A/N: I know it has been a long delay, but I promise, this one will get done! My thanks to Issai for her beta-reading skills and to those gentle friends who tap me on the shoulder now and again to remind me to keep writing.
Father Pietro had been correct that the campsite at Saint-Medard-en-Jalles was indeed nearby. They were only in the saddle for a short time, maybe a quarter of an hour, before they were taking a small track leading deeper into the forest which opened to a sheltered clearing. Two young men waited, a campfire already stoked, a small pile of crates and bundles beside them. They looked to be local village boys but the weapons they picked up as the company approached told differently. They greeted the Jesuits in Italian and the welcome was warm.
Aramis wasted no time in getting Treville off his horse and settled on a bedroll by the fire. He and Father Pietro managed the medical care while the rest of the camp took shape around them. Athos, in no condition to help anyone with his wounded arm, sat with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a cup of wine in his hand as he waited next for Aramis's attention.
Aramis was always as efficient as possible but prying a musket ball from the flesh of a man was often not a fast or easy thing. Athos closed his eyes as Treville bucked and pulled against restraining hands, a bit of leather shoved between his teeth preventing him from biting his tongue and turning what would have been painful cries to muffled grunts and moans. Athos drank his wine and tried to ignore the throbbing in his arm and the memories of other battlefield surgeries, not all performed under such capable hands as their steadfast marksman possessed.
He must have dozed off at some point during the surgery as he was awoken by a chill as the blanket was removed from his shoulders. He raised his head to blink sleepily at Aramis, dried blood from the marksman's head wound still streaking the side of his face as their self-elected battle surgeon worked to unfasten the ties at Athos's sleeve.
"How is he," Athos asked, sounding more tired than he expected.
"All's well," Aramis said raising his eyes momentarily to meet Athos's, reassurance blossoming in his gaze, "Ball was deep but we got it out. He's resting," Aramis added, turning his attention back to Athos's sleeve.
"I'd still feel more comfortable if we had taken him back to the inn," Athos said, looking around for the empty cup he must have dropped in his sleep.
"I promise you Athos, he might not have survived a longer journey," Aramis said, no bitterness in his voice for the statement, "If the ball had strayed deeper I do not think I could have removed it. You made the right choice letting us come here."
"Perhaps," Athos sighed, the cup nowhere in sight, "I won't be content till we are rid of these priests and this mission." Aramis smiled in response as he pulled off Athos's sleeve. "
"I find your constancy in being discontent comforting," Aramis said lightly, fingers pressing against Athos's bicep. The swordsman tried to hold still as the marksman inspected the injury. After some corresponding pokes and tugs at the back of his arm where the ball had exited, Aramis released him and sat back on his haunches.
"It is not bad but after I clean and sew it you will need to rest the arm." Aramis explained, "The ball sliced through the flesh and I doubt you will have the strength to raise a sword or pistol for some time yet."
"Marvelous," Athos said, a false smile playing at his lips, "Where is my cup?"
"Here," Aramis said reaching behind him, "You are likely to want all of it anyway," the marksman pressed a full bottle of wine into Athos's hands. Athos gave Aramis as graceful a nod as a nobleman could muster, then vulgarly pulled the cork with his teeth. Aramis laughed as he pushed himself up from the ground, most likely off to fetch the surgical kit that Treville had gifted him after the infirmary work he'd done in La Rochelle. Athos spit the cork and took a long draw from the bottle. Experience told him that the less he could feel, the easier this would be.
While any seasoned soldier knew the basics of battlefield surgery, Aramis's long fingers and dexterous hands made him particularly suited to the gruesome task. He'd done enough of it that the blood and gore, bone and sinew of a torn man did not turn him squeamish as it did Porthos, or confuse him as it sometimes did Athos. He knew well enough where the parts ought to go and what to avoid in a surgery. There were many things beyond his experiences, but he could hold a man together long enough to find a better surgeon or, when the wound was minor, to treat it in such a way as to avoid it festering. That part he had learned when he was assigned to the infirmary in the seminary where his father hoped he might learn to be a priest. That he had turned to soldier had left an irreparable rift between him and his father but he had brought at least that lesson to the Musketeers with great effect.
