A chilly wind whipped through the narrow canyon. Athos tugged at his scarf and tightened his cloak around his shoulders. The sounds of the horses' hooves on the damp ground echoed, and the tapping of twigs and branches reminded them that winter was not to be taken lightly. Snow packs were visible beneath the boulders, along the path, and along the roots of the oak trees. Rain had caused tentacled trails from the top of the hills to the base of the canyon, and standing water rested in large puddles that reflected the gray sky and branches that looked black.

The horses snorted, puffed, and their breath looked like fog as they exhaled. Their heavy coats kept them warm even as leather breast collars, cinches, bridles, and saddles rubbed and pulled at their coats. Porthos rode lead, and his mount, a solid gelding with several years of experience, moved sure-footed across the stony, slick path.

Several crows hopped from branch to branch and cawed as they watched the three riders. Several clusters of starlings followed and flew to the ground when food became apparent. Two small roe deer peered around a boulder, large ears outlined in dark fur perked forward as they watched and waited. The small deer jumped and sped away when Porthos' horse raised his head and looked toward them.

D'Artagnan shifted in his seat, relaxed his reins, and looked toward the crest of the hillside. The barren lands would turn green when the spring months approached. Grasses would sway and bend with the breeze, flowers would bloom, and the leaves of the trees would cluster and provide shade for those seeking relief from the spring sun. He could hear the sounds of a brook in the distance, water running over stones and slapping the sides of its narrow bank. He turned in his seat and looked at Athos, who looked ahead and watched their backs.

"Will he come home?" d'Artagnan asked. He placed his right hand on his horse's rump, rested his left wrist on the cantle while holding the reins.

Athos shrugged. "Only Aramis can answer that."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and turned back toward Porthos, who looked over his shoulder and said, "I still say we tie 'im to the back of a horse."

Athos shook his head and then blew into his hands. Even with his gloves on, his fingers grew stiff with the cold air. His nose was cold and ran continuously. His cheeks were slow to respond as muscles too chilled to react felt unnatural beneath his skin.

D'Artagnan turned again toward Athos. "If we go to war —"

"Not if," Porthos shouted over his shoulder, "when!"

"When we go to war," d'Artagnan corrected, "where do you think we'll be ordered to fight?"

"Northeast," Porthos said with a huff. "The Spanish an' the Dutch 'ave been movin' west for years… it's just a matter of time before we're called to defend our borders."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos for confirmation.

"We're the king's Musketeers, d'Artagnan," Athos said, "we will be ordered to defend Paris wherever the King believes that might be."

"Northeast?"

"That is where France is most vulnerable." Athos rubbed his nose and sniffed. What he wouldn't give for a fire and a hot cup of wassail.

"What good will 150 musketeers be against an army of Spanish soldiers?"

Porthos pulled his horse to a stop and spun him around. He kicked the animal's sides and rode up beside d'Artagnan. "First —"

"Porthos," Athos warned.

Porthos clinched his jaw, inhaled through his nose, and exhaled slowly. "150 musketeers are the best military soldiers France 'as to offer… We," he looked from d'Artagnan to Athos, "may be small in number, but we are not," he emphasized, "by any means to be underestimated." He pulled on the right rein and nudged his horse's side and returned to keeping pace in the lead. "You're a Musketeer, d'Artagnan!"

D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably and pursed his lips. "I'm not discounting the Musketeers… but I, like many others in service to the king, have never fought in a war."

Porthos huffed and shook his head.

Athos simply said, "You will soon enough."

"Aren't you worried… our numbers are so small in comparison."

Athos shook his head when Porthos turned and threatened to pull his horse to a stop. "Most battalions will have 12 companies of 50 men —"

"We don't have enough men for a full battalion," d'Artagnan said, "not even close."

"But we do for several companies, and," Athos said, "I would assume the king will request an increase of men in the coming months — if not weeks."

D'Artagnan nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. He turned back around and blew warm breath into his hands. He looked up in time to see the peeks of the roofs in the distance. As they rounded the curve of the narrow path and exited the canyon, the high walls, massive gate, and stained glass in the windows visible from below came into sight.

Porthos took a deep breath. They had arrived. The lone building stood strong. It rested on a hill surrounded by pines, oaks, and sycamore trees. Their haunting barren branches swayed and creaked as the winds shifted. The spring they had heard ran through the grounds and ice and snow rested along its edges near the sides of the stream and across stones and pebbles. High walls and tall gates that led to the courtyard surrounded the massive building. Though not a closed order, visitors were rare. Smoke filtered upward from several chimneys and slowly disappeared as the winds increased in strength. Porthos hoped the high walls were not a metaphor for Aramis. Porthos hoped Aramis would see them, talk to them, and hopefully return with them.