Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(108)

“I can’t see how it’s any of your business.”

The scythe walked away, confused by Citra’s hostility.

? ? ?

At six that evening, all other conclave business ceased and the day revolved into its final stage.

“Candidates for scythehood, please rise,” commanded the Conclave Clerk.

Citra and Rowan rose to a rumble of whispers in the assembly.

“I thought there were four,” said the High Blade.

“There were, Your Excellency,” said the clerk. “But the other two failed their final test and were dismissed.”

“Very well then,” said Xenocrates, “let’s get on with it.”

The clerk stood up, formally announcing them. “The MidMerican Scythedom calls Rowan Daniel Damisch and Citra Querida Terranova. Please come forward.”

Then, keeping their eyes fixed on Scythe Mandela, who waited for them before the rostrum with a single ring, Citra and Rowan strode to the front of the assembly hall to meet their destiny, one way or another.





* * *





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.”