As Aramis worked to place a neat row of small, tight stitches across the back of Athos's arm he thought about the contradiction that he had become. The same steady hands and sharp focus that made him a deadly marksman also made him the regiment's best surgeon. There was no doubt in his mind that his surgery on Treville had saved the man's life, but it did not erase the lives he had taken in his short time assigned as Richelieu's assassin. Acts of death recorded in the book of his sins would be tallied against the lives he had saved, the wounds he had treated. What did that accounting look like? Could any death really be cleansed away? That he could maim and kill as easily as sew and heal seemed like a balance that God had manufactured.
Aramis had no answer for this contradiction, just as he had none for the piety that ruled his soul alongside the lust that ruled his body, or his abhorrence of following orders alongside his commitment to the life of a musketeer. Dark, gloomy and broken as Athos could be, Aramis nonetheless envied him for the man's surety in his own self. He seemed to have a clear sense of right and wrong with little grey between and no tolerance for contrary musings of conscience. Then again, Athos drank himself into oblivion regularly so it could hardly be peaceful inside the man's mind. Aramis chuckled to himself for supposing Athos might know his own self any better than Aramis did. Neither of them was all that indulgent with introspection when a bottle of wine or a pretty courtesan could change the situation immediately.
"What?" Athos said tiredly, responding to the marksman's unexpected laugh.
"Just considering the situation," Aramis replied, pulling another stitch through. He felt Athos's muscle tighten beneath his grasp, but the swordsman did not move. It was an incredible thing to watch Athos stoically endure almost any injury inflicted upon him.
"I don't see anything to be amused about," Athos said drily before finishing off the last of the wine. Aramis chuckled again and sighed.
"No, I suppose you don't," he said affectionately. He worked again in silence a few more minutes and then knotted the thread through the loop in his final stitch and leaned in to cut the excess with his teeth. Athos visibly relaxed as the needle was put away. Athos might endure it well, but no one liked having their flesh sewn.
"Will he be able to ride tomorrow?" Athos asked looking toward where Treville slept on the other side of the fire.
"Most likely, yes," Aramis said has he helped Athos on with his shirt. The sleeve was ruined with blood of course, but it was whole enough to see them to the next town where they could purchase Athos a new one. "A night's rest and some wine to fortify him and we will be ready to leave. I will be glad when this mission is done.
"Mission?" Athos stopped Aramis's hands where he was doing up his doublet, "The mission ended when we were ambushed and Treville gravely wounded." The glare in Athos's eyes showed Aramis that the wine and the wound had done nothing to temper his anger at the entire situation.
"After we finished removing the musket ball from Treville, Father Pietro chose to send an emissary to meet the Duke of Savoy's man," Aramis was measured as he explained the circumstances to Athos, "He saw no reason not to meet as appointed."
"Most of his men are dead, is that not reason enough?" Athos fumed.
"It is reason enough to negotiate a treaty that will prevent hundreds more from dying in a skirmish over Savoy," Aramis said, an unexpected sadness creeping over him as he found himself in the position of justifying Father Pietro's choices to Athos. Would he always be stuck between these two worlds? "While you may not understand all of what the Jesuits do, as a soldier you must understand the need to follow orders. To finish the mission. Have we not ourselves gone to such extremes?"
Athos continued to glare at him but had no reply to Aramis's argument. With a dip of his head, Aramis reached across them to finish buckling Athos's leathers while the swordsman's right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Aramis knew that had to be as frustrating to Athos as the situation with the Jesuits and tried to let his empathy for his friend soothe the hurt of the man's clear disappointment that Aramis had not intervened with Father Pietro. Truth told, Aramis agreed that after all that had happened it would be unconscionable to turn back now and he suspected that Athos knew he had brooked no argument when the priest had decided to move forward.
"I'm going to bind your arm so you rest it," Aramis said, holding up a swath of black cloth.
