Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(103)

“Me?” said Xenocrates, feigning indifference. “Why would I want to?”

“Because you care about people,” Rowan said with a well-timed wink. “Some more than others.”

As the High Blade regarded the daughter that he could never publicly or even privately acknowledge, he melted just the tiniest bit. The boy had planned this, hadn’t he? This Rowan Damisch was a sly one—an admirable trait when properly directed. Perhaps Rowan warranted more attention than the High Blade had given him in the past.

Esme waited to see what would happen, and Xenocrates finally offered her a warm smile. “It would be my pleasure to take you home, Esme.”

With that, Xenocrates rose to leave . . . but he couldn’t go just yet. There was still one more thing he had to do. One more decision that was in his power to make. He turned back to Rowan.

“Perhaps I should use my influence to call off the investigation,” he said. “Out of respect for our fallen comrades. Let their memory be untainted by clumsy forensics that might cast aspersions on their legacy.”

“Let the dead be dead,” agreed Rowan.

And so an unspoken agreement was reached. The High Blade would cease shaking the tree, and Rowan would keep the High Blade’s secret safe.

“If you need a place to stay once leaving here, Rowan, please know that my door is always open for you.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“No, thank you, Rowan.”

Then the High Blade took Esme’s hand and left to return her home.





* * *





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.