Reign (3 page)

Claude knelt down over the stream and dipped the edge of the bucket in to draw water. He stared at his reflection. He had dark circles under his eyes. Though he should have been relieved the plague had been over for the past weeks, he couldn't eat or sleep. He'd lost weight, his face now thin and pale. He didn't dare look at the spot on the bank where he'd seen her.

Below him, the stream was clear. The waters had risen, covering the last of the bones. The current had washed the dead's belongings away. He brought the bucket to his lips and took a long, cool sip.

He didn't see the man at first. He approached from the other side of the stream. He had gray hair and carried a walking stick, a bucket clutched in his other hand. As soon as Claude looked up at him, the man dropped to his knees. “I bow down before my god,” he said in his pagan tongue. “I praise him and give thanks for him, the Great One.”

Claude stood up. “This is not necessary, this is not…”

But the man kept his head down. He continued praying for another minute before responding. “You saved us from the plague. It was your sacrifice of human blood that brought us out of this hell. You have a divine hand—you alone had the power to stop it.”

“Please,” Claude begged. “Stop this…”

“You are a God to your people now. What you did was a miracle and you must be celebrated,” the man said.

“What I did was kill a fourteen-year-old girl,” Claude said, his voice rising in anger. “That is what I did.”

He turned away from the man and stormed up the bank. His whole face was hot. He could barely breathe, the heaviness in his chest was so great. Ever since the day he'd come out of that house—that
hell
—the plague survivors had treated him differently. He'd kept to himself, but they would find him walking in the woods or gathering water from the stream. They would find him, like this man had, and they would insist he was responsible for stopping the plague. That horrible, brutal act… they said he was a god.

At night, when he couldn't sleep, he'd see her face in the light. Those empty, dead eyes staring at him. Her face and neck were bright red from all the blood that rushed to them. He'd remember the feel of the knife as it cut into her arms. What had he done? Had his mother still been alive, she would have been disgusted with him. Would she even recognize the boy she'd raised in that house? The quiet, gentle son who'd helped her with dinner? Who'd tended to his little brothers?

Lately, he didn't recognize himself.

He doubled his pace through the woods. He couldn't say what had stopped the plague. No more people became infected after that day. It hadn't spread beyond the surrounding villages, and it was dying out there too. It was possible the human sacrifice had worked… but then what did that mean for him? Was his truly the only hand that could work miracles? How could Lily's death be that?

He kept his head down as he approached the back of the house, trying to stay hidden behind the trees. He took the back way to and from the stream now to avoid the square altogether. As he got closer he could hear people beyond his front door. In the passing days they'd left bread and rice there. There were goats and cheese and butter, all made for the village's supposed savior. Even Gerard had softened toward him. He always bowed his head when Claude walked past, a new fear in his eyes.

Claude disappeared through the back of the house, hoping whoever was out front would go away. He stored the water, then cut into a piece of stale bread. They were still knocking, though. It was persistent. A few raps here and there, then silence. Then it would start again.

He didn't have any friends in the town anymore. It was likely Gerard, or one of the villagers, coming to bear more news about the end of the plague. Maybe they'd offer him stew or a leg of venison. He opened the door a crack and peered outside.

As soon as they saw him, they dropped to their knees. There were hundreds of them. Horses were tied up in the square. There were carts and carriages, tents scattered in front of the cottages. They all said a quiet pagan prayer in unison before they dared raise their heads.

“They've come from the nearby villages,” Gerard said, stepping forward. “The plague has lifted there as well. They come with gifts for you, their savior.”

Two children came forward, passing Claude a crown made of white flowers, and two clay pots. Their mother was right behind them. “You saved us all. The human blood has spared my children.”

Tears were streaming down her face. Before Claude could respond, she moved away and two young men came forward, bowing down at his feet. They left him copper pots and pans.

One after another they followed, giving him gold coins, woven silk, and carved statues. They told him how he had saved their families. Their mother was alive because of him. He had spared their four-year-old daughter or their eldest son. “You have done it,” an elderly man said. “You alone.”

