فصل 13

The quota system has worked for over two hundred years, and although it fluctuates region to region, it makes it crystal clear what each scythe’s responsibility to the world is. Of course it’s all based on averages—we can go days or even weeks without gleaning—but we must meet our quota before the next conclave. There are those eager ones who glean early, and find themselves with little to do as conclave draws near. There are those who procrastinate and have to hurry toward the end. Both those approaches lead to sloppiness and unintentional bias.

I often wonder if the quota will ever change, and if so, how much. Population growth is still off the charts, but it’s balanced by the Thunderhead’s ability to provide for an ever-increasing population. Renewable resources, subsurface dwellings, artificial islands, and all without there ever being any less green or a sense of overcrowding. We have mastered this world, and yet protected it in a way that our forefathers could scarcely have dreamed.

But all things are limited. While the Thunderhead does not interfere with the Scythedom, it does suggest the number of scythes there should be in the world. Currently there are approximately five million people gleaned per year worldwide—a tiny fraction of the death rate in the Age of Mortality, and nowhere near enough to balance population growth. I shudder to think how many more scythes it would take, and how many gleanings would be required, if we ever need to curb population growth altogether.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

13

Vernal Conclave

Fulcrum City was a post-mortal metropolis toward the very center of MidMerica. There, by the river, set low between the skysoaring spires of graceful city living, was a venerable structure of stone, impressive if not in height then in solidity. Marble columns and arches supported a great copper dome. It was an unyielding homage to ancient Greece and Imperial Rome, the birthing grounds of civilization. It was still called the Capitol Building, for it was once a state capital, back when there were still states—in those days before government became obsolete. Now it had the honor of holding the administrative offices of the MidMerican Scythedom, as well as hosting its conclave three times a year.

• • •

It was pouring rain the day of the Vernal Conclave.

Citra rarely minded the rain, but a day of gloom coupled with a day of pure tension did not sit well with her. But then, a bright sunny day would feel mocking. Citra realized there was no good day to be presented to an intimidating elegy of scythes.

Fulcrum City was only an hour away by hypertrain, but of course, Scythe Faraday saw hypertrains as an unnecessary extravagance. “Besides, I want scenery rather than a windowless subterranean tunnel. I’m a human being, not a mole.” A standard train took six hours, and Citra did enjoy the scenery along the way, although she spent most of the trip studying.

Fulcrum City was on the Mississippi River. She recalled that there was once a giant silver arch on the riverbank, but it was gone now. Destroyed back in the Age of Mortality by something called “terrorism.” She’d have learned more about the city if she weren’t so focused on her poisons and weapons.

They had arrived the evening before conclave, and stayed in a downtown hotel. Morning came much too quickly.

As Citra, Rowan, and Scythe Faraday walked from their hotel at the awful hour of six thirty a.m., people in the streets ran to them and handed them umbrellas, choosing to get wet rather than see a scythe and his apprentices go without one.

“Do they know you’ve taken two apprentices instead of just one?” Citra asked.

“Of course they know,” said Rowan. “Why wouldn’t they?”

But Scythe Faraday’s silence on the matter was a clear red flag to Citra.

“You did clear it with the High Blade, didn’t you, Scythe Faraday?”

“I have found that with the Scythedom, it is better to ask forgiveness than permission,” he told them.

Citra gave Rowan an I-told-you-so look, and he cocked his umbrella slightly so he didn’t have to see it.

“It will not be a problem,” Faraday said, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

Citra looked to Rowan again, who was no longer eclipsed by his umbrella. “Am I the only one who’s worried about that?” Rowan shrugged. “We have immunity until Winter Conclave, and it can’t be revoked—everyone knows that. What’s the worst they could do?” • • •

Some scythes arrived at the Capitol Building on foot, as they had; others in publicars, some in private cars, and several in limousines. There were ropes to hold back spectators on either side of the wide marble staircase leading up to the building, as well as peace officers and members of the BladeGuard—the Scythedom’s elite security force. The arriving scythes were protected from their adoring public, even if the public was not protected from them.

“I despise ‘running the gauntlet.’” Scythe Faraday said, referring to climbing the steps to conclave. “It’s even worse when it’s not raining. The crowd on either side is a dozen people deep.” Now it was only half that. It never occurred to Citra that people would come out to see scythes arriving at conclave, but then, all celebrity events drew onlookers, so why not a gathering of scythes?

