Traitor's Chase

  “Why the two of you?” Athos asked, failing to hide his jealousy.

  “Because he speaks the most languages and I’m the most persuasive. The rest of you, find horses and supplies.” Milady wheeled around and stormed down the pier.

  Aramis shot Athos a gloating grin, then scurried after her.

  “I wasn’t saying that asking for information was a bad idea,” Athos muttered. “Only that we shouldn’t waste too much time doing it.”

  Porthos put a friendly arm around Athos’s shoulders. “What say you and I take care of the horses? Greg and Catherine can handle the supplies.” With that, he gave Greg a sly wink.

  Greg could feel himself turning red in embarrassment. At the same time, Catherine went white. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Of course it is!” Porthos told her. “Athos and I are best suited to acquire horses. Athos knows the most about horses—and I know how to get the best bargain.”

  “You?” Catherine asked. “You traded our horses for a boat!”

  “And now, I can probably trade that boat for some horses.” Porthos leaned in to Greg and whispered, “Figured I’d give you both a little alone time to work out whatever’s gone sour between you two. You can thank me later.” Then he dragged Athos down the pier before anyone else could protest.

  Catherine studied Greg for a moment, then bolted up the pier herself, as though afraid to be left alone with him.

  “Catherine, wait!” Greg raced after her and caught her arm. “I can explain everything.”

  “I understand everything.” Catherine struggled to pull away from him. “You can do magic, which is a dark art....”

  “It wasn’t magic! Where I’m from, everyone can do what I did.”

  “Then Artagnan must be a terrible place. Now let me go or I’ll scream.”

  “I’m not from Artagnan. I’m from the future!” Greg blurted out.

  Catherine stopped struggling and simply stared at Greg in shock.

  “That’s not possible,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Trust me, it is,” Greg told her. And before she could protest, he told her everything: about the Devil’s Stone, and how Dominic and Michel were really the same man, and how he and his parents had been sucked back through time. Once he started talking, he couldn’t stop himself, and to be honest, he didn’t want to stop. It was a relief to finally tell someone besides Aramis.

  Catherine didn’t say a word the whole time. She just stared at him, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and concern. When he finished, she sat at the edge of the fountain and shook her head.

  “Do you believe me?” Greg asked.

  “I don’t know,” Catherine admitted. “It all seems so bizarre … and yet, it also explains so much. About you—and Dinicoeur and Richelieu in particular. Certain things they said now make sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Dinicoeur said that all his plans weren’t for him, but for Richelieu—and that Richelieu had better take good care of himself, as his body really belonged to both of them.” Catherine’s eyes were alive now. Greg could sense that her mind was racing. “It’s as though I’ve spent the last few months looking at a painting that’s blurry and now it’s suddenly becoming clear. It must be even more strange for you, yes?”

  “‘Strange’ doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Greg said.

  “How did the Musketeers react when you told them you were from the future?”

  “Actually, only Aramis knows,” Greg replied sheepishly. “I didn’t think the others would believe it. Or that, if they did believe it, they’d still treat me the same way.”

  “Then why did you tell me?” Catherine asked.

  “I guess I wanted you to know the truth about me,” Greg admitted.

  Catherine smiled, as though flattered. Her astonishment seemed to have subsided and was now replaced by curiosity. “So, that tiny box you had … Everybody in the future has one?”

  “Almost everyone,” Greg told her.

  “And the horrible noise that came out of it. That’s what music sounds like in the future?”

  Greg laughed. “Not all of it. I think there’s some you’d actually like.”

  “Really? Could you play me some?”

  “I’d love to,” Greg said. “But I can’t. The battery is almost drained as it is.”

  “What’s a battery?” Catherine asked.

  “It’s uh … this little metal thing that gives the box all its power. In the future it’s easy to recharge, but there’s no way to do it here. Once it’s drained, the box won’t work anymore....”

  “And then you won’t be able to get home again,” Catherine concluded.