"Where is your sash?" Athos asked, eying the black bandage suspiciously.
"Holding Treville together," Aramis smiled, as he gently lifted Athos's arm into the cloth, "I should really get another of those made considering the recklessness of musketeers," He tied it over Athos's shoulder like he would a sling, but then pulled it tighter, binding Athos's arm against his chest.
"Is this really necessary," the swordsman was glaring again.
"You will be done with this in a week if you don't use that arm," Aramis said as he finished off the knot. "Your bedroll is beside Treville," Aramis said, gesturing toward the other side of the fire.
"I'm not an invalid," Athos replied coldly.
"There is more wine," Aramis smiled.
"How did you manage that?" Athos asked, shrugging off Aramis's supporting hand as he tried to guide him to the laid out blanket. Aramis gave a half bow and let Athos pass ahead of him. He followed behind, grateful Athos could not see the fond smile that he was sure the Lieutenant would not approve of. There was nothing so grounding to Aramis as Athos acting exactly as Athos should.
"There was wine with the supplies they had waiting at camp," Aramis explained, a hand beneath Athos's good arm as the swordsman sat heavily on the blanket. Before he could protest, Aramis was handing him a bottle of wine, "Two crates. It seems you have this in common with our Jesuit friends." Aramis gave Athos a mischievous smile as he knelt by Treville, feeling his forehead for fever before pulling down the blanket and slipping a hand beneath the bandages.
"Every man can be redeemed," Athos's sarcasm was accompanied by an unfriendly smile, "Even a Jesuit."
"Your obsession with them is not healthy," Aramis said.
"Neither is yours," came the dry response, punctuated by the sound of a cork leaving the bottle.
Aramis sighed, feeling carefully beneath the bandages over Treville's chest. The wound was dry, no seepage. He pressed lightly at the flesh which did not seem overly warm. Nor did he catch a whiff of putrefaction. All of these were good signs that the wound would heal well. He slid his hands from the bandage and again laid it on his Captain's face, verifying that there was no fever. That really was the only danger now.
In response to the marksman's warm touch, the Captain gave a sigh and shifted uneasily. Not wishing to wake him, Aramis pulled the blanket back over him and smoothed a hand over his brow. The hardened soldier looked much friendly in his sleep, the lines of worry and care erased. In their years together, Aramis had grown quite fond of Treville. After Savoy . . . well, he did not like to think on that overly much, but the Captain had saved his life. He was sure of that. He watched over the Musketeers as any father would - devoted to their care, proud of their accomplishments and quick to chastise their misdeeds. But forgiving as well. There was always redemption in the Captain's eyes. Not so from Aramis's own father. The difference between the two men was startling. Aramis let his hand linger longer than it should have, but the deep gratitude he felt for the captain compelled him. This man had changed his life. Aware of eyes upon him, Aramis looked up to find Athos peering at him thoughtfully.
"How does he fare?" Athos asked.
"Ah, he is well," Aramis said, realizing that Athos had taken his stillness with Treville to be a sign of concern. It was just the opposite in fact, "The wound is dry, no fever. He will be fit in no time."
Aramis pushed himself up from Treville's side and settled next to Athos.
"And how do you fare?" Athos asked knowingly as he passed Aramis the now half-empty bottle. "Are you well too?" Aramis took a long pull from the bottle. How did he fare? That was a good question.
"I am well enough," Aramis answered, meeting Athos's questioning gaze with what he hoped was a steadying one of his own, "Despite the circumstances, this mission has brought me unexpected comfort," Aramis said. Athos's brow furrowed, a frown pulling at his mouth, "What, this disappoints you?"
"Not disappointment, no," Athos said, taking the bottle back, "Concern."
"For what?" Aramis said with a smile.
"For you," Athos said simply, "For the two minds you seem to be in, the split life you lead. Priest or soldier? You became one to escape the other. But those were the choices of a boy. What does the man now chose?"
