فصل 28

28 Dark Celebrity

Everyone was invited. And when the Overblade sets forth an invitation, it was not to be ignored. Which meant the stadium would most certainly be filled to capacity.

Goddard had put out a public call to all souls under the umbrella of his influence. It was a rare thing for a scythe—much less a powerful scythe—to have anything to do with ordinary people. Communications with the rest of humankind were usually limited to bullet, blade, bludgeon, and the occasional poison. Scythes simply didn’t feel the need to speak to the masses. They were not elected officials and had no one to answer to besides one another. There was no reason to win over the hearts of the people when your sole purpose in their lives was to stop those hearts from beating.

So when Overblade Goddard himself personally broadcast the invitation, people everywhere took notice. In spite of his fortified tower, Goddard claimed to be a scythe of the people—and here was the evidence. He was willing to share his triumph with ordinary people in all walks of life. In the end, people’s craving to be close to the continent’s most celebrated scythes was stronger than the fear of them. Tickets were gone within five minutes of being made available. Everyone else would have to view the event in their homes and places of business.

And for those lucky enough to get tickets to the execution, they knew they’d be witnessing history. They could tell their children, and their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren, and their great-great-grandchildren that they were there the day that Scythe Lucifer was gleaned.

They didn’t fear Scythe Lucifer the way scythes did, but they did despise him, because not only did they blame him for the death of Endura, but also the silence of the Thunderhead and their own unsavory status. The world was being punished for his actions. He was, as Goddard so bluntly put it, the receptacle of the world’s hatred. So naturally they would show up in force to witness his terrible end.

There were no longer such things as armored vehicles. Most vehicles were impenetrable by nature now. Even so, a special transport truck was built in a matter of days for Scythe Lucifer, complete with visible steel rivets and barred windows. It was a straight line on a high-speed highway from Fulcrum City to Mile High City, where his gleaning would take place—but the route the motorcade took was a serpentine meander that passed through as many MidMerican cities as possible before arriving at its destination. A drive that would have taken a day took nearly a week.

Rowan knew his gleaning would be exploited for its public relations value, but he had not expected to be flaunted in this way.

There were more than a dozen vehicles in the motorcade. Members of the BladeGuard on motorcycle, fancy limousines in the colors of the high-ranking scythes that rode within, all leading up to the big, boxy, armored truck, and followed by a few more motorcycle guards, trailing behind like a bridal train.

The Overblade himself was not present, even though the first limo was royal blue and studded with glimmering stars. There was no one in it—but the masses didn’t know that. The truth was, Goddard couldn’t be bothered to take a long, laborious journey when he could get the same effect by just pretending to be there. He wouldn’t have to show up until the actual day of the gleaning.

Instead, he put Constantine in charge of escorting the dread Scythe Lucifer to his ultimate doom.

Constantine, Rowan knew, had been in charge of finding him and taking him down three years ago. His crimson robe and limousine were the same color as the PUBLIC ENEMY stamp on the side of Rowan’s transport truck. He wondered if that was intentional, or just a happy coincidence.

Before they left Fulcrum City, Constantine had paid Rowan a visit once he had been loaded into his high-security truck and shackled.

“All these years, I wanted to lay eyes on you,” Constantine said. “And now that I do, I am profoundly unimpressed.” “Thanks,” said Rowan. “I love you, too.”

Constantine reached into his robe as if to grab a blade, but thought better of it. “If I could glean you here and now, I would,” he said. “But the ire of Overblade Goddard is not something I wish to arouse.” “Understandable,” said Rowan. “If it’s any consolation, I’d rather be gleaned by you than by him.” “And why is that?”

“Because for him, my death will be vengeance. For you it would be satisfying a three-year mission. I’d much rather satisfy that than Goddard’s vendetta.” Constantine took that in stride. He didn’t become any softer, but he no longer seemed on the verge of an explosion he would regret.

“Before we drive you to your well-deserved end, I want to know something,” Constantine said. “I want to know why you did what you did.” “Why did I ended Scythes Renoir, Fillmore, and the rest?”