  “Yes.”

  “So … when you turned it on before, to frighten those men in the woods, you were risking your future to protect me?”

  “Uh, well … I guess,” Greg said. “Although I have to admit, I was also trying to protect myself.”

  “Oh, I suspect that if I hadn’t been held at knifepoint, you could have handled those men some other way.” Catherine looked down at her feet. “I’m sorry I misjudged you.”

  Greg was still a bit surprised that being from the future made him less frightening to Catherine than someone who could work magic, but he guessed that, in a world ruled by superstition, someone who controlled the dark arts would be far more frightening than someone who had been a victim of them. “That’s all right,” he said. “I understand why you reacted the way you did.”

  Catherine smiled again. “I think you and I are supposed to be acquiring supplies,” she said. And then, to Greg’s surprise, she extended the crook of her arm to him.

  Greg slipped his hand into it and the two of them set off into town.

  Now that he’d told the truth about himself, Catherine quickly warmed to him, as if sharing his secret had bonded them closer. The tension that had been between them on the boat was gone. Instead, Catherine peppered him with questions about life in the future. She was fascinated by his tales of airplanes and televisions and video games. She was also thrilled to be in Arles, gasping with wonder at everything they passed: the intricate drawbridges over the river, a gorgeous bathhouse, a large outdoor amphitheater. Even the smallest architectural details elicited oohs and aahs from her.

  They soon found the town’s open-air market. It was in a wide plaza—far larger than the market square in Paris—with a soaring obelisk in the center. Now that it was the middle of summer, the stalls were spilling over with fresh produce. Greg and Catherine quickly set about purchasing some. For the first time in days, Greg found himself having fun, as though they were on vacation, rather than hunting down a madman. He almost hated to have to steer their conversation back to Dinicoeur.

  “You asked before how I’d heard of the Devil’s Stone,” he told Catherine. “Well, now you know: It’s what brought me here. And I need to find it again if I’m ever going to return home. So I have to know: What did you hear Michel Dinicoeur say about it?”

  “It wasn’t much, I’m afraid,” Catherine replied. “It was the second time I heard him speak to Dominic. It didn’t make sense to me at the time, but I realize now that they were discussing how Michel intended to make Dominic immortal. Michel said he needed to find the Devil’s Stone, but it wouldn’t be much trouble, because he’d done it once before and knew where both pieces of it were.”

  Greg’s heart sank. “Wait. It’s in two pieces now?”

  “You didn’t know? You said you had to put both pieces together to travel through time.”

  “Yes, but that was in the future. I thought that, maybe, it had been broken in two after Dominic had found it. Or at least, I was hoping that was the case. Did he say where the two pieces were?”

  “He said the first was in Madrid … But as for the second, all he said was, it was right under the king’s nose.”

  “You mean, the second half of the Devil’s Stone is back in Paris?!” Greg shook his head. “This doesn?
??t make sense. If half the stone is in Paris, why would Michel go all the way to Spain to get the other half first?”

  “I don’t know.” Catherine lowered her eyes, as though ashamed. “I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. I was worried I’d be spotted, so I returned to my room. I’m sorry.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for,” Greg said. “Did you ever tell Milady about this?”

  Catherine gave him a sideways look. “What is it that you have against Milady?”

  “I’m just not sure that I trust her,” Greg admitted. “Do you?”

  Catherine hesitated a second too long before answering. “She has never done anything I considered suspicious.”

  “She invited you to come on this journey, even though you barely knew her. Why?”

  “She said she would require some assistance.”

  “Yes, but …” Greg tried to choose his words carefully. “She knew you were heading into hostile territory. In theory, it would have made sense to invite some soldiers along for protection....”

  “Rather than a mere handmaiden?” Catherine flushed, offended.

  “But you’re not a mere handmaiden,” Greg said quickly. “You worked close to Dominic Richelieu. You knew things others didn’t. I’m not saying it was a mistake to bring you. I just think it’s odd that Milady brought only you … unless she wanted some time with you alone to try to find out what you knew.”

