فصل 17

I think it’s wise that scythes may not glean one another. It was clearly implemented to prevent Byzantine grabs at power; but where power is concerned there are always those who find ways to grasp for it.

I think it’s also wise that we are allowed to glean ourselves. I will admit there were times when I considered it. When the weight of responsibility felt so heavy, leaving the yoke of the world behind seemed a better alternative. But one thought always stayed my hand from committing that final act.

If not me, who?

Will the scythe who replaces me be as compassionate and fair?

I can accept a world without me in it . . . but I can’t bear the thought of other scythes gleaning in my absence.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

17

The Seventh Commandment

Citra and Rowan were awakened sometime after midnight by someone pounding on the front door. They left their rooms, meeting in the hallway, and both reflexively glanced toward Scythe Faraday’s closed door. Citra turned the knob, finding it unlocked, and pushed it open just enough to see that the scythe wasn’t there. His bed had not yet been slept in tonight.

It was unusual but not unheard of for him to stay out this late. They had no idea what his occasional late nights were about, and they didn’t want to ask. Curiosity was one of the first casualties of apprenticeship. They had long since learned there were many things they’d rather not know in the life of a scythe.

The relentless pounding continued—not the rapping of knuckles, but the full-fisted heel of a hand.

“So?” said Rowan. “He forgot his keys. So?”

It was the most sensible explanation, and didn’t the most sensible explanation tend to be correct? They approached the door, steeling themselves for admonishment.

How could you not hear me knocking? he would chide. Last I heard, no one’s been deaf for two hundred years.

But when they opened the door, they were faced not with Scythe Faraday, but with a pair of officers. Not common peace officers, but members of the BladeGuard, the sign of the Scythedom clearly emblazoned on the breast of their uniforms.

“Citra Terranova and Rowan Damisch?” one of the guardsmen asked.

“Yes?” answered Rowan. He stepped slightly forward, putting a shoulder in front of Citra in a sort of protective stance. He felt it gallant, but Citra found it irritating.

“You’ll need to come with us.”

“Why?” asked Rowan. “What’s going on?”

“It’s not our place to say,” the second guardsman told them.

Citra pushed Rowan’s protective shoulder to the side. “We’re scythe’s apprentices,” she said, “which means the BladeGuard serves us, and not the other way around. You have no right to take us against our will.” Which was probably untrue, but it gave the guards pause.

And then came a voice from the shadows.

“I’ll handle this.”

Out of the darkness swelled a familiar figure, wholly out of place in Faraday’s neighborhood. The High Blade’s gilded robe did not shine in the dimness of the doorstep. It seemed dull, almost brown.

“Please . . . you must come with me immediately. Someone will be sent for your things.” As Rowan was in pajamas and Citra a bathrobe, neither was too keen to obey, but they both sensed that their nightclothes were the least of their concerns.

“Where’s Scythe Faraday?” Rowan asked.

The High Blade took a deep breath in, and sighed. “He invoked the seventh commandment,” Xenocrates said. “Scythe Faraday has gleaned himself.” • • •

High Blade Xenocrates was a bloated bundle of contradictions. He wore a robe of rich baroque brocades, yet on his feet were frayed, treadworn slippers. He lived in a simple log cabin—yet the cabin had been reassembled on the rooftop of Fulcrum City’s tallest building. His furniture was mismatched and thrift-store shabby, yet on the floor beneath them were museum-quality tapestries that could have been priceless.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he told Rowan and Citra, who were still too shell-shocked to wrap their minds around what had happened. It was morning now, the three of them having ridden in a private hypertrain to Fulcrum City, and they were now out on a small wooden deck that overlooked a well-tended lawn that ended in a sheer ledge and a seventy-story drop. The High Blade did not want anything to obstruct his view—and anyone stupid enough to trip over the edge would deserve the time and cost of revival.

“It’s always a terrible thing when a scythe leaves us,” the High Blade lamented, “especially one as well-respected as Scythe Faraday.” Xenocrates had a full retinue of assistants and flunkies in the outside world to help him go about his business, but here in his home, he didn’t have as much as a single servant. Yet another contradiction. He had brewed them tea, and now poured it for them, offering cream but no sugar.

Rowan sipped his, but Citra refused the slightest kindness from the man.

“He was a fine scythe and a good friend,” Xenocrates said. “He will be sorely missed.” It was impossible to guess at Xenocrates’ sincerity. Like everything else about him, his words seemed both sincere—and not—at the same time.

He had told them the details of Scythe Faraday’s demise on the way here. At about ten fifteen the evening before, Faraday was on a local train platform. Then, as a train approached, he hurled himself in front of it. There were several witnesses—all probably relieved that the scythe had gleaned himself and not any of them.

Had it been anyone but a scythe, his broken body would have been rushed to the nearest revival center, but rules for scythes were very clear. There would be no revival.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Citra said, fighting tears with little success. “He wasn’t the kind of man who would do something like that. He took his responsibility as a scythe—and training us—very seriously. I can’t believe he would just give up like that. . . .” Rowan held his silence on the subject, waiting for the High Blade’s response.

“Actually,” Xenocrates said, “it makes perfect sense.” He took an excruciatingly long sip of tea before he spoke again. “Traditionally, when a mentor scythe self-gleans, anyone bound to an apprenticeship is unbound.” Citra gasped, realizing the implication.

“He did it,” said Xenocrates, “to spare one of you from having to glean the other.” “Which means,” said Rowan, “that this is your fault.” And then he added with a little bit of derision, “Your Excellency.” Xenocrates stiffened. “If you are referring to the decision to set the two of you in mortal competition, that was not my suggestion. I was merely carrying out the will of the Scythedom, and frankly, I find your insinuation offensive.” “We never heard the will of the Scythedom,” Rowan reminded him, “because there was never a vote.” Xenocrates stood, ending the conversation with, “I’m sorry for your loss.” It was more than just Rowan’s and Citra’s loss, though; it was a loss to the entire Scythedom, and Xenocrates knew it, whether he said so or not.

“So . . . that’s it then?” said Citra. “We go home now?”

“Not exactly,” said Xenocrates, this time not looking either of them in the eye. “While it’s traditional for the apprentices of dead scythes to go free, another scythe can come forward and take over the training. It’s rare, but it does happen.

“You?” Citra asked. “You’ve volunteered to train us now?”

It was Rowan who saw the truth of it in his eyes. “No, it’s not him,” Rowan said. “It’s someone else. . . .” “My responsibilities as High Blade would make it far too difficult to take on apprentices. You should be flattered, however; not just one, but two scythes have come forward—one for each of you.” Citra shook her head. “No! We were pledged to Scythe Faraday and no one else! He died to free us, so we should be freed!” “I’m afraid I’ve already given my blessing, so the matter is settled.” Then he turned to each of them in turn. “You, Citra, will now be the apprentice of Honorable Scythe Curie. . . .” Rowan closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next, even before Xenocrates said the words.

“And you, Rowan, will complete your training in the capable hands of Honorable Scythe Goddard.”