Chapter Nine: Intelligence

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Prince Condé had genuinely hoped the full force of the Royal army would indeed pursue him to the boarder. He hoped to exhaust them, wear them down, through rough terrain and ambushes by night. But it seemed the young king was not as impulsive as he had thought…not so driven for revenge. Days passed and there was no sign of pursuit, a fact the Prince gleefully pointed out to his helpless captive. The thought jolted Ramon out of a restless sleep—his heart careening against his chest.

The Glorious army of France had been driving themselves at a mind blowing pace. It seemed blade bound did not tire as normal soldiers did and their superior night vision carried them onward long after the young musketeers would have stopped to set up camp. The strain was even more difficult for Louis and Philippe. The twins were often asleep in their saddles when the column finally ground to a halt. Jacques, Siroc, d'Artagnan, and Ramon had somehow merited the delicate task easing the barely conscious boys off their mounts and into their sleeping couches. Of all those gathered together, there were none that the royal pair knew so well or trusted so implicitly. It was an honor, and a burden the foursome had to bear before stumbling off to collapse in a heap somewhere. Often they had not even bothered to find a tent.

The captains of the blade-bound knew that their men had no difficulty keeping up such a ground-eating pace, but they were concerned. Daily, they asked the young nobles if they wanted the army to slow, for their sakes. But regardless as to which twin wore the crown that day, both agreed that they had to continue on, in all haste. Their determination was awe inspiring, but that didn't change the fact that they were traveling in the wrong direction. Every league closer to Paris seemed to stretch Ramon's soul a little bit more. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the predatory gleam in the general's eyes and the livid bruises on his brother's frail body. "I CAN'T," he said half-sobbing, while twisting the short cape he used as a blanket into a thick rope between his hands.

"Shhh, Ramon, it will be all right," Jacques soothed. The female musketeer had long feared what would happen if her disguised gender became known to her comrades-in-arms and now that it had, it seemed her maternal side was getting more exercise than it had even before she decided to take up the tunic of the musketeer. Siroc, Ramon, the king, and now Ramon again: All unwittingly turned to her for comfort. And surprisingly, she did not begrudge them one bit.

She touched the Spaniard's shoulder tenderly. "The legends will bring your brother back safely. I'm sure of it."

"I should be there! I should be the one to free him…It is my responsibility…It is my fault." Ramon shuddered fighting back the tears.

"Hold on there, amigo." D'Artagnan rolled over and sat up stiffly. "I understand you wanting to be there for him, and it makes sense you would want to protect your flesh and blood, but I can't see how any of this is your fault. Put blame where it belongs on Prince Louis le Condé's pointy head."

"You don't understand." Ramon sniffed.

"Explain it to us then," Jacqueline gently suggested.

"I was too weak stop my uncle from sending him away…then I forgot about him. When I ran away I should have tried to find him…I should have tried to find all my family. But I didn't. Marco was in trouble and I did nothing. I didn't know then, but this time I do know…and still I do nothing." He wept openly now, letting the tears carve trails across his tanned cheeks. His shoulders shuddered uncontrollably and his heart screamed, but for all outward appearances his grief was silent.

Siroc was not as emotionally in tune as his comrades were, and he was very much at a loss as to what he could say to ease his friend's heartache. But he was not oblivious to it. Wordlessly, he stretched out his had and grasped Ramon's, squeezing it gently, just enough to let the other know he was there and would remain at his side, regardless. There was one thing the ex-slave had learned from their recent ordeal in the citadel of the dark order: It was that even when things looked impossible there was still one thing you could do to vanquish the darkness…you had to let in the light.

Siroc's eyes lingered on the cross hanging in the hollow of Jacqueline's throat. He marveled how it glimmered in the moonlight. Siroc took Ramon's hand in his own as a show of support and said, "Prayer is not 'nothing.'" Jacqueline nodded her agreement, taking the Spaniard's other hand and squeezing it gently. Seeing what they were doing d'Artagnan caught up both his friend's free hands, closing the circle, and with a heart of unity the four of them sent their earnest entreaties to the star littered expanse of the heavens.

They lifted up Marco, praying that he would know he was not alone, that he would have strength to hold on until help could arrive, and that he would be quickly and safely reunited with his brother who loved him. They prayed for a spirit of peace and cooperation between d'Artagnan's father and Emris as they traveled into danger. They prayed for the safety of young Etienne, Anton and Andy as well as the little twins secreted in the enemy rank—that they would not risk themselves unnecessarily. Finally they prayed for Condé himself, that the darkness controlling his heart would be defeated, and that the order he served would be broken. In short they prayed for an age of safety and peace for those they cared about, and for all of France.

Ramon was touched by this show of faith from his dearest friends and his troubled spirit seemed to ease. Finally, it seemed that he might be able to find some rest before the first blush of dawn touched the sky.
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The next morning, when Emris as repacking his gear the sound of a familiar bird call caught his attention. The spy-master paused while tightening the girth of his saddle and tried to pinpoint the exact direction from which the call had come. Charles was just coming back from filling the water flasks in the stream. There was no way he could slip away without the other man knowing. He sighed. "Can you finish getting the supplies packed? I've got something I need to take care of first," he asked as amiably as possible.