  Catherine’s hard stare softened. She shook her head, as though upset with herself. “I have to admit, I asked myself some of the same questions. I even asked her if we should bring anyone along for protection, but she said our mission was a secret one and that we’d have your protection soon enough.”

  “Did she ask you about Richelieu and Dinicoeur?”

  “Yes. But she always made it sound like small talk, not like she was prying for information.”

  “And did you ever tell her about the Devil’s Stone?”

  Catherine bit her lip. “I might have. To be completely honest, I can’t remember. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why? You’ve done nothing wrong.” Greg tried to put a comforting hand on Catherine’s arm, but accidentally knocked an apple off a pile at a stall instead. It tumbled a short way across the cobblestones, coming to a rest at the base of the obelisk. Greg hurried over to pick it up, and in doing so, found himself facing the inscription on the base. It began:

  EDIFICATO AD GLORIAM CONSTANTINO II IMPERATORE MAGNO …

  Greg caught his breath. While he couldn’t read Latin, he didn’t need to, to recognize one word. “Constantine,” he repeated.

  “Is something wrong?” Catherine asked him.

  “No,” Greg said. Then he rushed back to the apple seller. “Was this city ruled by Emperor Constantine?” he asked.

  “All three of them,” the seller replied proudly. “Constantine the First came here from Rome. His son was born here. And his son, Constantine the Usurper, made Arles the capital of his empire.”

  “Did any of them build a white city near here?”

  The seller looked at Greg curiously. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. Why would they build another city when they had Arles? They made this the finest city in the Roman Empire. They built the bridges, the baths, the theater, the Arena … It was even more beautiful than it is now, with everything covered in marble brought all the way from the Alps.”

  “Everything was covered in marble?” Greg repeated. “What happened to it all?”

  “People stole it,” the seller said sadly. “They took it to build other things with, the fools. Can you imagine what that Arena would have looked like a thousand years ago?”

  “Yes,” Greg said. He could imagine what the entire city would have looked like. His heart was now pounding in his chest, due to his excitement. He spun around the market square, taking everything in, envisioning the city as it had once been. At the far end, he spotted Aramis and Milady exiting a building.

  “Are you gonna pay for that apple?” the seller asked.

  Greg slapped a silver coin in the man’s hand. “Thank you!” He grabbed Catherine’s arm and quickly led her across the square.

  “What’s gotten into you?” she asked.

  “This city used to be covered in marble.” Greg almost felt like laughing as he said it.

  “So?”

  “Marble is white.” Greg caught up to Aramis and Milady. Despite his suspicions about Milady, he couldn’t control his excitement. “Aramis! I’ve just discovered something wonderful.”

  “What is it?” his friend asked.

  “You know the White City of Emperor Constantine we were looking for? Well, we’re standing right in the middle of it.”

  FIFTEEN

  THE CLOISTER OF ST. TROPHIMUS WAS THE LARGEST MONASTERY in Arles. Founded over a thousand years earlier, it sat directly between the market plaza and the Roman theater. It was a peaceful oasis in the middle of the bustling city, centered around a central courtyard with beautiful gardens and a burbling fountain.

  And, as Aramis had hoped, it had a library.

  The library was quite large, almost the same size as the monastery’s church, and filled with bookshelves. A dozen monks were hunched over desks, translating ancient texts. Save for the scratches of their quill pens on parchment, it was deathly quiet.

  A young monk named Brother Timothy had greeted the boys at the cloister door. Timothy had been excited to learn Aramis was a cleric from Notre Dame who had come such a long way to visit their cloister—and had eagerly agreed to show them the library, with one caveat: The girls were not allowed inside.

  Greg had been pleased to hear this—he’d been scheming to ditch Milady somehow. Milady herself had been indignant, but she had ultimately capitulated and stayed with Catherine in the garden.

