Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(107)

If she was chosen today, Citra would not defy the edict to glean Rowan—but she did have a plan that might save both of them. It was far from foolproof—and to be brutally honest with herself, it was more like a desperate grasping at straws than a plan. But even the faintest glimmer of hope was better than no hope at all. If she was deluding herself, at least it would allow her to get through this awful day.

? ? ?

Rowan had played this day over in his mind many times from beginning to end. He had decided that he would not go up to Citra when he saw her. He did not need an advisor to tell him it was better this way. Let them stay separate and apart until that miserable moment of truth that would keep them apart forever.

If she won, Rowan was certain she would glean him. She was duty bound to do it. It would tear her apart, but in the end, she would do what had to be done. He wondered how she might go about it. Perhaps she would break his neck, bringing everything full circle and wrapping up their doomed twin apprenticeship with a nice red bow.

Admittedly, Rowan was afraid to die, but what he feared more than death were the depths that he now knew he was capable of reaching. The ease with which he had rendered his mother deadish during his test the night before spoke volumes about the person he’d become. He’d rather be gleaned than be that person.

Of course, it was possible he’d be chosen instead of Citra. Then things would get interesting. He decided he wouldn’t glean himself—that would be too pointless and pathetic a gesture. If he was ordained, he would defy the edict, invoking the tenth commandment, which clearly said he was beholden to no laws beyond the ten—including any edicts levied by the Scythedom. He would refuse to glean Citra, and defend her life by taking out any scythes who tried to do it for him, with bullet, blade, and his own bare hands. He would turn conclave into a brutal and bloody battleground until they took him down—which wouldn’t be easy, considering how skilled he’d become at killcraft and how motivated he was to wreak as much havoc as possible. And the irony of it was that they couldn’t even glean him for it! Once he was ordained, their hands were tied by the seventh commandment.

They could punish him, though.

They could make him die a thousand deaths and then lock him away for eternity—and it would truly be eternity, because he would never give them the satisfaction of gleaning himself. Another reason why he would rather be gleaned by Citra. A single death at her capable hands sounded awfully good when compared with the alternative.

The breakfast spread in the rotunda was an elaborate one. Slabs of real smoked salmon, hard-crusted artisan breads, and a waffle station with every conceivable topping. Only the best for the MidMerican scythes.

Rowan ate with rare gluttony that morning, for once allowing himself to fully sate his appetite, and as he ate, he stole a few glances at Citra. Even now, she looked radiant to him. How ridiculous that he’d still be romanticizing her in these final hours. What could have once been love was now the resignation of a heart long broken. Luckily for Rowan, his heart had grown so cold, its fracturing could not hurt him anymore.

? ? ?

Once conclave convened, Citra found herself tuning out most of the morning’s ritual, choosing to fill her mind with memories of the life she was about to leave—because in one way or another, she would be leaving it. She focused on thoughts of her parents, and her brother—who was still in a revival center.

If she was ordained today, the home where she grew up would never be home again. Her biggest consolation would be that Ben and her parents would have immunity from gleaning for as long as Citra lived.

After the tolling of the names and the ritual washing, the entire morning was dedicated to a heated debate about whether or not fire should be banned as a method of gleaning.

Usually High Blade Xenocrates did nothing but mediate and postpone discussions for a later date. The fact that he was advocating for the ban was something everyone in attendance took seriously. Even so, there were strong voices against it.

“I will not have my rights to bear arms trampled upon!” railed one disgruntled scythe. “Every one of us should have the freedom to use flamethrowers, explosives, and any other incendiary device!”

It was met with both boos and applause.

“We need this ban to protect us from tragic accidents in the future,” insisted Xenocrates.

“It was no accident!” someone shouted, and almost half the room voiced their bitter agreement. Citra looked to Rowan, who sat with two empty seats on either side of him, for they were still earmarked for the dead. He made no move to defend himself or to deny the claim.

Scythe Curie leaned closer to Citra. “As terrible as that fire was, there are plenty of scythes happy to see Goddard and his disciples permanently removed from duty. Although they’d never admit it, they’re glad the fire happened, whether it was an accident or not.”

“And there are a lot of others who admired Goddard,” Citra pointed out.

“Indeed. The Scythedom seems evenly split on that matter.”

Regardless, common sense finally prevailed, and fire was banned in MidMerica as a method of gleaning.

At lunch, Citra—who still found she couldn’t eat—watched from a distance as Rowan stuffed himself just as he had at breakfast, as if he had no care in the world.

“He knows it’s his last meal,” a scythe she didn’t know suggested. Although the woman was clearly showing her support for Citra, Citra found herself annoyed.