"What do I chose?" Aramis ran a hand through his hair, agitated at the question, "I am here am I not? My hands this day in your blood and Treville's. I have followed my orders, I have done what was asked of me. Now that I find some respite with men of God in the acts I have committed as a soldier you see fit to question my loyalty?" Aramis felt his anger rising. No matter if the question was a valid one, it was not Athos's place to ask. He pushed himself up from the ground, taking up his hat by the brim, "You have no right to question me or my motives," Aramis slammed his hat onto his head and stalked off, putting some distance between himself and Athos before his temper could get the better of him completely.
He moved to the edge of the clearing, peering intently into the dark forest, arms folded over his chest. Athos was out of line. How dare he suggest that Aramis was anything less than committed, devoted even to the Musketeers. And yet . . . and yet. Aramis took a deep breath, lips tightly closed lest he roar in frustration. He tossed his hat to the ground and ran his hands over his face. What did he want? Athos was only voicing what had been in his mind since the Jesuits had ridden into the courtyard in Royan. Aramis felt his anger toward the swordsman dissipating. Of course his friend, his comrade would worry for him, would be concerned about anything that might take him from his side, from being a musketeer. But did loyalty to his friends, to the sword-brothers they had become, mean he would be a soldier for life? Why was that question constantly being put before him? Aramis was going to have to make a choice - a choice he did not want to face. And this time there was no running from it with the excuse of a broken heart. If God wanted him for the priesthood, he could not refuse. But was that what God wanted?
"Mio figilo," the quiet voice of Father Pietro interrupted Aramis's train of thought, "Do you have a moment?" Embarrassed at being caught off guard, Aramis quickly picked up his hat and tugged it low over his eyes.
"Of course, Padre," Aramis's smile was broad and inviting even if there was no light to match it behind his eyes.
"We have had word back from the Duke's man," the priest explained, "They are prepared to move forward with the treaty. We are to meet them as the sun sets, at the ruins just below the hill we camp on."
"That is excellent news," Aramis said, this time the smile was more genuine.
"I will need the assistance of yourself, "the father continued, "The key you carry. The chest it must be opened now." Father Pietro gestured toward his remaining men, standing in a group behind Brother Luigi who was holding a small box, "Would you join us?"
"Of course," Aramis said, fishing into his doublet to find the chain he had worn around his neck since leaving Royan. He pulled it from his collar to rest the small key in his palm. He glanced toward the campfire, where he had left Treville and Athos. Both men seemed to be resting now, Athos finally having put down the bottle and found some sleep as Aramis had hoped. He considered waking him, but Aramis thought better of it. There was no harm in opening the box - his entire reason for being on this mission was to be sure the treaty was uncorrupted and fairly represented France. That was not a duty that Athos could object to. Aramis pulled the chain over his head.
"Let's find out what France intends for Savoy," Aramis said, gesturing for the Jesuit to lead the way. He palmed the chain and key and looked at the golden links nestled in his hand. Such a small thing to cause so much worry. But after he opened the box his role in this mission would be done. Perhaps with that he could shutter the doubts that these last weeks had wrought. Smiling, he followed Father Pietro to the waiting group of men.
Treville woke up slowly, the dull ache in his chest refusing to be ignored, the hard ground beneath him forcing his body into restlessness. He blinked groggily trying to get a sense of his surroundings. He noted the campfire, the forest, and a familiar silhouette leaning against a log beside him, hat pulled over his face.
"Athos," the word came out as little more than a harsh whisper. Treville struggled to push himself up from the ground but pain blossomed in his chest. He sank back with a groan
"I suggest stillness," Athos's dry voice floated over him. Treville turned his head to find his stoic Lieutenant kneeling beside him. "You were shot in an ambush," Athos explained as a firm hand pressed him back to the ground, "Do you remember?"
Treville closed his eyes, memories swimming in his head along with the dreams of deep sleep. It came back to him in pieces - the mission, the Jesuits, the ambush in the woods. Treville nodded and opened his eyes again.
"How bad?" Treville asked.
"Aramis says you will ride out of here tomorrow," Athos reassured him.
"Aramis? Where is he?" Treville asked, eyes darting around the camp. Athos stood, gazing around the clearing.
