فصل 40

It is with bittersweet joy that I watch the bejeweling of new junior scythes at the end of each conclave. Joy, because they are our hope, and still kindle the idealism of the first scythes in their hearts. But bittersweet because I know that someday they will become so tired and jaded they will take their own lives, as all those first scythes eventually did.

Yet each time the new scythes are bejeweled, I still rejoice, because it allows me, if only for a few glorious moments, to believe that we will all choose to live forever.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

40

The Ordained

“Hello, Citra. It’s good to see you.”

“Hello, Rowan.”

“Will the candidates please refrain from speaking to each other and face the conclave,” said Xenocrates.

The whispers and mumbles from the gathered scythes ceased the moment both Citra and Rowan faced them. Never before had such silence fallen over the assembly hall. Rowan smiled slightly—not out of amusement, but out of satisfaction. The two of them, side by side, commanded an undeniable gravity that could silence three hundred scythes. Whatever else happened today, Rowan would have this moment.

Citra maintained a stoic facade, refusing to let the adrenaline flooding her system reveal itself on her face.

“The bejeweling committee has studied your apprenticeships,” Scythe Mandela announced to them, although it was meant more for the entire conclave. “We have reviewed the performance on all three of your tests—the first two of which you both failed, but with extenuating circumstances both times. Clearly, your instinct has been to protect each other. But the Scythedom must be protected first. At all costs.” “Here, here!” shouted one of the scythes in the back.

“The committee’s decision was not made lightly,” continued Scythe Mandela. “Know that we gave both of you the fairest consideration we possibly could.” Then he raised his voice even louder. “Candidates for scythehood, will you accept the judgment of the MidMerican bejeweling committee?” he asked—as if it were possible not to accept their decision.

“I do, Your Honor,” said Citra.

“So do I, Your Honor,” said Rowan.

“Then let it be known,” said Scythe Mandela, “that now, and forevermore . . . Citra Terranova shall wear the ring of scythehood, and bear the burden of all the ring entails.” The room erupted in cheers. Not just from her obvious supporters, but from just about everyone. Even those who were sympathetic to Rowan approved of the committee’s decision—for in the end, what support did Rowan have in the Scythedom? Those who admired Goddard despised Rowan, and any who had given Rowan the benefit of the doubt were already rooting for Citra. Only now did it become clear that Citra was all but ordained the moment Goddard and his disciples perished in the fire.

“Congratulations, Citra,” said Rowan, beneath the roaring approval of the crowd. “I knew you would do it.” She found she couldn’t even respond to him, couldn’t even look at him.

Scythe Mandela turned to her. “Have you chosen your Patron Historic?”

“I have, Your Honor.”

“Then take this ring I hold out to you, put it on your finger, and announce to the MidMerican Scythedom, and to the world who . . . you . . . now . . . are.” Citra took the ring, her hands shaking so much she almost dropped it. She slipped it on her finger. A perfect fit. It was heavy on her finger and the gold of the setting was cold, but was quickly warmed by her body heat. She held her hand up, as she had seen other ordained candidates do.

“I choose to be known as Scythe Anastasia,” she told them. “After the youngest member of the family Romanov.” The gathered scythes turned to one another, discussing her choice among themselves.

“Miss Terranova,” said High Blade Xenocrates, clearly not pleased, “I can’t say that is an appropriate choice. The czars of Russia were known more for their excess than their contribution to civilization—and Anastasia Romanov did nothing of note in her short life.” “Exactly why I chose her, Your Excellency,” Citra said, holding eye contact with him. “She was the product of a corrupt system, and because of that, was denied her very life—as I almost was.” Xenocrates bristled the slightest bit. Citra went on.

“Had she lived, who knows what she might have done. Perhaps she could have changed the world and redeemed her family name. I choose to be Scythe Anastasia. I vow to become the change that might have been.” The High Blade held her gaze, and held his silence. Then one scythe rose and began applauding. Scythe Curie. Then another joined her and another, and soon the entire Scythedom was on their feet, in an ovation for the newly ordained Scythe Anastasia.

• • •

Rowan knew they had made the right decision. And when he heard Citra defend her choice for Patron Historic, he admired her more than he ever had. Were he not already standing, he would have risen to his feet in ovation as well.

Then, as the accolades died down and the scythes were seated, Scythe Mandela turned to Citra.

“You know what you have to do.”

“I do, Your Honor.”

“What method do you choose?”

“Blade,” she said. “So many of my trials seem to be by blade; this one should be no different.” And of course a tray of knives was ready, just out of sight. It was now brought in by a junior scythe who had just been ordained at Harvest Conclave.

Rowan watched Citra closely, but she would not meet his gaze. She looked over the tray of knives, finally settling on a nasty-looking bowie knife.

“I used one of these to kill my brother yesterday,” Citra said. “I swore I’d never touch one again, but here I am.” “How is he?” Rowan asked. Finally Citra looked at him. There was fear in her eyes, but also resolve. Good, thought Rowan. Let her be decisive about this. It will be quicker.

“He’s in revival,” she said. “With a hot fudge sundae on order for when he wakes up.” “Lucky him.” Rowan looked out at the grand elegy of scythes. At this moment less of a conclave and more of an audience. “They’re waiting for a show,” Rowan said. “Shall we give it to them?” Citra nodded slightly.

And with a sentiment that was heartfelt and true, Rowan said, “It is my honor to be gleaned by you, Scythe Anastasia.” Then Rowan drew his last breath and prepared to accept her blade. But she wasn’t ready to strike just yet. Instead, she looked to the ring on her other hand.

