Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(110)

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.





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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



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