by Stuart Gibbs
“I understand your concern, Mom. But I need to be a Musketeer if I’m ever going to find your amulet again.”
Greg’s mother stared at him blankly. “What amulet?”
Greg frowned. His mother was also having memory loss. No matter how many times Greg explained it, she often forgot about the amulet.
“The one with the dark stone on a silver chain,” Greg explained. “It had been handed down through our family for generations. The stone is one half of the Devil’s Stone. And when the two halves are placed together, they give whoever holds them incredible power. A long time ago, the Devil’s Stone made Dominic Richelieu immortal and he tried to overthrow the king, but the Musketeers defeated him. They locked him away in the Bastille and separated the halves of the Devil’s Stone. One half was given to Dominic’s family to protect. That was ours. We’re his descendants.”
Greg’s mother looked horrified; the memories were beginning to come back to her.
Greg continued. “Dominic ultimately escaped prison and spent centuries plotting his revenge. He changed his name to Michel Dinicoeur, found the other half of the stone, and then tricked you into giving him yours at the Louvre.”
“Yes, I remember now. Michel offered to buy all our family heirlooms, and we needed the money....” Mom paused, and a look of sadness came over her. “Oh Gregory, I’m so sorry.”
Greg put his hand on hers and tried to sound reassuring. “It wasn’t your fault, Mom.”
“But I did give my amulet to that horrible man. And he did something with it. At the Louvre. Something incredible …”
Greg nodded. “The stone can turn any picture into a time portal. Dinicoeur did it with an old painting of the Louvre. But when he jumped through, we followed him. That’s how we ended up here. In this time. Unfortunately, we now have to find both halves of the stone so we can go home.”
“But how? There are no paintings of the future.”
“True. But I have this.” Greg reached into the small leather pouch that hung from his belt and removed his most prized possession: his phone. He’d kept it on him twenty-four hours a day for the last two months. “I have photos from home on this. If the Devil’s Stone can turn a painting into a portal, maybe it can turn a photograph into a portal, too. This is our ticket home.”
Greg’s mother looked relieved for a moment—but then a worried look crossed her face. “Do you have any idea where this Devil’s Stone might be?”
Greg shook his head sadly. “No. But Michel Dinicoeur does. Remember, he’s already lived through this time period once. He knows where the stone is now, and he and Dominic have gone to find it. They need it to make Dominic immortal so that he can be rich and powerful for eternity. We need to stop them before he can do that. That’s why I need to be a Musketeer, Mom. So I can track them down and beat them to the stone. So I can set things right and get us home again.”
“Not necessarily.” The words came from behind Greg, far quieter than his own, but somehow more powerful.
Greg spun around to see his father returning with a lit candle. He brought it to the bedside and perched on the mattress beside Greg’s mother again. “You don’t have to be a Musketeer to get the Devil’s Stone back,” he said. “I’m sure the other three could get it for us.”
“I can’t do that!” Greg protested. “I’m D’Artagnan! We’re a team! All for one and one for all …”
“You’re not like them,” his mother cautioned. “You’re not of this time. All of them have grown up using swords....”
“So have I.”
“It’s not the same,” Dad said. “You studied fencing. And no matter how good you were, the fact is, when you lose a fencing match, you only lose points. When you lose a sword fight, you die.”
Greg frowned. He knew his father was right, and in truth he was terrified of facing his enemies again. The only thing that scared him more, however, was being stranded in 1615 for the rest of his life.
“I know the Musketeers might not be the most formidable team in the world,” Greg finally admitted. “But I also know that they need me. That’s why the king made me one of them. Without my help, they’d never have been able to rescue you from La Mort. And without me I don’t think they’ll ever track down Dinicoeur—or the Devil’s Stone.”
In the dim light of the candle, Greg saw the color drain from his mother’s face again. Even his father looked a bit shaken. He put an arm around Greg’s mother, doing his best to comfort her.