"Not here," Athos reported, "And neither are the Jesuits. Only the two guards who met us at the camp remain." Athos stepped away from Treville and strode toward the other side of the clearing.
Treville turned his head to see where he had gone, but his view was mostly blocked by the campfire. But he could hear Athos, voice low but on edge, questioning someone. The guards he mentioned Treville assumed. Lying helpless waiting for an answer was not Treville's style - with a grunt he pushed himself up on his left arm, trying not to twist his chest and cause any further damage. He felt the telltale tug of what he knew were sutures and slowed to move more cautiously. Wherever Aramis was he would be insufferably annoying if he found Treville had pulled out the sutures upon his return. Propped up on one arm he could see Athos talking to two young men who squirmed rather uncomfortably under the musketeer's questioning. They immediately reminded Treville of musketeer cadets and he realized these men must be initiates to the order.
"Athos!" Treville called out, frustrated at his incapacitation and wanting to know what was going on.
With a final low comment to the two men, Athos turned on his heel and strode back to Treville. He didn't chastise him to lie down again, rather he stooped down and got his arms under Treville to pull him up to a sitting position leaning against the same log where he had been sleeping.
"He's gone with them," Athos said as he maneuvered Treville upright.
"Gone? Where?" Treville grunted through the pain as Athos helped him up.
"To meet Savoy and sign the treaty," Athos explained, "He rode out with them."
"Why would they bring Aramis?" Treville asked Athos as the man poured him a cup of wine, "He is of no use to them now that the treaty has been delivered safely to the meeting point."
"Aramis has grown quite fond of that priest and his men," Athos said, lips tight. Treville could feel the anger rolling off of him. "I doubt he gave much thought to it when they asked him."
"Leaving two wounded men behind?" Treville said, raising a brow, "Athos, you are not thinking clearly. This is Aramis! He would not leave your side should you get a hangnail. You believe he would just up and ride off with no good cause?" It gave Treville a small taste of self-righteous pleasure to see Athos turn his head away, ashamed of thinking so little of a man who he called brother. Athos was a fine soldier but he had much to learn about putting his head before his heart.
"There has been some other motive behind Aramis's assignment to this mission all along," Treville said, ignoring whatever Athos might be feeling and shifting the swordsman's attention to the issue at hand, "Those men have to know something. There must be something here to tell us what is going on."
"Yes, sir," Athos said understanding the statement as the order that it was. A mask of tamed fury descended over his features as he stalked back to the guards. One arm bound as it was, Treville suspected the two guards would not be a match for Athos should they chose not to cooperate. It did not take Athos long to question the two men. He returned to Terville bearing a rucksack and a satchel.
"The priest's belongings," Athos explained as he handed the satchel over to Treville and then kneeled beside the rucksack to start looking through its contents, "The meeting is soon, at a set of ruins at the base of this hill."
Treville began to rummage through the satchel, taking sheaves of paper in his hand and sorting through the ordinary business of soldiering. Manifests and inventories, maps and orders but nothing in particular pertaining to the meeting with Savoy. Treville doubted anything would be in the routine correspondence, but doing nothing was not an option. His gut was telling him Aramis was in trouble and he felt compelled to be doing something.
Beside him, Athos was casting out piles of clothing from the priest's pack. Something thunked on the ground and Treville looked up, the box with the treaty sat amidst the pile of belongings.
"Let me see that," Treville said, gesturing for the box.
"It's empty," Athos shrugged but handed it over the wooden box to Treville anyway.
Treville turned it in his hands, the lid easily opening now that it had been unlocked. It was ornately carved wood, designs of the canonization of several saints decorating the sides. On the lid, Christ himself at the foot of the cross, laying across the lap of his mother, the apostles looking on in grief.
