Sweat dripped from Treville's forehead. Seated on a stump with his elbows on his knees, he looked across the field and watched narrow streams of smoke continue to filter upward from the wooden rafters of the monastery. Its stone structure stood strong despite the devastation, and soot marred the outside edges of the walls. The front gate was open. Monks, those uninjured, worked diligently to find those that had not survived.

The tools used to devastate so many in Paris had destroyed the very men who had implemented them. Souder's body lay to the side with others identified as a part of the rebel group. The musketeers, red guards and surviving monks continued to work, still fighting and struggling to save what they could. Men had been burned, died of suffocation, and a few perished beneath the collapse of interior walls and ceilings. Souders and his men would be buried in the field beside the monastery. Their unmarked graves would fade into history.

Cardinal Richelieu looked like a statue, his arms crossed, his cloak waving gently around his legs while he waited for news of the queen. D'Artagnan, Porthos and several others looked frantic. Their hands, faces, and clothing were blackened from soot. The whites of their eyes flashed frequently when someone was pulled from the rubble alive, only to disappear when they realized it wasn't their queen or their friend and brother.

Shovels struck the hardened ground, combating stones, sand, and clay. Musketeers, red guards, and members of the order worked to bury the innocent that had been lost. A few men had been trapped inside, their deformities of mind and body preventing their escape. Their loss was evident in the eyes of those who cared for them, who treated them as brothers and some even as sons.

Richelieu turned, ran his hand over his chin and pulled momentarily at his goatee. He looked at Treville with a wince as he contemplated his next words. With long legs and determined strides, he walked toward him.

"While I have never considered myself an optimistic man, Captain," Richelieu said, "I fear the news we must share with the king is not good."

Treville rubbed harshly at his face, nodded, and then exhaled slowly. He wiped a soot covered hand along his thigh. "I don't believe she is dead," he said and looked once more toward him men and then at the burn across the back of his fingers of his right hand. "You're a man of faith, Cardinal," he raised his eyebrows and looked at him, "perhaps now is the time to prove it."

"How can you sit there and lecture me about faith while looking at the remains of the very walls that imprisoned her?" Richelieu snapped, squared his shoulders and looked toward several men, who paused in their actions to look at him. "The faith you have in your musketeers is impressive — particularly your four favorites — one of which, Captain, is also missing."

Treville stood suddenly, stepped toward Richelieu, and said, "At every turn, Cardinal," he looked him in the eyes, "at every single turn those men have pulled through. Despite your poor attempt at having Athos executed, and embarrassing enough — my involvement with the Duke of Savoy — and your tax intendant who destroyed farms and peoples lives, and I have no doubt that it was you behind the annihilation of the Court of Miracles… all for the sake of France."

"Yes, well," Richelieu cocked an eyebrow and turned just as Porthos and d'Artagnan walked toward them, "It's amazing, isn't it — that as hard as you try — you can't prove any of it."

"What I can prove," Treville said, "is your crime against the queen —"

"A queen," Richelieu snapped and pointed a finger toward the ground in frustration, "who may very well be dead along with the king's heir." He turned suddenly to manage his anger and frustration. "We must inform him. We must let him know before he hears of it from someone else."

Treville nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. "Agreed. I'll arrange a small band to travel with us to the chateau."

"We may both lose our positions," Richelieu said wearily. He looked toward the monastery, the men still working to clear what they could while areas still burned, to the field where lost souls were being buried. "A fight would have been preferred… at least then we would have a story to tell… but now," he paused, "now all we can do is wait and pray by some miracle that the queen and your man, Athos, escaped."

"And if they did?"

A slight smile turned the corner of Richelieu's mouth upward and he looked over his shoulder at Treville, "Well then," he paused, "I may have to admit the superiority of the Musketeers over my Red Guard, but," he inhaled and looked once more at the monastery, "I would not wager on their survival."

Treville stood, looked at him as they walked toward their horses, and said, "I wouldn't wager against them."