By the time the last villagers approached him, Claude could hardly speak. Lily's life had meant something to them. Those days in that dark, filthy house, watching her parents die… sacrificing her… it was worth something now. He had gone to hell and come back, and though he could never explain it, he couldn't say that he hadn't saved them with that one act. Somewhere, a part of him wanted to believe it.…

One of the last of the villagers was a girl just a year or two younger than he. She had striking green eyes and gold hair that was braided in the front. Tiny pink ribbons tied the ends up in the back. She held out a string of clay beads to him. Each one was painted with a different scene: the woods, an ocean, a village, a mountain. “I painted these for you,” she said. “They're blessed by the pagan leader in our village. They're a symbol of our world, of all that we're giving to you.”

Claude donned the necklace, feeling the weight of it. “Thank you,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “I'll cherish it always.”

“The entire town is burning,” the woman said. She wasn't very old, but her face was covered with deep wrinkles. “Soon the fire will be upon us. It will take everything—all our crops, our livestock. It will kill us all.”

Claude stood on the giant stone altar, looking up at the starry sky. “It will not. You will sacrifice half your crop and half your livestock so that the gods are appeased. This can be reversed yet. Your story can be unwritten.”

The woman's face changed. She seemed calmer now. She approached Claude, kissed his hand, and spoke. “I will do that, Your Greatness. I will go now.”

Then she walked across the square, to where her horse was tied up. She climbed on and rode off, thanking Gerard, who let the last visitor up to the stone altar. He wasn't much older than Claude. He held his hat in his hands, twisting it as he spoke. “The rockslide took my home and my entire family. It took more than half of our village. The few of us who are still there wish to leave, but we fear our gods.”

Claude looked down at the man, who was glowing in the light of the fire. Claude knew about the rockslide that had happened over fifty miles away, in another town. Most of the townspeople who had made it through the plague were killed after. There couldn't have been more than a dozen people there now, surviving alone for the past several months. “Sacrifice your best cow and your best goat. Then you may leave the village and do as you wish.”

As soon as he said it, it felt right to him. In the past months he'd learned to trust whatever words came to him in the moment. They were divinely inspired. He could see that now, even though it had been difficult at first. Hundreds and hundreds of people had visited him since the plague ended, thanking him for relieving them of their suffering. He had prevented more deaths. He had turned the course of history around. Now he knew that Lily's life had meant something. That act could only have been done by his hand, and from the act sprang forth a new power.

The man nodded. “Thank you, Your Greatness. I will do that, and we will move on. We can all move on because of you.” He bowed down before Claude, and there was so much gratitude in his eyes, Claude had to look away. It was sometimes hard to take it all in, to accept so much love and respect at once. For the first time in his life people were looking at him—
truly
looking at him. People needed to hear every word he said.

When the man left, Claude turned to the crowd of villagers surrounding the fire. “You may go now, until tomorrow,” he said. “Be at peace.”

They all bowed before him as he stepped down from the altar. Gerard wrapped a rabbit-fur coat around his shoulders, then kissed his hand, which was now covered with jeweled rings. He followed Claude all the way back to his cottage and waited outside until he shut the door. “Goodnight, Your Greatness,” he said softly. He hardly looked Claude in the eye anymore. Out of all the things that came with his new role as a pagan leader, that was one Claude liked best.

“Good evening, my beloved,” Clemence said as he walked in the door. She took his coat, then gave him a long, slow kiss. Claude held his new wife to him, feeling the curves of her hips. It always felt as good as it did the first time he kissed her, just three days after she'd arrived in the village, staring up at him with those striking green eyes.

“I missed you. You know I'd stay here every day and every night if I could,” he said. He sat down at the wooden table he'd shared with his family less than a year before. It all seemed so different now. Clemence had made a giant painting for the wall and had decorated the place with the fine goods the villagers brought. Copper pots hung above the stove. Candlesticks were set down on the mantle and furs were draped over every seat. The kitchen smelled of lamb and potatoes.

“I know you would,” she said, coming up behind him. “But you have to go to the square every night. Your people come from hundreds of miles just to see their pagan god. They would be lost without you.”