Some of the arriving scythes gave obligatory waves, others played to the crowd, kissing babies and randomly granting immunity. Citra and Rowan followed Faraday’s lead, which was to ignore the crowd completely.

There were dozens of other scythes in the entry vestibule. They removed their raincoats to reveal robes of all colors, all textures. It was a rainbow that summoned forth anything but thoughts of death. This, Citra realized, was intentional. Scythes wished to be seen as the many facets of light, not of darkness.

Through a grand arch lay a grander chamber beneath the central dome—a rotunda where hundreds of scythes greeted one another, engaging in casual conversation around an elaborate breakfast spread in the center. Citra wondered what it was that scythes talked about. The tools of gleaning? The weather? The chafing of their robes? It was intimidating enough to be in the presence of a single scythe. To be surrounded by hundreds was enough to make one crumble.

Scythe Faraday leaned over and spoke to them in a hushed voice. “See there?” He pointed to a bald, heavily bearded man. “Scythe Archimedes—one of the world’s oldest living scythes. He’ll tell you he was there in the Year of the Condor, when the Scythedom was first formed, but it’s a lie. He’s not that old! And over there . . .” He pointed to a woman with long silver hair in a pale lavender robe. “That’s Scythe Curie.” Citra gasped. “The Grande Dame of Death?”

“So they say.”

“Is it true she gleaned the last president, before the Thunderhead was given control?” Citra asked.

“And his cabinet, yes.” He looked at her—perhaps a bit wistfully, Citra thought. “Her actions were quite controversial back in the day.” The woman caught them glancing her way and turned to them. Citra chilled when her piercing gray eyes zeroed in on her. Then the woman smiled at the three of them, nodded, and returned to her conversation.

There was a group of four or five scythes closer to the assembly chamber entrance, the doors of which were still closed. They wore bright robes studded with gems. The center of their attention was a scythe in royal blue whose robe contained what appeared to be diamonds. He said something and the others laughed a little too heartily for it to be anything but sycophantic.

“Who’s that?” Citra asked.

Scythe Faraday’s expression took a turn toward sour.

“That,” he said, not even trying to hide his distaste, “is Scythe Goddard, and his company is best avoided.” “Goddard . . . isn’t he the master of mass gleanings?” Rowan asked.

Faraday looked at him a bit concerned. “Where did you hear that?”

Rowan shrugged. “I have a friend who’s obsessed with that kind of stuff, and he hears things.” Citra gasped, realizing she had heard of Goddard, not by name, just by deed. Or, more accurately, rumor because there was never any official report. But like Rowan said, you hear things. “Is he the one who gleaned an entire airplane?” “Why?” asked Faraday, giving her a cold, accusing eye. “Does that impress you?” Citra shook her head. “No, the opposite.” But she couldn’t help but be a bit dazzled by the way the man’s robe caught the light. Everyone was—which must have been his intent.

And yet his was not the most ostentatious robe on display. Moving through the crowd was a scythe in a lavishly gilded robe. The man was so large, his robe seemed a bit like a golden tent.

“Who’s the fat guy?” Citra asked.

“He looks important,” said Rowan.

“Indeed,” said Scythe Faraday. “’The fat guy,’ as you call him, is the High Blade. The most powerful man in the MidMerican Scythedom. He presides over conclave.” The High Blade worked the crowd like a great gaseous planet bending space around it. He could have tweaked his nanites to eliminate at least some of his girth, but clearly he had chosen not to. The choice was a bold statement and his size made him an imposing figure. When he saw Faraday, he excused himself from his current conversation and made his way toward them.

“Honorable Scythe Faraday, always a pleasure to see you.” He used both his hands to grip Faraday’s in what was meant to be a heartfelt greeting, but felt forced and artificial.

“Citra, Rowan, I’d like you to meet High Blade Xenocrates,” Faraday said, then turned back to the large man. “These are my new apprentices.” He took a moment to appraise them. “A double apprenticeship,” he said jovially. “I believe that’s a first. Most scythes have trouble with just one.” “The better of the two shall receive my blessing for the ring.”

“And the other,” said the High Blade, “will be sorely disappointed, I’m sure.”  Then he moved on to greet other scythes that were just now coming in from the rain.