Greg’s mother turned to him, her eyes wet with tears. “Gregory, I don’t want you putting your life at risk for us.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. The Musketeers and I will find Michel and Dominic—and the Devil’s Stone. If all goes well, we won’t be risking anything,” Greg said, although he was quite sure that was a lie. Dinicoeur had lost the Devil’s Stone once and it had cost him dearly. He wouldn’t want to make that mistake twice. This time, Greg knew, when Dinicoeur found the stone, he would do everything in his power to protect it.
FOUR
THE NEXT DAY, GREG AND THE OTHER MUSKETEERS WOKE at the crack of dawn to ride to the royal hunting grounds along with the king—and the king’s staggeringly large entourage. There were four falconers, a squadron of soldiers, two dozen servants, and a coterie of distant relatives and other hangers-on. Despite all the attendants, King Louis was the only one allowed to participate in any of the actual falconry—although in truth, Louis really just sat on his horse and had other people do everything for him. The falconers brought him the birds. A stable boy held the reins of his horse. There were even servants armed with parasols to shade the king from the sun.
And for what? At the far end of the field, a gamekeeper would release a previously captured dove. Then, with great fanfare, Louis would remove the blindfold from his falcon, which would take off—and kill the dove.
That was it. To make it all worse, even if Greg had wanted to watch one bird kill another, the attack generally happened very far away, often quite high up in the sky, so that it merely looked like one dot flying into a slightly smaller dot.
While Greg found the whole process mind-numbing, everyone else seemed absolutely enthralled. Even Aramis, who Greg wouldn’t have expected to root for the death of anything, was beside himself with excitement. “I never thought I’d ever get to see a real-live falcon hunt!” he confided to Greg. “Isn’t it amazing?”
Amazingly dull, thought Greg, but he pasted on a smile for Aramis. “It sure is,” he agreed, wondering what would happen if Aramis ever saw something that was actually exciting, like an action movie or the Super Bowl. The shock would probably kill him.
Greg shifted uncomfortably on his horse and took in his surroundings. The royal hunting grounds were merely a wide, open field of grass, bordered on three sides by farmland and on the fourth by woods. It was a pretty setting—Greg had to admit that—but it was also nasty hot out in the direct sun. Underneath his thick, woolen Musketeer outfit, Greg was sweating buckets.
Athos and Porthos were perched on their own horses close by. Athos seemed impervious to the heat, his back ramrod straight, looking like a soldier at all times. But Porthos made no secret of his discomfort as he slumped lazily in the saddle, his coat unbuttoned. “What say we make this interesting?” he called out, fanning a wad of money. “Anyone care to bet on the dove this time?”
Athos laughed but stopped suddenly, staring past Greg, his eyes narrowing. Greg turned in his saddle and found Milady de Winter approaching.
She rode a white horse and was dressed all in white to match. “Mind if I join you gentlemen?” she asked as she approached, fluttering a lace fan to keep from flushing in the heat.
“Not at all!” Aramis said, a bit too quickly. “It’d be our pleasure!”
Milady smiled and pulled her horse in between theirs, as close to Aramis as she could get. Greg glanced reflexively toward Athos, who failed to mask his jealousy.
Greg looked back at Milady and thought he caught her staring at Athos as well. As if,
perhaps, she knew exactly what effect she was having on him—and was trying to provoke it.
It was the first time Greg had seen Milady since she’d whispered to him in the king’s chambers the day before. “Good day, Milady,” he said. “I was hoping to see you again. I was wondering if we could discuss …”
“The falconry?” Milady said quickly. Before Greg could protest, she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m surprised at how large a crowd has turned out,” she said, waving a hand at all the attendants gathered close by. “One almost can’t have a private thought out here.”
Greg got the message: Keep his mouth shut for now. There were too many people around.
“What brings you here?” Athos asked sourly.
“The same thing as you, I’m sure,” Milady replied. “The king requested my presence here. Until the queen arrives, I serve his will.”
“Are you enjoying today’s event?” Aramis asked.
