Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(17)

Scythe Faraday gave him a moment more, then turned to Citra.

“You, then.”

Citra just shook her head.

Scythe Faraday smiled. “Very good,” he told them. “I was testing you. I would not have been pleased if either of you were eager to administer death.”

At the word “death,” the woman took a shuddering breath.

Scythe Faraday opened the vial and carefully removed the pill. It was triangular with a dark green coating. Who knew death could arrive so small?

“But . . . but I’m only ninety-six,” the woman said.

“We know,” the scythe told her. “Now please . . . open your mouth. Remember, it’s not to swallow; you must bite it.”

She opened her mouth as she was told, and Scythe Faraday placed the pill on her tongue. She closed her mouth, but didn’t bite it right away. She looked at each of them in turn. Rowan, then Citra, then finally settled her gaze on Scythe Faraday. Then the slightest crunch. And she went limp. Simple as that. But not so simple at all.

Citra’s eyes were moist. She pressed her lips together. As much as Rowan tried to control his emotions, his breath came out uneasily and he felt lightheaded.

And then Scythe Faraday turned to Citra. “Check for a pulse, please.”

“Who, me?”

The scythe was patient. He didn’t ask again. The man never asked a thing twice. When she continued to hesitate, he finally said, “This time it’s not a test. I actually want you to confirm for me that she has no pulse.”

Citra reached up a hand to the woman’s neck.

“Other side,” the scythe told her.

She pressed her fingers to the woman’s carotid artery, just beneath her ear. “No pulse.”

Satisfied, Scythe Faraday stood.

“So that’s it?” Citra asked.

“What were you expecting?” said Rowan. “A chorus of angels?”

Citra threw him a half-hearted glare. “But I mean . . . it’s so . . . uneventful.”

Rowan knew what she meant. Rowan had experienced the electrical jolt that had taken his schoolmate’s life. It was awful, but somehow this was worse. “What now? Do we just leave her like this?”

“Best not to linger,” Scythe Faraday said, tapping something out on his phone. “I’ve notified the coroner to come collect Mrs. Becker’s body.” ?Then he took the letter she had written and slipped it into one of the many pockets of his robe. “You two shall present the letter to her family at the funeral.”

“Wait,” said Citra. “We’re going to her funeral?”

“I thought you said it was best not to linger,” said Rowan.

“Lingering and paying respects are two different things. I attend the funerals of all the people I glean.”

“Is that a scythe rule?” Rowan asked, having never been to a funeral.

“No, it’s my rule,” he told them. “It’s called ‘common decency.’”

Then they left, Rowan and Citra both avoiding eye contact with the dead woman’s coworkers. This, both of them realized, was their first initiation rite. This was the moment their apprenticeship had truly begun.





Part Two


NO LAWS BEYOND THESE





* * *





The Scythe Commandments

1) Thou shalt kill.

2) Thou shalt kill with no bias, bigotry, or malice aforethought.

3) Thou shalt grant an annum of immunity to the beloved of those who accept your coming, and to anyone else you deem worthy.

4) Thou shalt kill the beloved of those who resist.

5) Thou shalt serve humanity for the full span of thy days, and thy family shall have immunity as recompense for as long as you live.

6) Thou shalt lead an exemplary life in word and deed, and keep a journal of each and every day.

7) Thou shalt kill no scythe beyond thyself.

8) Thou shalt claim no earthly possessions, save thy robes, ring, and journal.

9) Thou shalt have neither spouse nor spawn.

10) Thou shalt be beholden to no laws beyond these.

Once a year I fast and ponder the commandments. In truth, I ponder them daily, but once a year I allow them to be my sole sustenance. There is genius in their simplicity. Before the Thunderhead, governments had constitutions and massive tomes of laws—yet even then, they were forever debated and challenged and manipulated. Wars were fought over the different interpretations of the same doctrine.

When I was much more naive, I thought that the simplicity of the scythe commandments made them impervious to scrutiny. From whatever angle you approached them, they looked the same. Over my many years, I’ve been both bemused and horrified by how malleable and elastic they can be. The things we scythes attempt to justify. The things that we excuse.

In my early days, there were several scythes still alive who were present when the commandments were formed. Now none remain, all having invoked commandment number seven. I wish I would have asked them how the commandments came about. What led to each one? How did they decide upon the wording? Were there any that were jettisoned before the final ten were written in stone?

And why number ten?

Of all the commandments, number ten gives me the greatest pause for thought. For to put oneself above all other laws is a fundamental recipe for disaster.