“See?” Rowan said. “And you were worried.”

But to Citra, nothing about the man seemed sincere.

• • •

Rowan was nervous, he just didn’t want to admit it. He knew admitting it would make Citra more worried, which would make him more worried. So he bit back his fears and misgivings, and kept his eyes and ears open, taking in everything that happened around him. There were other apprentices there. He overheard two talking about how this was the “big day.” A boy and a girl—both older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, would be getting their rings today and become junior scythes. The girl lamented about how, for the first four years, they would have to get approval from the selection committee for their gleanings.

“Every single one,” she complained. “Like we’re babies.”

“At least the apprenticeship isn’t four years long,” Rowan interjected, as a way to get into the conversation. The two looked at him with mild disgust.

“I mean, it takes four years to get a college degree, right?” Rowan knew he was just digging himself deeper, but he had already committed. “At least it doesn’t take that long to get a license to glean.” “Who the hell are you?” the girl asked.

“Ignore him, he’s just a spat.”

“A what?” Rowan had been called many things, but never that.

They both smirked at him. “Don’t you know anything?” said the girl. “’Spat,’ as in ‘spatula.’ It’s what they call new apprentices, because you’re not good for anything but flipping your scythe’s burgers.” Rowan laughed at that, which just irritated them.

Then Citra came up next to them. “So if we’re spatulas, what does that make you? Safety scissors? Or are you just a couple of tools?” The boy looked like he might slug Citra. “Who’s your mentor scythe?” he asked her. “He should be told of this disrespect.” “I am,” said Faraday, putting his hand on Citra’s shoulder. “And you don’t warrant anyone’s respect until after you receive your ring.” The boy seemed to shrink by about three inches. “Honorable Scythe Faraday! I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” The girl took a step away as if to distance herself from him.

“Best of luck today,” he told them with a magnanimous gesture that they didn’t deserve.

“Thank you,” said the girl, “but if I may say, luck plays no part. We’ve both trained long and have been taught well by our scythes.” “Very true,” Faraday said. They nodded respectful good-byes that bordered on bows, and left.

After they were gone, Faraday turned to Rowan and Citra. “The girl will get her ring today,” he said. “The boy will be denied.” “How do you know?” asked Rowan.

“I have friends on the bejeweling committee. The boy is smart, but too quick to anger. It’s a fatal flaw that cannot be tolerated.” As annoying as Rowan found the kid, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. “What happens to the apprentices that get denied?” “They are returned to their families to take up life where they left off.” “But life can never be the same after a year of training to be a scythe,” Rowan pointed out.” “True,” said Faraday, “but only good can come from a keen understanding of what it takes to be a scythe.” Rowan nodded, but thought, for a man of such wisdom, that seemed very naive. Scythe training was a scarring endeavor. Purposefully so, but it was scarring nonetheless.

The rotunda became increasingly crowded with scythes, and the marble walls, floor, and dome made voices echo into a cacophony. Rowan tried to hear more individual conversations, but they were lost in the din. Faraday had told them that the great bronze doors to the assembly room would open promptly at seven a.m., and the scythes would be dismissed at the stroke of seven p.m. Twelve hours to accomplish any and all business. Anything left undone would have to wait four months until the next conclave.

“In the early days,” Scythe Faraday told them as the doors opened to admit the throng, “a conclave would last for three days. But they discovered that after the first day, it became little more than arguments and posturing. There’s still plenty of that, but it’s curtailed. It behooves us all to move through the agenda quickly.” The chamber was a huge semicircle with a large wooden rostrum at the front where the High Blade sat, and slightly lower seats on either side for the Conclave Clerk, who kept records, and the Parliamentarian, who interpreted rules and procedures if any questions arose. Scythe Faraday had told them enough about the power structure of the Scythedom for Rowan to know that much.

The first order of business, once everyone was settled, was the Tolling of the Names. One by one, in no particular order, the scythes came to the front to recite various names of people they had gleaned over the past four months.

“We can’t recite them all,” Scythe Faraday told them. “With over three hundred scythes, it would be more than twenty-six thousand names. We are to choose ten. The ones we most remember, the ones who died most valiantly, the ones whose lives were the most notable.” After each name spoken, an iron bell was rung, solemn and resonant. Rowan was pleased to hear Scythe Faraday reciting Kohl Whitlock’s name as one of his chosen ten.

