Reign

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“Promise me you'll come back as soon as you can,” Kenna said, looking up into Bash's gray eyes. In the past weeks she'd fallen in love with the details. The way his dark hair came over his brows. The stubble that thickened above his top lip. How he always had this intense look, like he was squinting to see her better.

“Of course I will,” Bash said. “I hope we'll get answers there—at Visegard. The Darkness has been terrorizing the woods for too long. Who better to find him than the Master of Horse and Hunt?”

He smirked, and Kenna let out a small laugh. Lately, he'd pull her to him, muttering something about his fake title. She liked that he could make jokes with her. That he always wanted to be near her. That he'd rest his face against her neck and breathe her in, closing his eyes as if he was relishing every moment.

Bash knelt down to talk to Pascal. “This place The Darkness held you… it was in an abandoned village past the stream, just south of the mountain range, right? A town that started with a
B
?”

The little boy nodded. Just weeks before, Bash had found him alone in the woods, covered in blood. He said a man with sharp teeth had kidnapped him and held him for days in a place called Visegard. Bash knew it was The Darkness—the monster who lurked in the shadowy woods, a pagan god who was only appeased by the blood of innocents. In the past days Pascal and Kenna had grown close; she cared for him like a mother would. It always took Bash by surprise, how moved he was watching Kenna comb the little boy's hair or tie his shoes. She grew lovelier with every stolen glance.

“This has gone on too long,” Bash said, patting the boy's shoulder. “We'll find the monster in the woods—The Darkness. We won't come back until we do.”

“We should leave before sunset,” Nostradamus called out from across the palace lawn. Bash turned to him and saw that he had already climbed onto his horse. Bash had planned to go alone, but Nostradamus was seeking his own revenge. The Darkness had tortured and nearly killed his love, Olivia.

Bash grabbed Kenna's hand, squeezing it tight. He was suddenly aware of Pascal behind him and the guards stationed at the palace's back gate. He couldn't kiss her here; it might seem dishonorable. After all she'd endured with his father, he was careful not to draw her close to him in front of people or imply, in any way, she was only an object of lust.

He looked at her sweet, heart-shaped face, wanting to kiss her, to hold her. Instead, he said only, “I will miss you, Kenna.”

“I will miss you too,” she said. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, passionately. It drew all the breath from his body. He tried not to give in to it, but he wanted her—all of her. One kiss was not enough.

When she finally pulled away, he felt lighter. A heady, wild feeling had overcome him. He climbed on the horse and look down at her, smiling. He gave the reins one quick whip and was off, starting toward the trees.

“Beautiful work, Claude,” his mother said, looking at the tray of freshly baked rolls. He had folded the dough just the way she'd taught him, turning the ends down into an X. Now they were plump and delicious looking. The whole cottage smelled of warm bread.

Claude moved easily around the kitchen, helping his mother stir the stew or sort the fresh herbs he'd found by the river. His little brothers, Enzo and Jacques, played on the floor, driving around the horses Claude had carved for them out of wood. Claude relished the distraction, these tiny moments he could focus on. Things seemed so simple: fold the dough, wash the pots, do this, do that. When he was absorbed in this work, he could almost ignore the screams outside.

Almost…

“I am faster than anyone!” Enzo yelled, pushing his horse in front of Jacques's. “I can steal and get far away from here! No one will be able to catch me! No one!”

Claude shared a worried look with his mother. He tried to ignore it, instead collecting the baked rolls and putting them in a basket. A man had been caught in town just yesterday with pewter candlesticks. He'd stolen them from a nearby shrine, an offense punishable by death. Now the townspeople were all gathered in the square. They'd been there for hours, excitedly awaiting his execution. Even though he was nearly seventeen, Claude couldn't stand the thought of it. The one time his father had made him go to an execution, he'd snuck away from the crowd as soon as the man's head fell from the block, the wood stump covered with thick blood. He'd run behind the silversmith's shed and vomited until there was nothing left inside him.

“If you could just cut that last bit of goat's meat,” his mother said, gesturing to the slab of pink flesh on the wood counter. It still had some of the skin on it.

Claude went to it, not daring to breathe in the heavy scent of the meat. He held the knife above it, wanting to cut into it but unable to stop the queasiness from coming. He could still hear the people in the square. Their cheers had already risen and fallen just moments before. The man, whoever he was, was dead.

Claude closed his eyes as he made the first cut. He was nearly through the meat when the front door to the cottage banged open. His father came in, his skin covered with sweat. As soon as he saw Claude standing there, hunched over the counter, he sneered. “Boy, what did I tell you?” he said. “That's women's work. Don't let me catch you in the kitchen again.”

