-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Disclaimer: All hail Dumas and his descendants.
PAX young blades and the Disney version of 3 musketeers gave inspiration to this tale. There is no money in it for me, just enjoyment
– Something I hope to share

+--------------------------------------+

-(Chapter VI Finally Some Answers)-

They'd only just arrived in Berry and already they were leaving it…but just for a little while. Ramón opted to stay behind – likely to continue his acquaintance with the young lady that had stolen him away the day before. Siroc's brown mare followed several lengths behind D'Artagnan's as they picked their way along the rutted path that wound through the Vale.

On right was the chilling beauty of the Lior, on the left, the wild and unruly forest. They'd left after lunch (leftovers from the night before) Now it was getting on toward dusk. The two 'pilgrims' neared the end of their journey. The Abbé itself crouched protectively on a hill, a squat gray edifice with thick imposing walls-- almost castle-like in its intensity.

That first view sent shivers' dancing up and down Siroc's spine. It was not difficult for the tortured inventor to imagine this place a scaled down version of his master's citadel. A living force capable of almost anything…was it predatory or protective in its regard for the sleepy little hamlet sprawled at its base?

"What now?" Siroc asked.

"Uncle Athos said if we arrive between 9 and 5 use to the front gate…from the hours of 5 to 9 we are to use the ladder in the garden to climb in the back window…"

"You don't suppose he was teasing about that do you?" the pensive blond asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "He said People do it all the time."

"Well" Siroc sighed, "I guess it's the ladder then."

All was exactly ad they'd been told, the secluded garden bower… the sturdy ladder masquerading as a trellis …heavy-laden with morning glories. D'Artagnan paused gazing long and hard at the clearstory window that stood open in the cooling air of dusk.

"I don't know…Maybe we should wait till it gets a bit darker?" he mused aloud.

"This is your uncle…how bad can it be?" Siroc reminded.

"I haven't seen him since I was 10"

"He was nice enough then wasn't he?"

"My favorite actually."

"Well then?"

Young D'Artagnan nodded wordlessly made his careful ascent. Siroc followed close at his heals.

"What brings you my son?" a sonorous voice greeted them. The speaker, who was stripped to the waist, sat with his back to the window. A girl in a white shift stood beside him. Siroc's first thought was that they happened upon something less-than-wholesome. Then he realized the willowy 14-year-old was in-fact sewing together the ragged edges of what appeared to be a bullet hole piercing the meaty part of the elder man's shoulder. He wasn't sure which impression struck him as more surreal.

"I…We…Athos told us where you could be found." D'Artagnan stammered.

"And so, I see you have found me." Emris said then winced … the girl having finished 'her mending' tied off the thread and casually bit off the extra length with her teeth. Then bound the injury with a strip of cloth. "Come to visit this old spider in his web have you?" Emris asked, "Your father would not approve."

The girl turned finally. "Dart, you've grown…and brought a friend." Green eyes sparkled when she smiled.

"K'Lyn?" D'Artagnan gasped then remembered his manners "This is my friend Siroc…Siroc, My Uncle Emris and his daughter Kate. Emris rose easily and held out his hand. A lesser man, had he been able to rise at all… would be clutching the back of the chair for support; not this man. His face was serene, 'well-schooled' Siroc thought. He was a handsome man but naturally wan, made even more so from the recent wound and loss of blood. He was both slim and fit with nobility in his fine features. As their eyes met and Siroc recognized the dark fire in his gaze…this man was one accustomed to pain.

D'Artagnan bore the brunt of the conversation… This was his family after all and he had a good many years of catching up to do. Siroc nodded from time to time and added a word or two here and there but largely he just listened. D'Artagnan told of his acceptance in the Musketeers and reminisced about childhood adventures with Kate…and Athos' daughter Abbe. Emris measured the taciturn blond youth wordlessly. Having made some decision, His mouth tightened at the corners.

"Kate, take Young Dart to the kitchens and make us all something to eat… I sense his companion has something he wants to ask me." Under his breath he added, "Take your time."