Inside, the box was lined in red fabric but nothing lay on the ruby silk. The treaty of course would be with the Jesuits, ready to be signed by the Duke. Still, something nagged at Treville. He turned the box in his hands again, running a thumb along the decoration on the bottom edge, because sometimes . . . A bit of wood embedded in the keystone design protruded slightly. With a deft hand, Treville gave a push and the bit fell into place, a soft click accompanying the motion. He turned the box over again and looked inside. It all seemed the same, but he ran his fingers over the red lining until he felt beneath it a small rise in the bottom. He pushed in his thumb and it caught hold on a bit of raised wood that had not been there before. Treville pinched and pulled, and the bottom came out of the box revealing a neat stack of parchments marked with Cardinal Richelieu's seal.
Treville pulled out the first page and carefully unfolded it. A map of the region with areas marked in two colors. Each site in black seemed to have a corresponding site in red nearby. It was clearly the area near where they camped, Treville could tell by the river and nearby landmarks. Athos pulled another parchment from the box, it's seal already broken, and opened up the letter.
"Captain, this is not a treaty negotiation," Athos said urgently, "It's an assassination."
"What!" Treville said, reaching for the letter.
"These are orders to kill the Duke of Savoy, his wife, and his new child," Athos explained as he handed Treville the parchment, "And Aramis is assigned to do it."
"That's not possible," Treville hissed as he scanned the letter. He felt his rage build as he read the words. Athos was right - these were orders to ambush the Duke and his family as they signed the treaty. Orders to kill all three and to cast blame upon the Spanish delegation. The letters instructed Father Pietro to take the musketeer marksman with him to accomplish the deed. Aramis had been necessary to the mission all along, but Treville had never anticipated this.
"We will never be rid of Richelieu," Athos fumed, "He has pushed us too far this time. Musketeers are not assassins."
"This is not the work of Richelieu," Treville said, "I promise you that."
"The words are under his seal!" Athos was furious, "How can you deny it?"
Treville took a steadying breath. In his anger, he had spoken too much. Despite the seal, Treville knew it was not Richelieu's order. But to say how he knew was to admit his own role in the blackest act of murder - the death of 20 musketeers in Savoy. Yes, Richelieu had coerced him to reveal the position of his men, but Treville had suspected then, as he had now, that there was more going on. The Musketeers' position had been revealed to Savoy, along with the lie that they were there to kill him. Savoy rode out of the palace to murder the musketeers, leaving his spy vulnerable to capture. All of these actions were taken to protect France's most valuable agent in Savoy - the Duchess. Richelieu would not now order her death having already slaughtered nearly two dozen men to keep her safe.
But Athos knew none of this, could never know. It was a lie that Treville would take to his grave, but also a mark on his soul he could never relieve. He knew Athos waited for a response, but Treville did not have one. With a shaking hand, he pulled the last letter from the box. It was still sealed, marked to say it should be open upon completion of the mission. Treville broke the seal.
"Once the mission is complete," Treville explained as he read, "Aramis is to report to the Cardinal's newly formed red guard. He is reassigned."
"No!" Athos's fury was boundless, it rolled from him like a torrent from the sea, "That bastard has had enough of Aramis, enough of us! We are done even if it means desertion."
"Athos, these are not the Cardinal's orders," Treville said evenly, catching the swordsman's eye and holding his fiery gaze with his steely blue one, "The Cardinal would never assassinate Savoy and his family. It goes against the interests of France - the Duchess is the King's sister. He would never jeopardize his relationship with Louis."
"But the orders . . ." Athos started, but Treville cut him off.
"These are not Richelieu's hand," Treville said, holding up the papers to Athos. The swordsman snatched them from his grasp and read again while Treville continued, "Richelieu has discontinued his assassination squad. He has no interest in killing French citizens."
"And Aramis?" Athos growled.
"He will not touch him," Treville met Athos's challenge with a fierceness of his own, "He will touch none of you. I promise you that."
"But the orders. . .," Athos started and then he cut himself off, crumbling the parchment in his hand, "Rochefort," Athos hissed. Treville's breath caught in his throat. His Lieutenant was shrewd, but he had made that leap quickly. But he didn't interrupt him to ask questions as Athos started to explain his theory.