  “What is it that you have traveled so far to find?” Brother Timothy asked now, his voice barely a whisper.

  “A magic stone,” Aramis replied. “According to our records at Notre Dame, this city was the last place it was ever seen.”

  Timothy gave him a wary glance. “We are men of God, my brother. We do not deal in sorcery.”

  Aramis nodded. “Of course. I’m well aware of that. But you also record history. I know what I speak of sounds impossible, but I can assure you that the Devil’s Stone exists.”

  Greg heard a sharp gasp at the mention of the Devil’s Stone. On the far side of the library, an elderly monk had lifted his head from his work. The surprise in his eyes was visible from across the room.

  Aramis made a beeline for him. Greg and Timothy followed. Greg caught a glimpse of the page of text the old man was working on; it didn’t look like any book he had ever seen. The writing was beautiful, ornate calligraphy and the borders of each page were filled with elaborate illustrations. “This is Brother Leo,” Timothy said. “He is the finest artist we have here.”

  “I assume, from your reaction, that you know of the Devil’s Stone?” Aramis asked eagerly.

  “I do, although I have not thought of it in a long, long time.” Leo’s voice was tired and raspy. “I translated the tale of it from Latin when I was as young as Brother Timothy. At first, I considered it a waste of time; the story was too fantastical to take seriously. But Brother Francis, the head of St. Trophimus at the time, insisted that it was of great importance.”

  “Is your translation still here?” Greg asked.

  Leo nodded, waved Timothy to his side, and instructed him where to find the text. Timothy hurried off into the warren of bookshelves to find it.

  “Do you recall much of the story?” Aramis asked.

  Brother Leo’s eyes sparkled. “Quite a lot. It was one of the more interesting works I’ve ever done here. How much do the two of you know of the stone?”

  “We know it can make men immortal—and it can allow travel through time,” Greg replied.

  Brother Leo shook his head and chuckled. “That’s true, I suppose. But I think you boys misunderstand the true power of the stone: When on
e holds it, it will make one’s greatest desire come true.”

  “There are no limits to its power?” Aramis questioned.

  “Well, I suppose there must be some,” Leo admitted. “But not many. That’s why the stone was regarded as being so dangerous. Humans are ill equipped to rein in their desires when given so much power. Those who held the stone generally tried to conquer their fellow men, rather than helping them. I assume you’ve heard of Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar. Caligula. Nero …”

  “They all had the stone?” Greg asked.

  “So the legend goes,” Leo replied. “And when men weren’t doing bad things with the stone, they were doing even worse things to obtain it. Battles were fought for it. Rivers of blood were spilled. Finally, after the reign of Constantine the Third, a few wise men in this city decided mankind was unfit to have the stone. So they destroyed it. They broke the stone in two and had the halves taken to the farthest ends of the Empire.”

  “Where?” Greg asked.

  Brother Leo laughed. “There wouldn’t be much point to hiding the pieces of the stone if everyone knew where they were hidden.”

  Greg frowned, feeling foolish. “I understand that,” he said. “But we aren’t seeking the stone for the same reasons others have.”

  “That’s what everyone who comes looking for it says,” Leo replied.

  Greg started to press his point, but Aramis laid a hand on his arm, signaling him to back down, then tried a different tactic. “Surely, there must be more to the story of the stone, Brother?”

  Leo nodded. “Yes, but the details have grown hazy in my mind. You’ll have to consult the text for the rest.... Ah! Here comes Brother Timothy now.”

  To Leo’s surprise, however, Timothy emerged from the bookshelves empty-handed, a look of grave concern on his face. “This text,” the young monk said. “It’s not there.”

  “It must have been misplaced,” Leo said. “Someone removed it and didn’t return it properly.”

  “Well, it wasn’t one of our brothers,” Timothy said. “I’m the librarian. Anyone who requires anything from here comes to me first. If that text was moved, it was done without permission.”