“This,” she said, “is for breaking my neck.”

Then she drew her fist back and punched him in the face with such force, it nearly knocked him off his feet. A collective gasp came from the crowd; this was something they were not expecting.

Rowan reached up to feel blood spilling from a huge gash that her ring had cut across his cheek.

Then finally she raised the knife to glean him—but just as she was about to thrust it into his chest, a shout came from the rostrum behind them.

“STOP!”

It was the Parliamentarian. He held up his own ring. It was glowing red. So was Citra’s—and as Rowan looked around, he could see that every scythe’s ring within ten yards was emanating the same warning glow.

“He can’t be gleaned,” the Parliamentarian said. “He has immunity.”

A roar of outrage came from the conclave. Rowan looked at Citra’s ring, which was covered with his blood. It had transmitted his DNA to the immunity database even more effectively than if he had kissed it. He smiled at her in awe and absolute amazement. “You’re a genius, Citra. You know that, don’t you?” “It’s Honorable Scythe Anastasia to you,” she said. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was an accident.” But there was a twinkle in her eye that said otherwise.

“Order!” yelled Xenocrates, banging his gavel. “I demand this conclave come to order!” The scythes began to calm down, and Xenocrates pointed an accusing finger. “Citr—uh . . . that is, Scythe Anastasia—you have blatantly violated a Scythedom edict!” “I have not, Your Excellency. I was fully prepared to glean him. It was your own Parliamentarian who stopped me. It never occurred to me that hitting Rowan would grant him immunity.” Xenocrates looked at her in utter disbelief, and then suddenly released a guffaw that he tried to stifle but couldn’t. “Sly and artful,” he said, “with just enough plausible deniability. You’ll do very well among us, Scythe Anastasia.” Then he turned to the Parliamentarian and asked what options they now had.

“I suggest imprisonment for a year, until his immunity runs out.”

“Is there still such a place where a person could be officially imprisoned?” asked one of the other scythes. Then scythes around the assembly hall began to shout out their suggestions, some even offering to take Rowan in under house arrest, which could be good or bad, depending on their motive.

As it began to devolve into a debate over Rowan’s immediate future, Citra leaned in to him and whispered.

“There’s a tray of knives next to you, and a car waiting for you at the east exit.” Then she leaned away, leaving his future firmly in his own hands.

He thought he could not be more impressed by her. She had just proved him wrong.

“I love you,” he said.

“Same here,” she responded. “Now get lost.”

• • •

He was a wonder to watch. He took three blades from the tray, and somehow managed to wield them all. Scythe Anastasia made no move to stop him—but even if she had, it would have been no use. He was too quick. He hurled himself like a fireball down the center aisle. The scythes closest to him leaped into action, trying to stop him, but he kicked and spun, and sliced and flipped. No one could get a hand on him. To Scythe Anastasia he seemed some deadly force of nature. Of the scythes in his way, the lucky ones only had their robes sliced. The less lucky ones found themselves with wounds they never even saw inflicted. One—Scythe Emerson, she believed—would be requiring a trip to a revival center.

And then he was gone, leaving pandemonium in his wake.

As the High Blade tried to regain order, Scythe Anastasia looked to her hand, and did something that was very strange for a scythe to do. She kissed her own ring, getting just the slightest bit of Rowan’s blood on her lips. Enough for her to remember the moment forever.

• • •

The car was waiting, just as Citra had said. He thought it would be a publicar. He thought he would be alone. Neither was the case.

As he hopped in, he saw a ghost in the driver’s seat. After all he’d been through today, this was the moment that nearly made his heart stop.

“Good evening, Rowan,” said Scythe Faraday. “Close the door, it’s positively arctic outside.” “What?” said Rowan still trying to wrap his mind around the moment. “How are you not dead?” “I could ask you the same question, but time is of the essence. Now please, close the door.” So Rowan did, and they sped off into the frosty Fulcrum City night.

Have we ever had an enemy worse than ourselves? In the Age of Mortality we warred ceaselessly with one another, and when there was no war to be made, we beat down one another in our streets, our schools, our homes, until war turned our gaze outward again, placing the enemy at a more comfortable distance.

But all such conflict is a thing of the past. There is peace on Earth, good will toward all humankind.

Except . . .

And that’s the thing: There is always an exception. I haven’t been a scythe for long, but I can already see that the Scythedom is in danger of becoming that exception. Not just here in MidMerica, but worldwide.

The first scythes were true visionaries and saw the wisdom of continuing to cultivate wisdom. They understood that the soul of a scythe needed to remain pure. Free from malice and greed and pride, but filled with conscience. However, rot grows on even the sturdiest of foundations.

If the conscience of the Scythedom fails, replaced by the avarice of privilege, we could become our own worst enemy again. And to complicate it, new wrinkles are being added to the fabric of the Scythedom every day. Take, for instance, the latest rumor, which in the months since I was ordained has spread beyond the Scythedom and is whispered among the general population.

According to the rumor, there is someone out there who is seeking out corrupt, despicable scythes . . . and ending their existence by fire. One thing is certain: He’s not an ordained scythe. And yet people have started to call him Scythe Lucifer.

I’m terrified that it might be true—but more terrified that I might want it to be true.

It was never my desire to be a scythe. I suppose that might make me a good one. I don’t yet know, because it’s all so new and I still have so much to learn. For now I must give all my attention to gleaning with compassion and conscience, with hopes that it will help our perfect world stay perfect.

And if ever Scythe Lucifer comes my way, I hope he’ll see me as one of the good ones. The way he once did.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Anastasia