He waved his hand. “Not that. As much as I detest your scythe-ending spree, it’s obvious why you chose the ones you did. They were all questionable scythes, and you passed judgment on them, even though it was not your judgment to pass. Those crimes are more than enough reason to glean you, but what I want to know is why you killed the Grandslayers? They were good men and women. The worst of them was Xenocrates, but even he was a saint compared to the others you ended. What possessed you to do such an unspeakable thing?” Rowan was tired of denying the blame—what did it matter at this point? So he gave Constantine the lie that everyone already believed.

“I hated the scythedom for denying me the ring,” Rowan told him. “And so I wanted to damage it as much as I could. I wanted every scythedom around the world to pay for refusing to make me a true scythe.” Constantine’s glare could have melted through the steel of the transport truck. “Do you expect me to believe that you are that small-minded and petty?” “I must be,” said Rowan. “Why else would I sink Endura?” Then he added, “Or maybe I’m just plain evil.” Constantine knew he was being mocked, and he did not take it well. He left and had nothing more to say to Rowan for the entire journey—but not without the grimmest of parting shots.

“It is my pleasure to tell you that your gleaning will be a painful one,” the crimson scythe said, oozing bitterness. “Goddard intends to roast you alive.” Rowan had brand-new shiny shackles that had been forged just for him, steel chains that clanged on the floor of the transport truck when he moved. They were long enough to allow him plenty of mobility, but solid enough to make it hard to actually move. It was beyond overkill. Just because he had a knack for slipping free did not make him the escape artist they thought he was. All of his previous escapes were due either to someone helping him or the incompetence of the people detaining him. He wasn’t exactly going to bite through the chains and kick open the steel door—yet everyone acted like he was an otherworldly beast with superhuman, supernatural powers. But then, maybe that’s what Goddard wanted people to think; because if the creature you captured needs to be chained and locked in a steel box, you must be one hell of a hunter.

In every city and town they passed through, people came out in droves to watch the motorcade go by, as if it were a holiday parade. The barred windows in the transport truck were at various heights, larger than ought to be on an armored vehicle, and the interior was brightly lit. Rowan soon came to realize the reason for this. The windows were placed so that no matter where he positioned himself in the truck, he could still be seen from the outside, and the bright interior ensured that he would not be hidden in darkness, no matter the time of day.

As he rolled down boulevards and main streets, there was always a view of him for the gauntlets of lookie-loos on either side. Occasionally he looked out of a window, and when he did, the crowd’s excitement peaked at his peeking. They pointed at him, took photos, and held up children to see the young man who had become a dark celebrity. A few times he waved to them, which got people tittering to one another. A few times he pointed back at them when they pointed at him, which always seemed to scare them—as if his angry restless ghost would come for them in the middle of the night once he was gleaned.

Through all this, Constantine’s bleak pronouncement kept coming back to him. The manner in which Rowan would be gleaned. Hadn’t gleaning by fire been outlawed? Goddard must have reinstated it. Or maybe he brought it back just for this one special gleaning. As much as Rowan tried to tell himself he didn’t fear it, he did. Not the gleaning, but the pain—and there would be quite a lot of it, because Goddard would most certainly turn off his pain nanites so that Rowan could feel every last measure of misery. He would suffer like the heretics and witches of more ignorant times.

The idea of his life ending was not much of a problem for him. In fact, it had become an oddly familiar theme. He had died so many times, and in so many ways, he was used to it. It held no more terror for him than falling asleep—which was often worse, because when he slept, he had nightmares. At least being deadish was a dreamless state, and the only difference between being deadish and being dead was the length of time involved. Perhaps, as some believed, true death ultimately brought people to a glorious new place, unimaginable to the living. In this way, Rowan tried to soften the prospect of his fate.

He also tried to soften it with thoughts of Citra. There had been no word of her, and he wasn’t foolish enough to ask Constantine, or anyone else for that matter, because he had no idea who knew that she was alive. Goddard certainly knew—he had sent the High Blade of WestMerica to retrieve them both. But if Citra had escaped, the best way to help her was to not speak of her in hostile company.

Considering where Rowan’s winding path was leading him, he could only hope she was in better circumstances.