"Yes Sir" she nodded with almost military precision and spirited her quickly cousin away.

"H..how…What makes you think I wanted…" Siroc faltered.

"Something weighs heavily at the frayed edges of your mind child. How can I not see?" Emris leaned backward on the edge of his cluttered desk.

After all this time Siroc didn't know what to say. 'I don't know him' his mind awhirl; 'what if he isn't what I think? Can I kill him if I have too?' He studied the stacks of books and papers distractedly. He didn't want to meet those sensitive…inquisitive… brown eyes again. A torn manuscript page balanced precariously on the edge of the desk drew his attention and his breath caught in his lungs.

Siroc picked it up…and studied it closely… The loop and curl on the capitals 'R' and 'D' the angled flourish on the 'A' and 'E'… There could be no mistake. He' spent countless hours studying that same flowing script…It was found in nearly a third of the books in his master's library. "Where did you get this?" He breathed.

"I wrote it." Emris admitted quietly.

At the simple admission pain shot through Siroc, body and mind "Help me." he cried, voice little more than a tremulous whisper. The red haze closed around him and strength fled. The blond youth slumped to his knees at the man's feet … his grip on consciousness quickly slipping away, back... once again into the past.

"I am actually a very compassionate master. I permit my creatures a great deal of freedom." Mazarin hissed, tugging on the chain leash that brought the boy within easy reach. "You do not believe me I know…I could make it so you must believe anything I say… Instead I conserve my power and use lessons instead. Today you will learn to appreciate just how much freedom I allow – as it strip it from you."

The evil man ran a long cold finger from the center of the boy's forehead to the center of his chest the chill bled into the boy and spread "You will pay heed to no voice but my own…You will be incapable of movement less I guide … you may not look away from where I direct, or close your eyes…this is also to be a lesson…of power." Mazarin coiled the chain lead around his palm and set it on the boy's shoulder. "Come, There are people waiting."

The transfixed lad preceded his master into the crypt. Dark figures robed and hooded were gathered there…they chanted quietly in a language he did not know. The boy's gaze was locked forward he saw the stone table carved with runes…the black candles flicker in time to the chant. A body lay there, chest-bared…face covered with a fine red cloth.

The master took a metal tool from his robes, it seemed at first like the brass-knuckles some of the guards used… but this tool was made with 2 sets of 3 connected metal bands instead of 1 set of 4, The master slid rings over the boys 3 middle fingers then placed his own fingers in the other bands so his hand covered the back of the boy's smaller one. Marionette like he moved the boys hand to the helpless body restrained on the table.

The skin felt like wax beneath his touch but there was life in it. The chanting intensified and there was a slight burning sensation as the boy felt his hand slip beneath the skin. His mind recoiled because his body could not. He's studied human anatomy extensively but it was still a shock to feel the living innards beneath one's fingers. His unfailingly analytical mind could recognize intestines, stomach, ribs -- he wanted to faint, but even that was not permitted him.

"God" his mind whispered though he didn't understand the meaning of the word…It seemed fitting… more so when he cradled the man's beating heart in his hand. His breath caught in his throat as the master's hand, and therefore his own, slowly began to squeeze. "God no" he would have cried had he been able. For some reason the chanting faltered and the master broke contact with an angry grunt. This momentary lapse was all that was needed for the boy to slip into unconsciousness.

The would-be priest sat on his heals and faced him eye–to-eye. "LOOK AT ME BOY" Aramis commanded gripping his shoulders tight as his injured shoulder permitted.

The master used just that same tone to great effect. The broken inventor cringed and emitting a kitten-like whimper… but the haze receded.

"Is it true?" he asked weakly "Did you raise a hand against him…your master?"

"It is true." Aramis confirmed.

"What happened?"

"He shot me." The older placed a 2 fingers directly in the center of the boy's chest and with a slow smile mimed the firing pistol.

"I'm serious!" Siroc exclaimed almost frantic.

"So am I boy, dead serious" -tired sigh- "I learned an important lesson that day."

"And that would be what? That there's no hope?" Tears stung his eyes.