Charles's frown was expressive. Once, he wouldn't have given the request a second thought, but much had changed between the two of them since then. "Meeting with one of your spies?" the sable-haired man accused with a snarl.

Emris ran his fingers through his bangs and blew his breath out in a puff, "Actually, yes. I didn't think to concern you with it…since I know how you feel about my connections. But if you are going to be that way about it, fine!" the man exclaimed firmly, and then put his fingers to his lips and whistled a shrill response.

Within moments a young man broke cover and jogged down the hillside to meet them. Charles was first shocked at how young and frail looking the boy was, with mussed brown hair and clothing that was both patched and faded. He was even more astonished when Aramis introduced him. "Charles, I don't expect you know my nephew Etienne…Etienne, Charles De Batz, the elder d'Artagnan."

"Sir!" the young man snapped to attention crisply and gave the unmistakable salute of the blade-bound. 'His nephew?' Charles turned that idea over in his mind. Athos had said something about Aramis Sister and a soldier connected with Chosen called Brand…Or had it been Tan? Charles shook his head at the propensity of the blade bound to willingly 'color-code themselves. So this was Kate-lyn's son?

Etienne did not flinch under the legend's gaze. In fact, his attention focused on his uncle who was folding up his bedroll and tying to behind his saddle. As any good soldier, he stood at attention to give his report. "Condé and those that remain with him are, as I suspect you know, headed for the Spanish border." The young man announced. "They expect to meet up with representatives from several high ranking Spanish families in two days time. There will likely be more soldiers as escorts which may complicate our departure from the ranks. Do you wish us to stay with him till the border or have you come to recall us to the capital?"

"Get to safety…Emris he is far too young to be used in this way. How could you? Your own flesh and blood!" d'Artagnan growled, noting as he did that the boy had the same intense eyes as his Aramis and the same long dexterous fingers. Young Etienne was probably just as skilled with a pen…or dagger…or lock pick—, Charles reasoned. He didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, unless you knew what to look for. And that, the captain supposed, was precisely what made him such a valuable spy.

"Do you know who Condé is meeting?" Emris asked, pretending Charles wasn't there.

The boy shook his head. "No names; most of the soldiers who remain at his Condé's are of the tight-lipped variety. We didn't want to risk exposure by seeming curious." The boy twirled a lock of his untidy brown hair around his nimble fingers.

"We also are looking for a sword and a boy … a Spaniard. I believe he is called Marco," Aramis explained.

"The little twins have been keeping close watch on him. If anyone knows the names you are looking for, he will. Anton and I were planning on taking him with us even if he wasn't among the stated objectives. The sword might be a problem though, the prince keeps it with him most of the time." Etienne frowned.

"How much time do you think you'll need to extricate yourselves from among the camp followers?" Emris asked, knowing his nephew was uncannily adept at gauging such things. "How much risk is there?"

"The civilians have been trickling away like water from a leaky bucket since that last battle…I'd say the soldiers kill one in every five. A bunch tried to make a break at the last village. I expect you saw what happened there." Etienne's hands clenched in a sudden flare of rage, and in that one movement he vividly revealed his heritage as blade-bound. The dagger that appeared almost magically in his hand nicked the thumb of his opposite hand. He let the crimson drop form for a second and then licked it off. "Condé will pay," he said darkly. "Swear it."

Emris nodded grimly, nicking his own finger and taking the boy's and in his own to seal the pact, but he didn't trust his voice to craft an appropriate remark. De Batz was shaking his head in agreement. If it was at all possible he would see justice for those souls as well. The captain's eyes blazed at the thought that the boy had been a witness to such atrocities. But for once his anger was placed directly on Condé and his men, and not on Emris who had permitted the boy to be placed in that situation. In that single action, Charles realized the boy was a warrior. He would not sit quietly on the sidelines and wait for something to happen. He would get involved, with or without the consent of his elders. Had d'Artagnan been any different at that age? He wondered.

Etienne squeezed Emris's hand tightly in his own; it was all the confirmation he needed. The anger in his eyes drained away, and he continued with his report, "We'd need about ten minutes to get clear. Twenty would be better, if you mean for us to go for the sword."

"Let us worry about the sword," Aramis Said. "I intend to challenge the Great Condé for it. I expect that should be enough of a distraction to let the others slip away…What do you think Charles, will you act as my duel-second one last time?"

As musketeers, the four of them had been involved in countless duels and always one of the others agreed to act as second. To show up for a duel unaccompanied was a foolish thing to do. When he had shown up unaccompanied all those years ago, when he first expected to duel Athos, Aramis and Porthos had been there to second him.

Witnesses ensured everything was aboveboard. It was the duel-second's duty to see that the rules of combat were followed and to keep an eye out for treachery. Over the years, Aramis had stood unwavering by his side to duel and he had returned the favor at least as often as Athos and Porthos had.

"Risky," d'Artagnan said, biting his lip in thought. It was true that Emris often placed the lives of others in harm's way, but he put his own on the line just as quickly. Still, the prospect appealed to him; it was something reminiscent of the type of thing they did in their younger days. Daring, effective…he felt the blood quicken in his veins. God, he loved a challenge. "I'll do it," he decided finally.