“I’m afraid to say I find it a bit barbaric,” Milady admitted. “But it’s nice to be out of the city. On days like this, the smell really gets to me.”
“Me, too,” Greg said, before he could stop himself. It was true. The Seine reeked every day, as it was full of human waste. But in summer, the heat exacerbated the stench, which would then permeate the entire city.
“Yes, it is nice to be out here,” Aramis put in. “Sometimes, you forget there’s a whole world outside the city walls. And it’s good for the king to see his subjects.” He waved to the land around them.
In the surrounding fields, work had come to a standstill. Even though the king was probably just a distant, well-dressed dot to all the farmers, he was still the king. It was possible that many of the subjects hadn’t seen him for years, if ever. Most people simply stood in their fields, but a few had drawn closer and stood in the road, staring in awe at Louis, afraid to even set a toe on the royal hunting grounds for fear of being disrespectful. They were all farmers and their families, save for a group of dirt-streaked men tending an oxcart laden with massive white stones.
“Who are they?” Milady asked.
“Quarrymen,” Aramis replied.
“And what’s that they’ve got with them?” Milady wondered.
“Probably a future piece of the Louvre,” Aramis said. “It’s limestone. Almost anything of significance in the city is built of it—the bridges, the palace, the cathedrals … even Notre Dame. There must be a mine for it in those woods. You can hear the hammers.”
Greg cocked his head and listened. Sure enough, from the direction of the woods he could hear the clink of metal against rock.
Milady heard it as well and turned to Aramis, impressed. “You’re right, as usual. And I’m such a fool. I’ve lived in Paris my whole life and it’s never once occurred to me to ask where all the stone came from!”
Greg frowned slightly. He was quite sure that Milady was no fool. In fact, he’d have bet that she knew exactly where the limestone came from and was merely buttering Aramis up.
A royal falconer approached Louis with yet another bird—an impressive beast, eighteen inches tall, with brown feathers and talons sharp enough to pierce metal. With its leather blindfold on, it sat so still it might have been carved from stone.
Aramis and Milady fell quiet out of respect. Everyone—even Porthos—sat up in their saddles, eyes riveted on the king, excited for another hunt.
Everyone except Greg. The excitement of watching a bird have its blindfold removed and take flight had died out fourteen flights before. Now he found his attention wandering to the far side of the field, near the woods, where the doves would be released....
Something moved just beyond the tree line.
At first Greg thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, that it was merely a mirage caused by the heat rising off the field. But then he heard the distant twang of a taut string and the telltale whoosh of something slicing the air.
“Louis! Get down!” Greg yelled. He spurred his horse toward the king’s.
Athos moved even faster. He’d recognized the sound of the incoming arrow in a fraction of a second—and in another fraction, he’d sprung from his horse to Louis’s. He broadsided the king, and both boys tumbled to the ground while the falcon screeched and took flight. The arrow sailed past with a whoosh and embedded itself in the ground thirty feet beyond.
“What on earth …?” Louis sputtered, aghast to have been knocked from his horse.
Athos was already on his feet, staring in the direction the arrow had come from. “Assassin!” he cried, springing back atop his steed. “Don’t let him escape!”
His horse charged across the field. Greg and the other Musketeers spurred their horses as well and quickly fell in behind him. As they raced across the grass, Greg saw a figure duck back into the forest, a shadow moving quickly through the trees.
The Musketeers reached the woods, but the forest was too thick for the horses to pass through, so the boys quickly dismounted and followed on foot. They dashed through the trees, ducking branches and leaping roots in desperate pursuit of their quarry.
As they ran, however, Greg felt an idea nagging at him. Something was wrong, although everything had happened so quickly, he couldn’t determine what it was. He replayed spotting the assassin, Athos’s tackling the king, the flight of the arrow …
Up ahead, in the woods, the would-be killer paused and looked back at them before continuing on. It was a mere split second, but it struck Greg as odd, as though the assassin wanted to make sure they were following.
