فصل 38

The power of life and death cannot be handed out blithely, but only with stoic and weighty reserve. Ascension to scythehood should by no means be easy. We who have established the Scythedom have faced our own struggles in the process, and we must ensure that all those who join us in our mission face a trial that is not only instructive but transformative. Scythehood is humanity’s highest calling, and to achieve it should cut one’s soul to the very core, so that no scythe will ever forget the cost of the ring they bear.

Of course, to those on the outside, our rite of passage might seem unthinkably cruel. Which is why it must forever remain a secret sacrament.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Prometheus, the first World Supreme Blade 38

The Final Test

On January second, Year of the Capybara, the day before Winter Conclave, Scythe Curie took Citra on the long drive to the MidMerica Capitol Building.

“Your final test will be tonight, but you won’t know the results until tomorrow’s conclave,” she told Citra. But Citra already knew that. “It’s the same test, year to year, for every apprentice. And each apprentice must take the test alone.” That was something Citra didn’t know. It only made sense that the final test would be some sort of standard that all candidates had to pass, but somehow the thought of having to face that test alone, and not in the company of the others, was troubling. Because now it wouldn’t be a competition with Rowan and the others. She’d be competing against no one but herself.

“You should tell me what the test is.”

“I can’t,” said Scythe Curie.

“You mean you won’t.”

Scythe Curie thought about that. “You’re right. I won’t.”

“If I may speak frankly, Your Honor . . .”

“When have you ever not spoken frankly, Citra?”

Citra cleared her throat and tried to be her most persuasive self. “You play too fair, and it puts me at a disadvantage. You wouldn’t want me to suffer just because you’re too honorable, would you?” “In our line of work we must hold on to every bit of honor we have.”

“I’m sure other scythes tell their apprentices what the final test is.” “Perhaps,” said Scythe Curie, “but then again, perhaps not. There are some traditions not even the unscrupulous among us would dare break.” Citra crossed her arms and said nothing more. She knew she was pouting, she knew it was childish, but she didn’t care.

“You trust Scythe Faraday, do you not?” asked Scythe Curie.

“I do.”

“Have you come to trust me at least as much?”

“I have.”

“Then trust me now and let the question go. I have faith in your ability to shine in the final test without knowing what the test is.” “Yes, Your Honor.”

• • •

They arrived at eight that evening, and were told that, by the luck of the draw, Citra was to be tested last. Rowan and the two other candidates for Scythedom were to go first. She and Scythe Curie were put in a room to wait, and wait, and wait some more.

“Was that a gunshot?” Citra said, perhaps an hour in. Citra didn’t know whether or not it had been her imagination.

“Shhhh,” was Scythe Curie’s only response.

Finally a guard came to get her. Scythe Curie did not wish her good luck—just gave her a serious nod. “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done,” she said.

Citra was brought to a long room that seemed unpleasantly cold. There were five scythes seated in comfortable chairs at one end. She recognized two of them: Scythe Mandela and Scythe Meir. The other three she did not. The bejeweling committee, she realized.

Before her was a table covered with a clean white tablecloth. And on that tablecloth, evenly spaced, were weapons: a pistol, a shotgun, a scimitar, a bowie knife, and a vial with a poison pill.

“What are these for?” Citra asked. Then she realized it was a stupid question. She knew what they were for. So she rephrased it. “What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” “Look to the other end of the room,” Scythe Mandela told her, pointing. A spotlight came up on another chair at the far end of the long room that had been hidden in shadows; one not as comfortable as theirs. Someone sat in it, hands and legs bound, with a canvas hood covering his or her head.

“We want to see how you might glean,” Scythe Meir said. “For this purpose we’ve prepared a unique subject for you to demonstrate.” “What do you mean, ‘unique?’”

“See for yourself,” said Scythe Mandela.

Citra approached the figure. She could hear faint snuffling from beneath the hood. She pulled it off.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Now she understood why Scythe Curie did not tell her.

Because bound to that chair, gagged, terrified, and tearful, was her brother, Ben.

He tried to speak, but nothing but muffled grunts came from behind the gag.

She backed away, then ran back to the five scythes.

“No! You can’t do this! You can’t make me do it.”

“We can’t make you do anything,” said one of the scythes she didn’t know, a woman in violet with PanAsian leanings. “If you do this, you do it by choice.” Then the woman stepped forward and held a small box out to Citra. “Your weapon will be random. Choose a slip of paper from the box.” Citra reached in and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She dared not open it. She turned to look at her brother, sitting so helpless in the chair.

“How can you do this to people?” she screamed.

“My dear,” said Scythe Meir with practiced patience, “it’s not a gleaning, because you are not yet a scythe. You merely have to render him deadish. An ambudrone will take him to be revived as soon as you complete the task we’ve put before you.” “But he’ll remember!”

“Yes,” said Scythe Mandela. “And so will you.”

One of the other scythes she did not know crossed his arms and huffed, much the way she had done on the drive here. “She’s too resistant,” he said. “Let her go. This night’s already gone on too long.” “Give her time,” said Scythe Mandela sternly.

The fifth scythe, a short man with an odd frown about him, stood and read from a sheet of parchment that could have been hundreds of years old. “You may not be coerced into doing this. You may take all the time you need. You must use the weapon assigned. When you are done, you will leave the subject and approach the committee to be assessed on your performance. Is all of this clear to you?” Citra nodded.