“I would be lost without them,” Claude said, knowing it was true. Who had he been before this? A sad, scared boy who was beaten by his father. A boy who walked through the square with his head down, afraid to be noticed by anyone. A boy who cried and pleaded with Gerard to let him out of that hell house, not knowing it was always his fate to be there.

Clemence leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I'm nearly done cooking the lamb they brought this morning for you. I seasoned it with the herbs you like,” she whispered. Then she turned back to the stove and hovered over the pot.

Claude breathed in the heavy rosemary scent and let himself feel happy. His family was not forgotten, but he understood everything now… understood it so clearly. They had died so he could live this life. He was always supposed to be a leader, a pagan god, and if he had not shed them, he could not be what he was now. Powerful, great, beloved.

Clemence stirred the pot, singing something to herself. He could barely make out the words at first. “Lily of the valley… pretty, blooming flowers…”

He had a strange, dizzy feeling. He saw a flash of Lily's face as she hung upside down. He remembered the feel of her flesh when he dug the knife in. All he could smell was the blood, and he had to swallow back the vomit.

He rested his head on the table, but Clemence kept singing. Her back was turned to him and he felt so weak, so scared, he could not even call out to her to stop. He kept seeing Lily, blood dripping down her wrists. How her neck was swollen and pink. She was hanging upside down, staring at him with her dead eyes. But this time, when he remembered her, she spoke.

“Rock, fire, flood, freeze, storm, star shower, sickness,” she said, her lips pale. Then she repeated it. “Rock, fire, flood, freeze, storm, star shower, sickness.”

He was saying the words to himself, saying them over and over, when Clemence grabbed his shoulders. “What is it? What's wrong, my beloved?”

She'd stopped singing, but he hadn't noticed. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, hunched over the table, lost in that memory. “I saw her—the girl I sacrificed. Lily. She was sending me a sign.”

“What sign?” Clemence asked.

Claude put his head in his hands, thinking of the villagers he had seen in the past days. The rockslide had happened just months before. Then there was the fire raging in the woman's village. “Rock, fire, freeze…” he said. “It's a timeline… a warning. I've been sent a warning.”

Clemence drew her brows together. “A warning for what?”

“Another sickness is coming for us.…” he said. “The plague, it has to be. The plague must be returning. What else could it be?”

Clemence stood there, looking down at him. She covered her mouth with her hands. She'd lost her entire family to the plague as well, three sisters and mother who'd been widowed when she was young. “No. Please, no,” she said.

But as Claude remembered the vision, he was certain Lily was sending him a sign. She was telling him what to do. “I just have to stop it before it comes,” he said. “I have to appease our pagan gods.”

“Yes,” Clemence said. “But how?”

Claude stared into the fire, his resolve hardening. “There must be another sacrifice.”

The two pagans pulled the rope as hard as they could, then secured it to one of the lower tree branches. Above them, the hunter hung upside down by his feet. He struggled, his cape over his face, his wrists tied behind his back. “Please don't do this,” he yelled. “I'm lost. I meant no harm. I have a family who needs me.”

The pagans surrounded the man, chanting prayers as Claude stepped forward. Clemence stood beside him, watching, her eyes cast down. Claude pulled the hood of his black cape over his head so his face was in the shadows. With each innocent, it was becoming easier to kill. The guilt wasn't as heavy as it had been after his third or fourth sacrifice. There was no hesitation now. He finally understood it, all the power his father must've felt when he took a man's life. How alluring it was, to be the one who chose who lived and who died.

Claude held the knife in his hand, swinging it in an arc, as he'd started to do before each sacrifice. He spoke in low, even tones, praying as he came closer to the innocent. “May your death appease our gods,” he said in the pagan tongue. “May it prevent the plague's return and bring us peace.”

The man twisted, trying to get free, and his cape fell off his face. Claude was looking directly at him. The man's skin was red from all the blood rushing to his head. “You don't have to do this,” he said.