• • •

The Tolling of the Names got old very quickly for Citra. Even reduced to ten names each, the recitation lasted for almost two hours. It was noble that the scythes saw fit to pay homage to the gleaned, but if they only had twelve hours to complete three months worth of business, she didn’t see the sense of it.

There was no written agenda, so there was no way for her and Rowan to know what came next, and Scythe Faraday only explained things as they happened.

“When is our test? Will we be taken somewhere else for it?” Citra asked, but Faraday shushed her.

After the Tolling of the Names, the next order of business was a ceremonial washing of the hands. The scythes all rose and lined up before two basins, one on either side of the rostrum. Again, Citra didn’t see the point. “All this ritual—it’s like something you’d see in a tone cult,” she said when Faraday returned to his seat, hands still damp.

Faraday leaned over to her and whispered. “Don’t let any of the other scythes hear you say that.” “Do you feel clean after sticking your hands in water that a hundred other hands have been in?” Faraday sighed. “It brings solace. It binds us as a community. Do not belittle our traditions because one day they may be yours.” “Or not,” goaded Rowan.

Citra shifted uncomfortably and grumbled. “It just seems like a waste of time.” Faraday must have known her real gripe was with not knowing when they would be presented to the conclave and taken away for their test. Citra was not a girl who could endure being in the dark for long. Perhaps that’s why Faraday made sure that she was. He was constantly poking at their weaknesses.

Next, a number of scythes were singled out for showing bias in their gleanings. This held some interest for Citra, and gave her some insight as to how it all worked behind the scenes.

One scythe had gleaned too few wealthy people. She was reprimanded and assigned to only glean the rich between now and the next conclave.

Another scythe was found to have racial ratio issues. High on the Spanic, low on the Afric.

“It’s due to the demographic where I live,” he pleaded. “People have a higher percentage of Spanic in their personal ratios.” High Blade Xenocrates was not swayed. “Then cast a wider net,” he said. “Glean elsewhere.” He was charged with bringing his ratios back into line or face being disciplined—which consisted of having future gleanings preapproved by the selection committee. Having one’s freedom to glean taken away was a humiliation that no scythe wanted.

Sixteen scythes were taken to task. Ten were warned, six were disciplined. The oddest situation was a scythe who was far too pretty for his own good. He got called out for gleaning too many unattractive people.

“What an idea,” one of the other scythes shouted out. “Imagine what a world it would be if we gleaned only ugly people!” That brought a round of laughter from the rest of the room.

The scythe tried to defend himself, claiming the old adage, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” but the High Blade wasn’t buying it. This was apparently his third such offense, so he was given permanent probation. He could live as a scythe but could not glean, “Until the next reptilian year,” the High Blade proclaimed.

“That’s crazy,” Citra commented just loud enough for Rowan and Faraday to hear. “No one knows what animals future years will be named after. I mean, the last reptilian year was the Year of the Gecko and that was before I was born.” “Precisely!” said Faraday with a little bit of guilty glee. “Which means his punishment could end next year or never. Now he’ll spend his time lobbying the office of the Calendaria to name a year after the skink, or Gila monster, or some other reptile that has not yet been used.” Before they moved on from the disciplinary portion of the morning, there was one more scythe to be called out. It wasn’t a matter of bias, however.

“I have before me an anonymous note,” the High Blade said, “which accuses Honorable Scythe Goddard of malfeasance.” A rumble throughout the room. Citra saw Scythe Goddard whisper to his inner circle of companions, then stood. “Of what sort of malfeasance am I being accused?’ “Unnecessary cruelty in your gleaning.”

“And yet this accusation comes anonymously!” said Goddard. “I cannot believe that a fellow scythe would show such cowardice. I demand that the accuser reveal his or herself.” More rumbles around the room. No one stood up, no one took responsibility.

“Well then,” said Goddard, “I refuse to answer to an invisible accuser.” Citra expected High Blade Xenocrates to press the issue. After all, an accusation from a fellow scythe should be taken seriously—but the High Blade put the paper down and said, “Well, if there’s nothing more, we’ll take our midmorning break.” And the scythes, Earth’s grand bringers of death, began to file out into the rotunda for donuts and coffee.