“A verbal response, please.”

“Yes, it’s clear.”

He sat back down, and she unfolded the slip of paper. On it was a single word.

Knife.

She dropped the paper to the floor. I can’t do this, she told herself, I can’t. But Scythe Curie’s voice came gently to her. Yes, Citra, you can.

It was then it occurred to her that every scythe, since the Scythedom began, had to take this test. Every single one of them was forced to take the life of someone they loved. Yes, that person would be revived, but it didn’t change the cold-blooded act. A person’s subconscious mind can’t differentiate between permanent and temporary killings. Even after he’s revived, how could she bear to face her brother again? Because if she kills Ben, she will always have killed him.

“Why?” she asked. “Why must I do this?”

The irritable scythe gestured to the door. “There’s the exit. If it’s too much for you, then leave.” “I think she means it as a legitimate question,” said Scythe Meir.

The irritable scythe scoffed, the short one shrugged. The PanAsian one tapped her foot, and Scythe Mandela leaned forward.

“You must do this so that you can move forward as a scythe,” Scythe Mandela said, “knowing in your heart that the most difficult thing you’ll ever have to do . . . has already been done.” “If you can do this,” added Scythe Meir, “then you have the inner strength needed to be a scythe.” Even though a big part of Citra wanted to bolt through the door and run from this, she squared her shoulders, stood tall, reached down, and took the bowie knife. Concealing it in her waist, she approached her brother. Only when she was close to him did she pull it out.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. She knelt down and used the knife to cut the bonds on his legs, then the ones that held his wrists to the chair. She tried to untie his gag, but couldn’t, so she cut that as well.

“Can I go home now?” asked Ben with a helpless voice that was more than enough to break her heart.

“Not yet,” she told him, still kneeling beside him. “Soon, though.”

“Are you going to hurt me, Citra?”

Citra couldn’t control her tears, and didn’t even try. What was the point? “Yes, Ben. I’m sorry.” “Are you going to glean me?” He could barely get the words out.

“No,” she told him. “They’ll take you to a revival center. You’ll be good as new.” “You promise?”

“I promise.”

He seemed the tiniest bit relieved. She didn’t explain to him why she had to do this, and he didn’t ask. He trusted her. Trusted that whatever reason she had, it was a good one.

“Will it hurt?” he asked.

Again, she found she couldn’t lie to him about it. “Yes, it will. But not for long.” He took a moment to think about that. Process it. Accept it. Then he said, “Can I see it?” For a moment she wasn’t sure what he was talking about, until he pointed to the knife. She carefully put it into his hands.

“It’s heavy,” he said.

“Did you know that Texan scythes only glean with bowie knives?”

“Is that where you’ll be going when you’re a scythe? Texas?”

“No, Ben. I’ll be right here.”

He turned the knife in his hand, both of them watching as light glinted off the shiny blade. Then he gave it back to her.

“I’m so scared, Citra,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know. So am I. Scared is okay.”

“Will I get ice cream?” he asked. “I hear they give you ice cream at revival centers.” Citra nodded, and wiped a tear from his cheek. “Close your eyes, Ben. Think of the ice cream you want. Then tell me.” Ben did as he was told. “I want a hot fudge sundae, three scoops, with chocolate chip—” Before he could finish, she pulled him close and thrust the blade just as she had seen Scythe Curie do it. She wanted to wail in agony, but wouldn’t let herself.

Ben opened his eyes. He looked at her, and in a second it was done. Ben was gone. Citra hurled the blade away and cradled her brother. Then laid him gently on the floor. From a door behind them that she hadn’t even seen, two revival medics hurried in, put her deadish brother on a gurney, and went out the way they came.

Lights came up on the scythes. They seemed so much farther away than before. It seemed like an impossibly long walk to cross the room to them, and they began a bruising barrage of comments.

“Sloppy.”

“Not at all; there’s barely any blood.”

“She put the weapon in his hand. Do you know how risky that was?”

“And all that unnecessary banter.”

“She was preparing him—making sure he was ready.”

“Why should that matter?”

“She showed courage, but more importantly, she was compassionate. Isn’t that what we’re called upon to be?” “We’re called upon to be efficient.”

“Efficiency must be in service to compassion!”

“That’s a matter of opinion!”

Then the scythes fell silent, apparently agreeing to disagree. She suspected that Scythes Mandela and Meir were on her side, and that the irritable one was not. As for the other two, she had no idea where they stood.

“Thank you, Miss Terranova,” said Scythe Meir. “You may go now. The results will be announced at conclave tomorrow.” Scythe Curie was waiting for her in the hall. Citra found herself furious at the woman. “You should have told me!” “It would only have made it worse. And if they sensed that you knew before you went in that room, you would have been disqualified.” She looked at Citra’s hands. “Come, you need to wash up. There’s a bathroom just this way.” “How did it go with the other candidates?” Citra asked.

“From what I heard, one young woman flatly refused and left the room. One boy began, but broke down and couldn’t complete what he started.” “What about Rowan?” Citra asked.

Scythe Curie wouldn’t look at her. “He drew the pistol as his weapon.” “And?”

Still Scythe Curie hesitated.

“Tell me!”

“He pulled the trigger even before they finished reading him the instructions.” Citra grimaced at the thought. Scythe Curie was right—he didn’t sound like the same Rowan she used to know. What had he been through to turn him so cold? She didn’t dare imagine.