"The assassination squads were his idea," Athos said, "He is not likely to let that idea go so easily. While our meeting in Royan with the Jesuits seemed a coincidence, we know our orders from Rochefort might have brought us there regardless. This was all by design. Aramis already has proven he will do what his country asks of him, and indeed, there is no better shot in all of France."
"But to what gain?" Treville could not fathom it.
"The Duchy itself," Athos said, eyes narrowing as he calculated the relationships. He squatted down beside Treville, "Rochefort has gained power and favor in the Cardinal's eyes as his right hand in suppressing the rebellion. Who better to award Savoy to but a Comte already loyal to the throne who has proven himself to be the ruthless instrument of the Cardinal?" Treville considered Athos's words. Not surprisingly, his argument made sense. It would be a brilliant political and strategic move on the part of Rochefort and while he might be an abhorred by most men of honor he was a brilliant warrior. A plot like this was well within the bounds of something Rochefort could conceive.
"You may be right," Treville said quietly, suddenly concerned about the two guards who had shifted closer, "but we have no proof."
"We don't proof," Athos said, his earlier fury replaced with a cold and calculating tone that could prove just as deadly, "We just need to stop Aramis."
"Why would he agree to this at all?" Treville slammed a frustrated fist to the ground, wishing he could get up and haul his musketeer back to camp himself, "He seems to pick and choose what orders he obeys from me."
"This last assignment," Athos said, lips pressed thin against his anger, "It affected us all deeply, but none more so than Aramis. The blind obedience he balks at is something he can also lose himself in. Rochefort was smart - he had already primed Aramis for this mission in the weeks before. It should not be such a hard leap for him to kill a woman and child if he knows it is under the order of the Cardinal and to the protection of France."
"That is not the Aramis I know," Treville said bitterly.
"But it is the man he has become," Athos said sadly.
"No, I don't believe he will go through with it," Treville said, "But we must find him. If he refuses to carry out the Cardinal's orders the Jesuits will see that as an act against them and the church. We have to find him."
"I know where the meeting point is," Athos said, pushing himself up to stand, "It's not far."
"No, wait," Treville said, halting the swordsman with his voice, "Hand me the map again," Treville ordered. Athos found the discarded page and knelt beside Treville, unfurling the paper.
"They would not need a marksman of Aramis's caliber for a close-range assault," Treville explained as his eyes scanned the map, "You would want to get him on high ground where the shooter would have full advantage."
"But we did not know the location of the treaty negotiation," Athos said, "It would be hard to find a good position without advanced planning. That is what we were able to do with Rochefort. We were given suggested locations and then Aramis picked one that would work best."
"These locations have already been chosen," Treville explained, pointing at the map, "The sites in black are a dozen potential meeting points, all of which could have been decided in conversation with the Duke's man just a few hours ago. The sites in red, these are all secondary positions related to the primary sites."
"We know the meeting is at the ruins, here," Athos pointed at the location marked on the map, "So Aramis must be here," the swordsman traced his finger to a red circle and Treville pulled the map closer to read the label.
"This looks to be an abandoned outpost not far from where we are, situated above the ruins of the abbey where they are meeting. Aramis would be there," Treville said definitively. Treville discarded the map and put his hand beside him, grunting as he tried to push himself up from where he was sitting.
"Stop," Athos put a hand to Treville's shoulder and pressed him back toward the ground, "You are in no condition to ride."
"And you are any better?" Treville said, glaring at the swordsman's bound arm.
"I did not just go through a surgery, nor was I unconscious and tied to my horse today," Athos responded flatly. The comment was sarcastic, but Treville heard the truth in it. He could not even move to a standing position on his own. Athos was right that he could not come.
"Go," Treville said, his single word reassuring Athos he would stay put, "Bring Aramis back. Do whatever it takes," the order was unnecessary but Treville felt compelled to speak it anyway. Aramis was the one bright light to come from the disaster that was Savoy and this time Treville would do everything in his power to keep his musketeer safe - even if that meant unleashing the unfettered fury of Athos upon anyone who stood between him and his men.