Once they were in the rotunda, Faraday leaned close to Citra and Rowan and said, “There was no anonymous accuser. I’m sure that Scythe Goddard accused himself.” “Why would he do that?” asked Citra.

“To take the steam out of his enemies. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Now anyone who accuses him will be assumed to be the cowardly anonymous accuser. No one will go after him now.” • • •

Rowan found himself less interested in the stagecraft and parrying within the assembly room as he was in the things that went on outside of it. He was already getting a feeling for the Scythedom and how it truly worked. The most important business did not occur within the bronze doors, but in the rotunda and dim alcoves of the building—of which there were many, probably for this exact purpose.

The early morning conversations had been just small talk, but now, as the day progressed, Rowan could see a number of scythes congregating during break into small klatches, doing side deals, building alliances, pushing secret agendas.

He overheard one group that was planning to propose a ban on remote detonators as a method of gleaning—not for any ethical reason, but because the gun lobby had made a sizeable contribution to a particular scythe. Another group was trying to groom one of the younger scythes for a position on the selection committee, so that he might sway gleaning choices when they needed those choices swayed.

Power politics might have been a thing of the past elsewhere, but it was alive and seething in the Scythedom.

Their mentor did not join any of the plotters. Faraday remained solitary and above petty politics, as did perhaps half of the scythes.

“We know the schemes of the schemers,” he told Rowan and Citra as he negotiated a jelly donut. “They only get their way when the rest of us want them to.” Rowan made a point to observe Scythe Goddard. Many scythes approached him to talk. Others grumbled about him under their breath. His entourage of junior scythes were a multicultural bunch, in the old-school meaning of the word. While no one had pristine ethno-genetics anymore, his inner circle showed traits that leaned toward one ethnos or another. The girl in green seemed mildly PanAsian, the man in yellow had Afric leanings, the one in fiery orange was as Caucasoid as could be, and he himself leaned slightly toward the Spanic. He was clearly a scythe who wanted high visibility—even his grand gesture of ethnic balance was a visible one.

Although Goddard never turned to look, Rowan had the distinct feeling that he knew Rowan was watching him.

• • •

For the rest of the morning, proposals were made and hotly debated in the assembly room. As Scythe Faraday had said, the schemers only prevailed when the more high-minded body of the Scythedom allowed. The ban on remote detonators was adopted—not because of bribes from the gun lobby, but because blowing people up was determined to be crude, cruel, and beneath the Scythedom. And the young scythe put forth for membership on the selection committee was voted down, because no one on that committee should be in anyone’s pocket.

“I should like to be on a scythe committee one day,” Rowan said.

Citra looked at him oddly. “Why are you talking like Faraday?”

Rowan shrugged. “When in Rome . . .”

“We’re not in Rome,” she reminded him. “If we were, we’d have a much cooler place for conclave.” Local restaurants vied for the chance to cater the conclave, so lunch was a buffet out in the rotunda even more sumptuous than the one at breakfast—and Faraday packed his plate, which was out of character for him.

“Don’t think ill of him,” Scythe Curie told Rowan and Citra, her voice mellifluous, yet sharp at the same time. “For those of us who take our vow of austerity seriously, conclave is the only time we allow ourselves the luxury of fine food and drink. It reminds us that we’re human.” Citra, who had a one-track mind, took this as her opportunity to get information.

“When will the apprentices be tested?” she asked.

Scythe Curie smirked and brushed back her silky silver hair. “The ones who are hoping to receive their ring today were tested last night. As for all the others, you’ll be tested soon enough,” she said. Citra’s frustration made Rowan snicker, which earned him a glare from Citra.

“Just shut up and stuff your face,” she said. Rowan was happy to oblige.

• • •

As focused as Citra was on the upcoming test, she began to wonder what in conclave she would miss when the apprentices were taken for testing. Like Rowan, she found conclave to be an education like none other. There were few people beyond scythes and their apprentices who ever witnessed this. And those others who did caught only a glimpse—such as the string of salespeople after lunch, who were each given ten minutes to expound the virtues of some weapon or poison they were trying to sell to the Scythedom, and more importantly the Weaponsmaster, who had the final decision over what the Scythedom purchased. They sounded like those awful people on info-holograms. “It dices, it slices! But wait! There’s more!” One salesperson was selling a digital poison that would turn the healing nanites in a person’s bloodstream into hungry little bastards that would devour the victim from the inside out in less than a minute. He actually used the word “victim,” which immediately soured the scythes. He was flatly dismissed by the Weaponsmaster.

