tried to make sense of the words. Anger—no, rage—flooded him as he thought of his father, barely cold in the dirt before his neighbors came to take what he’d worked for all his life.

  “Are you mad?” he asked. “This farm is mine now—it belongs in my family! What right do you have—?”

  D’Artagnan choked on his grief, the tightness in his throat cutting off the words. Bezían looked down at him with a mixture of pity and disdain, the others around him frowning.

  Gilem regarded him mockingly. “What right? You’re sitting on the best farmland in the parish, and you ask what right we have to come in and farm it? Are you gonna till the fields and milk the cows all by yerself, young d’Artagnan?”

  “They’re my fields,” d’Artagnan replied, his voice rising as he forced the words past the lump in his throat.

  “Pfft,” Gilem scoffed. “You’d starve to death the first year.”

  “Those of us that are left gotta plan, an’ do the smart thing,” Bezían cut in, motioning Gilem to back off. “Or we’re all gonna starve next winter. You’re upset now. We’ll come back tomorrow an’ talk. But d’Artagnan, lad, ye need to accept the way things are now. We’ve all lost people—not just you.”

  Rage settled, icy in d’Artagnan’s gut. “Show your face on my land again, and you’ll find yourself at the point of a sword. That goes for any of you.”

  True to their word, the same four returned the following day despite his threats. And true to his, d’Artagnan chased them off at sword point, Nadal cursing as he clutched the gash on his upper arm. Two days after that a mob, consisting to d’Artagnan’s eye of every able-bodied man remaining in the parish, showed up at his door and set fire to the house. He stumbled outside, coughing and choking on smoke, only to be overpowered in seconds with a blow to the temple that knocked him senseless.

  When he came to sometime later, it was to find his hands and feet bound, and Bezían looking down at him with a stern expression. D’Artagnan struggled madly, but the ropes held firm. He snarled, venting his anger at the man his father had called a friend.

  “If you’re going to kill me, then get it over with, coward,” he spat.

  “No one’s killing anyone, you spoiled little shit,” Bezían growled. “At least, not unless Nadal dies from his wound sickness. He took a fever from that gash you gave him, you know. Ain’t there been dying enough these past few years, without you trying to add to it?”

  D’Artagnan glared at him, silently daring the man to bring up his family. Bezían shook his head.

  “Your house is a burnt-out hulk,” the big man continued. “Arnald went in an’ found the coffer before the flames got too bad. There was fifteen crowns in it. I’ve got it right here.”

  “So now you steal my money as well as stealing my farm?” d’Artagnan said, resuming his struggles.

  “I ain’t got no use for your money, any more than I had a use for your house, you hot-headed idiot. But no one ‘round here is going to stand for you acting like a cock-of-the-walk. Especially not after you cut Nadal. Take your damned money and your horse and go, before someone decides they want revenge. There’s nothing here for you now.”

  D’Artagnan stared at him, feeling righteous anger trying to pour out through his very eyes. Bezían’s lips twisted in a grimace and he turned away, muttering, “Fuckwit. Your father’d be turning over in his grave if he could see you.”

  He returned a few moments later with several men, three of whom held loaded arquebuses pointed at him. Bezían produced a short dagger and cut through d’Artagnan’s bonds.

  “Now pick up your coin and go get your horse from the barn. Your weapons and some supplies are there. Saddle up and ride away from here, and don’t come back unless you want a bullet through the heart. There’s no room around here for lads who think they’re better’n other people just because of their name.”

  D’Artagnan eyed the firearms pointed at him, and briefly weighed the merits of going out in a blaze of glory versus returning at a future date with reinforcements to take back his land and exact revenge. He could go somewhere else—Paris, maybe—to make his way in the world and gain allies to help him. In his imagination, he saw himself returning here at the head of a small army, the men in front of him falling to the ground in fear as they realized what retribution awaited them.

  The barrels of the guns followed him as he got to his feet stiffly, went to the barn, saddled up his father’s gelding, stowed the provisions that had been left for him, and rode away. His jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth hurt, and the prickle at the back of his neck did not subside until he crested the hill at the crossroads; the curls of smoke rising from his burnt-out home disappearing into the distance, and Bezían’s words echoing in his ears.

  “Your father’d be turning over in his grave if he could see you...”

  D’ARTAGNAN CAME BACK to the present with a start. Athos was looking at him carefully, and he realized that he must look ghastly with the blood drained from his cheeks and anguish behind his eyes. With supreme effort, he pressed down the memories and the feelings that came with them, stuffing the whole sorry mess into the space behind his ribcage where it sat like a lump of hot lead. He cleared his throat, and repeated, “Yes,” adding, “I apologize for allowing my own feelings on the matter to overcome my manners.”

  Athos continued to regard him silently in that unsettling way he had, and d’Artagnan stumbled on, hoping to move the conversation to safer topics.

  “What was decided, in the end?” he asked, proud of the way the words came out in a level voice.

  Athos leaned back in his chair, and d’Artagnan absolutely did not let out a breath of relief as the pressure of the other man’s gaze abated.

  “Mme Prevette considers the castle too large and too badly damaged for herself and the girls to maintain, but she has some acquaintances who might help her form a cooperative to tend the kitchen gardens and hunt game in the forest.”

  “I’m glad that they’ll benefit from it, then. They seem like good people.” D’Artagnan paused momentarily before continuing, unable to help himself. “Does it really not bother you?”

  Athos’ brow furrowed in perplexity.

  “It’s just dirt and stones, d’Artagnan,” he said. “I would imagine that if we are successful in our endeavor, there will be land and titles enough for all of us, should we desire them. And if we fail—well, we’ll most likely be dead, so it won’t part
icularly matter.”

  “I suppose I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” d’Artagnan said.

  The other man gave a faint shrug, and laid a hand on his shoulder as he got up to leave.

  “Get some rest,” he said. “We’ll organize the supplies tomorrow, and be ready to leave first thing Tuesday morning.”

  Chapter 14

  The following day was a whirlwind of activity as food, drink, bedrolls, tents, utensils, clothing, weapons, and valuable gunpowder and ammunition were gathered and packed, amidst mostly good-natured bickering and periodic disagreements about what was most important, or which was the best way to do this or that.

  When D’Artagnan fell into bed the night before they were to leave, he was exhausted, but also full of restless anticipation. So it was that, upon being startled from a light doze by an approaching candle flame and the sound of soft steps in his room, he was halfway off the bed with the dagger he kept under his pillow brandished in front of him before he was even properly awake.

  “Easy there,” said a feminine voice. “It’s just me. I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  D’Artagnan blinked, lowering the knife as he registered the familiar pale face in the light of the flickering candle flame. “Christelle?”

  Christelle smiled and nodded, adding, “The very same. You know, you’re sweet when you’re half-asleep; has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Probably my mother, at some point. Though I seriously doubt I was pointing a dagger at her at the time,” d’Artagnan said, stowing the knife back beneath his pillow and hoping the dim light would hide the blood flowing to his cheeks.

  “Well, dagger or no, she was right,” Christelle said, the corners of her lips still canted upwards as she set the candle next to the bed and came to stand half a pace in front of him where he sat on the edge of the mattress. “So, you’ll be leaving in the morning, then.”