Claude wiped his hands on the front of his pants, then joined his brothers on the floor. He pretended to be interested in their toys, but his shoulders were tense. He knew Enzo and Jacques felt it too. They were quieter whenever their father came in, their voices barely a whisper.

Their father lumbered around the kitchen, opening cabinets and slamming them closed. He was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and huge, meaty hands. His hair was thick and greasy, and he always smelled like turned wine. He went to the bottom cupboards and finally found his bottle of rum. He took a few quick swigs, then dropped his hood on the kitchen table.

It was so hard to look away from it. It was a burlap sack speckled with dark brown spots. There were holes cut for the eyes and a thin string that ran around the neck to keep it from falling off.
It's a sick joke
, Claude thought. All the townspeople knew his father was the executioner, didn't they? Why pretend? His father always spent a great deal on the necessities—chickens, rice, cloth… rum—the week after an execution. He used all the same coins that he had just been paid. And even if he didn't, he was still so distinctive. That uneven, half-drunk gait so obviously
him
. How could anyone mistake the executioner for someone else?

“What are you looking at, boy?” his father asked, catching him staring at the hood. “It scares you, doesn't it?”

“Arthur, please, leave him alone,” Claude's mother said softly. “Please.”

His father took two more swigs from the rum bottle, his gaze fixed on his oldest son. “Always protecting him…”

Claude knew what was coming, and he braced himself as if his father were already upon him. He grabbed Enzo's hand and led him toward the back door. “Go play out back,” he said, pushing Jacques's shoulder. “Go on, now. Don't come back in until I say.”

The littlest boys weren't even out the door when his father started. “You know what the townspeople think of you?” he asked. “They think you're worthless. You're nothing. Their sons are out helping their fathers in the fields. Some of them are going off to fight. And you can't even watch a man's head come off without retching in the bushes.”

Claude kept his eyes on the floor. Enzo had left one of the wooden horses there, and he stared down at it, noticing how the light from the window cast its shadow on the floor. He always went back to the same moment, the only memory that could bring him away from here. Lily standing by the stream, picking flowers. Lily looking up at him and realizing he was staring at her, staring at her purple-blue eyes and black hair, noticing the way her corset dipped in the front. Lily smiling back.

She was three years younger than he, the daughter of the village blacksmith. Her parents wouldn't discuss marriage until she turned fifteen, but he was certain she was meant for him. Every time they passed in the village square or he met her gaze at church, he was even more certain. One day, they'd be together. One day, she'd be his.

Claude heard some of the words:
useless
,
coward
,
good-for-nothing
. His mother tried to protect him (bless her, she always tried), but nothing could change his father's course once he'd decided it. Claude didn't respond. He closed his eyes, trying to picture Lily that day at the stream, but that only angered his father more. Soon he was up from the table, taking his belt off and folding it in his hand. He'd raised his arm for the first blow when they heard the boys screaming outside.

“Mama! Papa!” Enzo's voice called. “Help, Papa, help!”

Drunk as he was, their cries woke his father from his anger. He started toward the back door, Claude and his mother close behind. When they got outside, the late afternoon sun was streaming through the trees. Enzo and Jacques were standing at the edge of the woods, looking at two men who'd arrived on horseback. Claude had never seen them before—they must have come from another village, taking a path in the forest. One of the men was still on his horse, but the other had fallen to the ground.

“Good lord, what's happened?” Claude's mother said, looking down at the men. The one on the ground was twisting in pain. His skin was a strange pinkish color. His nose bled onto the grass.

“There's a sickness.…” the man on the horse said. Claude could tell he was dying too; his fingers were blackish green. He had giant, swollen lumps in his neck. “Please, we need…”

He struggled with his words. Claude scanned the woods behind them, knowing they must've come through the forest. The family's cottage faced the trees, the brilliant green hills disappearing behind them. He'd heard about the plague that had swept through centuries before. There had been recurrences since, but was that what this was? How could he know what it would look like up close?

“The Black Death…” his mother whispered, confirming it.

“Stay away from us,” his father yelled at the men. “We can't help you. Go back where you came from.”

Claude ran to his brothers and pulled them farther away from the men. “You didn't touch them, did you? How close did you come to them?” he asked, pushing his family back against the house. He covered his mouth and nose with the front of his shirt, gesturing to his brothers to do the same.

Jacques looked terrified. He turned over his hand, which was covered with the man's blood. “I was trying to help.…” he said, his voice a sad whisper.

“Mama, we tried to help them!” Enzo repeated. Then he looked up at his parents. His mother's face had turned into something unrecognizable. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Mama?” Enzo asked. “Mama, why are you crying?”