They sometimes said that, but Claude now knew it was a lie. He did have to do this, just as he'd had to kill Lily that day in her house. Human sacrifice was the only thing that had stopped the plague, and it was the only thing that could stop it from coming back. He wouldn't let his family die again. He wouldn't let it steal Clemence, or anything he'd created since it left. He could feel its presence right behind him, chasing him—a wild beast always nipping at his heels.

“Our gods, be appeased, be appeased by this, our sacrifice,” he chanted. His pagan followers formed a circle around him, chanting with him, repeating his words over and over as he took another step toward the man.

Then he raised his knife and cut across the man's throat. The man started to scream. Blood rushed out of the wound, gurgling and red. Claude grabbed the side of the man's head and slashed into his neck again, stopping when the blade hit his windpipe.

Blood shot out, covering the front of Claude's shirt. After his second kill he'd felt the familiar queasiness he'd known as a boy. But now, with each sacrifice he grew stronger, untouchable. It was surprising how quickly you could get used to the smell of blood.

Claude took a step back, joining his followers as the man bled out. When the hunter had finally stopped moving and his skin had turned a ghostly white, Claude finished his last chant. The others stopped soon after, waiting for Claude to permit them to leave. “You may go now, my children,” he said. “The gods have accepted our sacrifice.”

Claude took Clemence's hand, which was cold to the touch. He helped her onto their horse. He noticed then that she was crying. She kept her head down, letting the tears fall onto her shirt.

She often cried after sacrifices, even though he'd told her it made her look weak. She had to show resolve in the face of death, otherwise the gods might punish her. He refused to acknowledge the tears now—he only hoped they would stop.

When they were riding back toward the village, she spoke. “That made ten,” she said.

Anger rose in his chest. “What is that to mean?”

“Ten innocents have been killed. When will it stop?” she asked. “How many more will die?”

“As many as it takes,” he snapped. “My hand has kept the plague from returning. Together we have slowed time. There is a reason for all this.”

She held on to him, her cheek resting against his back. Though it should have comforted her, she only cried harder. “I don't understand your reasons anymore.…”

He didn't respond. He didn't need her to understand his reasons, and he knew in some ways she never could. His power was growing and she was afraid. He had a gift that others did not, and as he learned to wield it with greater skill, he was sure to be confronted by skeptics. He would not cower to them.

As they rode through the valley, water splashed up around the horse's hooves. Within minutes, the bottoms of their capes were soaked. “What is this?” Claude said out loud. “What's happening?”

All around them the valley was flooded. Two feet of water or more. He knew in his heart something had changed this night. Whatever clock they had stopped had started ticking again, moving them closer to sickness.

He rode the horse as fast as he could and tied it up outside the cottage. He didn't have time to help Clemence or explain to her what was happening. Instead he ran inside, to the back wall. There his young wife had painted the warning for him. Lily's words, shown in seven images. He knew the third one was flood, but he had to look at the painting to believe it. How had the sacrifices not worked? Why had the flood come? The gods needed more from him, but how much more?

“It's the flood. It has come after all,” Clemence said from somewhere behind him. “Don't you see? The slaughter of innocents doesn't mean anything. It—”

“Don't you dare speak to one of your gods that way,” Claude said, spinning around. He stepped toward her, the rage building inside him. “How dare you question me. The flood has come because it was not enough! We have not spilled enough blood!”

Clemence backed up until she was against the wall. Her green eyes were big in the firelight. She stared up at him. “Forgive me…” she whispered.

“You are not forgiven,” Claude snarled. “I must kill, and others must kill now too, to appease me. That is what needs to be done. We can stop this. We can stop this still.…”

He turned back to the paintings, repeating Lily's words as he went through them. “Rock, fire, flood, freeze, storm, star shower, sickness…” How much time did they have? How could he kill in greater numbers?

He kept going through the pattern of events, wondering if Lily would come back to him. He wished to see her now, even if the memories were difficult. He wanted her to tell him what the gods needed.

“Again I beg your forgiveness, my beloved,” Clemence whispered. She bowed down to him before she went into the back bedroom. But Claude barely noticed her. He was still absorbed in his work, trying to figure out where they could find more innocents to sacrifice, and when. How much time did he have left?