The most successful salesperson was offering a product called Touch of Quietude, which sounded more like a feminine hygiene product than a death delivery system. The woman selling it displayed a small pill—but not to give to the subject. The pill was for the scythe. “Take with water and within seconds your fingers will secrete a transdermal poison. Anyone you touch for the next hour will be instantly and painlessly gleaned.” The Weaponsmaster was so impressed, he came up to the stage to take a dose, then, in the ultimate demonstration, proceeded to glean the saleswoman. She sold fifty vials of the stuff to the Scythedom posthumously.

The rest of the afternoon consisted of more discussion, arguments, and votes about policy. Scythe Faraday only found fit to voice his opinion once—when it came to forming an immunity committee.

“It seems clear to me that there should be oversight for the granting of immunity, just as the selection committee provides oversight for gleaning.” Rowan and Citra were pleased to see that his opinion carried a great deal of weight. Several scythes who had initially voted against the forming of an immunity committee switched their vote. However, before a final tally was taken, High Blade Xenocrates announced that time had run out for legislative issues.

“The subject will be at the top of our agenda for the next conclave,” he announced.

A number of scythes applauded, but several rose up and shouted their grievous discontent at the issue being tabled. Scythe Faraday did not voice his own displeasure. He took a long breath in and out. “Interesting . . .” is all he said.

This might have all pinged loudly on Rowan and Citra’s radar, had the High Blade not immediately announced that the next order of business was the apprentices.

Citra found herself wanting to grip Rowan’s hand in anticipation and squeeze it until it was bloodless, but she restrained herself.

Rowan, on the other hand, followed his mentor’s lead. He took a deep breath in, then out, and tried to let his anxiety wash from him. He had studied all he could study, learned all he could learn. He would do the best he could do. If he failed today there would be more than enough chances to redeem himself.

“Good luck,” Rowan said to Citra.

“You too,” she returned. “Let’s make Scythe Faraday proud!”

Rowan smiled, and thought that Faraday might smile at Citra as well, but he didn’t. He just kept his gaze on Xenocrates.

First, the candidates for Scythedom were called up. There were four whose apprenticeship was now complete. Having had their final test the evening before, there was nothing left but to ordain them. Or not, as the case may be. Word was there was a fifth candidate who had failed the final test last night. He or she wasn’t even invited to conclave.

Three rings were brought out, resting on red velvet pillows. The four looked to one another, now, aware that even though they had passed their final test, one of them would not be ordained and would be sent home in shame.

Scythe Faraday turned to the scythe beside him and said, “Only one scythe gleaned himself since last conclave, and yet three are being confirmed today. . . . Has the population grown so drastically in three months that we need two additional scythes?” The three chosen apprentices were called one by one by Scythe Mandela, who presided over the bejeweling committee. As each knelt before him, he said something about each of them in turn, and then handed them their rings, which they slipped on their fingers and held to show the conclave—which responded for each of them with obligatory applause. Then they announced their Patron Historic, the luminary from history whom they would name themselves after. The conclave applauded with each announcement, accepting Scythes Goodall, Schrödinger, and Colbert into the MidMerican Scythedom.

When the three had left the stage, the hot-tempered boy remained,  just as Scythe Faraday had said earlier in the day.  He stood alone after the applause died down. Then Scythe Mandela said, “Ransom Paladini, we have chosen not to ordain you as a scythe. Wherever life leads you, we wish you well.  You are dismissed.” He lingered for a few moments, as if thinking it might be a joke—or maybe one final test. Then, his lips pursed, his face turned red and he strode quickly up the center aisle in silence, pushing through the heavy bronze doors, their hinges complaining at his exit.

“How awful,” said Citra. “At least they could applaud him for trying.” “There are no accolades for the unworthy,” Faraday said.

“One of us will exit that way,” Rowan pointed out to her. He resolved that if it was him, he would take his time going down that aisle. He’d make eye contact and nod to as many scythes as he could on his way out. Were he to be ejected, he would leave that final conclave with dignity.

“The remaining apprentices may now come forward,” said Xenocrates. Rowan and Citra rose, ready to face whatever the Scythedom had in store for them.