“Can’t—” d’Artagnan wheezed, “can’t—”
“You can breathe, d’Artagnan,” Athos said. “Look at me. Look at me.” D’Artagnan struggled to focus on the piercing gray eyes above him, only peripherally aware of the tears burning hot tracks down the sides of his face. The hand that had been cupping his cheek moved to rest lightly on the centre of his chest. “Shallow breaths, now. Try not to move my hand.”
D’Artagnan forced himself to breathe in just a tiny bit, stopping when the horrible pain in his side began to swell and his ribcage started to push against the steady hand. It wasn’t enough—not nearly enough—but he did it again, and again, and again, and slowly the panic began to ebb.
“That’s it,” Athos said soothingly. “Well done, d’Artagnan. Keep going. You’ll be all right now.”
“Hurts...” d’Artagnan managed, hating how young his voice sounded.
“I imagine it does, considering you’ve been both shot and stabbed,” Athos said, not without sympathy. He turned to throw a look to his left and right, and d’Artagnan became aware of Porthos and Grimaud’s presence as Athos continued, “You can both let him go now.”
The hands gripping his arms and legs fell away, Porthos giving him a friendly pat on the thigh before straightening up. D’Artagnan struggled to focus, taking in the way that Porthos’ left eye was swollen shut—the flesh around it and down the side of his face grotesquely bruised and lumpy. Looking back to Athos, he could see that in addition to the shoulder sling, a new bandage circled the man’s right thigh; a small patch of red soaking through it on the front. Memory started to return, first in drips and drops, then in a torrent.
“The others?” he rasped, eyes wide and worried.
“Alive,” Athos replied. “Some more precariously than others, yourself included.”
“Ana and Milady?”
“My wife has a scratch on her cheek which may scar... a fact which seems to be making her unaccountably proud and smug,” Athos said in a long-suffering voice. He raised an eyebrow before continuing, “Her Majesty is unhurt, thanks in large part to your actions.”
“Her... Majesty?” d’Artagnan echoed uncomprehendingly, feeling slow and stupid.
Athos drew d’Artagnan’s attention to the doorway with a meaningful flick of his eyes. There, he saw Ana María entering with de Tréville. The young woman was holding the older man’s arm to steady him. Bandages swathed de Tréville’s head, and d’Artagnan remembered the vicious blow that had felled him. He looked back at Athos, still silently seeking answers to the confused questions circling in his mind.
“In fact,” Athos continued, “she has been waiting for you to wake up so she could thank you herself. D’Artagnan, may I present Ana María Mauricia... better known to you as Anne of Austria, the Mage Queen and—God willing—future Queen Mother of France and Navarre.”
D’Artagnan wheezed, having once again lost the ability to draw breath.
The Mage Queen? The disgraced daughter of Spain, whom many claimed would one day lead France out of the Curse laid by her Spanish brother and his war magni?
“Athos,” de Tréville said, sounding tired, “someday you and I are going to have a discussion about the application of tact. Breathe, son. Try to relax.”
Ana—Her Majesty—left de Tréville steadying himself against the back of a chair near the bed and crossed to d’Artagnan’s side, taking up his right hand in both of hers. Her grip was warm, and his skin tingled oddly beneath the touch.
“Your... Majesty?” d’Artagnan whispered, unable to keep the words from rising into a question.
“Brave d’Artagnan,” she said solemnly. “I owe you much. You were willing to give your life to protect a woman you barely knew. Would that things were different... that my husband Louis still lived and ruled this land, so we could bestow upon you the reward you deserve. Now, though, I fear I have nothing to give you but my gratitude, and the promise that should the child I carry be successfully restored to the throne, your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” She looked around at the others in the room. “None of your sacrifices will be forgotten.”
D’Artagnan looked up at her in awe. “I would do it all over again,” he managed. “No matter who you were.”
Queen Anne smiled sweetly at him. “I know you would,” she said, and bent down to place a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Now, de Tréville has a proposal for you, I believe, and then you must promise to get some rest. It pains me deeply to see you all injured when I can do nothing about it.”
D’Artagnan nodded his agreement quickly, still in awe. “Yes, of course, Your Majesty. Whatever you wish.”
With a final squeeze of his hand, the Mage Queen turned and left the room. D’Artagnan looked up at de Tréville, feeling weak and dizzy both from his wounds and from the revelations of the past few minutes.
“As you may have gathered,” the older man began, “King Louis XIII died of the Curse a few weeks ago. He had been in hiding since being deposed by the Duc d’Orléans’ forces three years ago, guarded by myself, along with a small force of loyal Musketeers. We were able to keep him hidden and protected from his enemies, but not, God forgive us, from that.”
D’Artagnan’s heart stuttered at the news.
“Until last night,” de Tréville continued, “we believed that we had successfully kept both the King’s death and the Queen’s pregnancy a secret. Sadly, it’s clear that’s no longer the case. Porthos, Grimaud, and I will be taking Her Majesty away from here as soon as possible, now that her presence has been discovered by those who would see her dead. The others will follow once you and Aramis have recovered sufficiently to travel.”
Still sorting through far too much shocking information in far too short a time, d’Artagnan’s mind latched onto something concrete and suddenly, terribly important.
“Aramis is hurt badly?” he asked, thinking of the many small kindnesses the man had offered him.
“He was run through the breast,” de Tréville said. “The sword scraped along a rib and exited under his right armpit without piercing the heart or lungs, so he may yet recover.”
D’Artagnan winced in sympathy.
De Tréville huffed out a wry breath that was the closest thing to laughter he had yet seen from the man, before saying, “You ask about Aramis’ wounds, but I notice you have not yet asked about your own.”
“Athos said I’d... been stabbed and shot,” d’Artagnan replied, pausing for breath after every few words. “My memory agrees. If I’m going to die... there’s not much... I can do about it.”
The older man shook his head in mock despair. “Oh, the bravado of youth,” he said under his breath.
Athos stepped in, matter-of-fact as always. “The knife wound was not terribly deep, but you may have some permanent weakness or numbness in the arm, depending on how it heals. The bullet passed through the fleshy part of your torso just below your ribcage, and didn’t hit anything vital as far as we can tell. There is always the danger that it will fester, but Grimaud sewed it up. Barring wound fever, you should heal eventually. No doubt the scar will be quite spectacular; perhaps you and my wife should compare notes.”