And suddenly, Greg knew.
He thought back to the arrow the assassin had fired. It had landed in the ground behind where Athos had been, not the king. Which meant it hadn’t been meant for the king at all.
It had been meant for Athos.
“Athos! Stop!” Greg cried. “It’s a trap!”
The urgency in his voice froze the others in their tracks. They spun toward him, understanding on Aramis’s face, confusion on the others’.
And then the attack came.
FIVE
THERE WERE FOUR OF THEM, ARMED WITH BOWS AND arrows, shrouded in black. Greg spun on his heel and changed direction before they could fire. The other Musketeers, alerted by his warning, did the same—although there was no time to coordinate. Everyone went a different direction at once.
The bows twanged and the arrows screamed through the air. Greg heard one whistle past his head and thunk into a tree. Then the attackers shouted in a language he didn’t understand and gave chase.
Greg could hear one of the assassins coming through the woods behind him, but he didn’t dare look back. He ran with all his might, fighting his way through the underbrush, not knowing where he was going, simply moving as fast as he could.
And suddenly he caught a glimpse of someone off to the side, watching from the cover of the trees. A burly, muscular man with a thick mustache and hatred in his eyes.
René Valois.
Greg risked another glance in that direction, but Valois had vanished. Still, Greg was sure it had been Dinicoeur’s henchman. He veered in the opposite direction, not wanting to go anywhere near Valois. Ahead, the woods brightened. Greg crashed through the underbrush and found himself in a large, man-made clearing. Three grimy, muscled men gaped at him as he burst from the trees, waving and yelling, “Arrêtez!” Stop!
At first, Greg thought they were yelling at his pursuer, telling him to back off and leave the poor kid he was chasing alone. But then Greg realized they were telling him to stop, pointing at something hidden in the tall grass. But it was too late; he was already right on top of it....
The limestone mine—a big, gaping hole, plunging deep into the earth. It was four feet across with a ladder jutting out of it. Greg skidded to a stop, teetered on the brink—and then toppled over the edge.
Darkness swallowed him. He lashed out as he fell, grabbing for anything he could. His right hand caught something and he held tight, jerking to a stop so hard he thought his arm might rip loose from th
e socket. His sword slipped from its sheath and plunged into the shaft, clattering on the ground below.
Greg had caught a rung of the miners’ ladder, and it splintered and cracked from his sudden weight. Going down was dark and quite likely a dead end, but he was already so far from the top, there was no other choice. He quickly scrambled down the ladder, even though his shoulder was screaming with pain.
A shadow suddenly blotted out what little light there was above. The assassin was coming after him, grabbing the ladder and sliding down quickly, faster than Greg could climb.
Greg had no choice but to jump and pray the bottom of the shaft wasn’t too far below. There was a sickening moment as he hung in the air—but then his feet slammed into the ground and he tumbled. He caught a glimpse of his sword, illuminated by the single shaft of sunlight, and snatched it up just before the assassin thudded to earth.
The man was huge, well over a foot taller than Greg. Instead of a mere rapier, he carried a scimitar big enough to slice Greg’s head off with one shot. Greg knew there was no way he could beat the guy in a fight.
So he ran, plunging deeper into the darkness. The mine tunnels forked again and again; Greg ducked one way, then the other. The vinegar-like scent of limestone made his eyes water, but he kept on going, hoping he could lose his pursuer. Unfortunately, his footsteps echoed loudly in the otherwise silent passage, giving away the path he’d chosen every time. He knew he had to try something different.
After rounding a corner, Greg stopped running and flattened himself against the wall. The moment his pursuer came flying around the turn, Greg bolted back the way he’d come. The assassin was so big he couldn’t change direction quite as quickly as Greg, but he still was faster than Greg had anticipated. As Greg charged back through the mine, he could hear the big man thundering behind him, only a few yards back. His strength didn’t seem to be flagging at all, while Greg felt like he was cruising on fumes.