"No" he pulled a chain out from his shirt and held it before the boys face so he got a good look at the plain metal cross with a bullet still imbedded in it. "I learned HE wasn't GOD."

"Not…" Siroc looked confused.

"There is a higher law…one unperverted by my master, or yours. I am not, I think, mistaken in my belief that Mazarin has left his mark on you."

"Hhe he…made me." Siroc whispered softly.

"He did nothing of the sort." Emris frowned, "Shaped perhaps but not made. Ones such as he can warp… but never create. It is a inherent failure to their so-called art."

The sandy haired youth swallowed hard. "Captain Duval said the Dark cavalier knew you were… were… 'demon spawn'…like me." Siroc whispered uncertainly.

"He said! Emris snorted, "Ether you misunderstood or Duval is senile in his old age…" If this were any less serious subject Emris would be rolling on the floor laughing… he fought valiantly to suppress his mirth. Tears glimmered in his eyes.

"I I don't understand." Siroc faltered.

"Perhaps I'd best start at the beginning as it seems you are working from some tangled misconceptions my young friend. You will have to bear with me though this is not a tale I am accustomed to telling – and would not tell even now, at least not in it' entirety, were you not who and what you are."

oo

I am Emris de Ruse…My mother was a slave. Not a house slave, farm slave, or the kind that gets dolled up and perfumed for man's pleasure… Her name is Artemis; she was trained in the old way to fight with staff in the arena. The ruins of old Rome are not as vacant as many believe them, and likely never will be. At least not when there is coin to be had in such things.

Kevin De Ruse was a Baron: by his own admission, callow and rich…a daredevil with money to spare at least until he came a spectator to the blood sport. He fell to prey to the most dangerous thrill of all. He dared fall in love with my mother.

The scandal was tremendous…and the court, outraged. Not that he would want her, for she was undeniably beautiful… but that he would marry her. My sister Kate…(the child's name sake) and I were legitimate born to noble and slave, and therefore pariah. Other nobles shunned us. My parents felt it to be little loss …yet my hunger for knowledge and acceptance consumed me.

When he was sure I would be content no other way, my father arranged for my training in the citadel. In my innocence I was easily ensnared by the master's whiles. When I was told I had no family outside the walls of the citadel I believed them. My studies were my life…I was a scribe and acolyte… my Master's pride, and I loved it. My only regret was that this life I choose required me to give up my poetry, my dreams…and the girl I desired -- Rachel Shevero. (Not the child's mother…but I wish to God she were.)

I was passionate about my studies…hardworking and devoted. But then a dark silent youth arrived with the master… not a student… not a scribe… as I saw it, he was a rival in what I hoped would be my place at the Masters side. I let my jealousy hold me fast. As I'd noted the boy was no student. Later I found he was called the Master's Chosen… a living weapon, called in to being to serve. Soon after that I left the citadel. When I saw him among the musketeer I knew him to be a spy, no one believed me. … It was HE I called the demon spawn from the Pit of Hell…To this day I believe there is no more dangerous creature."

"And no creature more cunning than you Remiss…" Whispered a hoarse voice. Siroc jumped…startled. As shadowed figure appeared, as if from nothingness, and leaned idly on the desk beside them. He toyed with a gleaming dagger as he spoke. "I don't believe I ever denied your accusations… your outrage at my spying was understandable I suppose. You could not know that you were in the King's ranks for the same reason as I. But that, as you say, in the past. It seems I am arrived just in time."

The newcomer was of an age with Emris and had long raven hair, sharp features and dark burning eyes …or rather one…the other was covered by a featureless patch. He nodded to Siroc, "Welcome little cousin, I had heard you were lately come to Berry. I Am … As he said, the Master's Chosen…I've been told I was born Ford de la Roche. My master named me Rocheford…though most know me simply as 'Cavalier."

-------------

Not as many answers as I hoped…Please forgive me; I tried to upload this several times and it wouldn't load. I figured I'd cut it here make it shorter and then see if it would go up. I called the next section interlude.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------