Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(30)

His ring.

It caught the oblique light spilling in from the hallway. Even in the dim room it glittered.

She downed the glass of milk and set it on the nightstand, so that in the morning the scythe would see she had brought it and that it hadn’t been wasted. Then she knelt there, her eyes fixed on the ring. She wondered why he never slept with it, but felt that asking would be some sort of intrusion.

When she received hers—if she received hers—would it retain the solemn mystery that it held for her now, or would it become ordinary to her? Would she come to take it for granted?

She reached forward, then drew her hand back. Then reached forward again and gently took the ring. She turned it in her fingers so that it caught the light. The stone was big; about the size of an acorn. It was said to be a diamond, but there was a darkness in its core that made it different from a simple diamond ring. There was something in the core of that ring, but no one knew what it was. She wondered if even the scythes themselves knew. The center wasn’t exactly black—it was a deep discoloration that looked different depending on the light—the way a person’s eyes sometimes do.

Then, when she glanced at the scythe, she could see that his eyes were open and watching her.

She froze, knowing she was caught, knowing that putting the ring down now wouldn’t change that.

“Would you like to try it on?” Scythe Faraday asked.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched it .”

“You shouldn’t have, but you did.”

She wondered if he had been awake this whole time.

“Go ahead,” he told her. “Try it on. I insist.”

She was dubious, but did as she was told, because in spite of what she told him, she did want to try it on.

It felt warm on her finger. It was sized for the scythe, so it was too large for her. It was also heavier than she imagined.

“Do you worry that it will ever be stolen?” she asked.

“Not really. Anyone foolish enough to steal a scythe’s ring is quickly removed from the world, so they cease to be a problem.”

The ring was getting noticeably cooler.

“It is a covetable object, though, don’t you agree?” the scythe said.

Suddenly Citra realized the ring wasn’t just cool, it was freezing. The metal, in a matter of seconds, had grown white with frost, and her finger was in such intense pain from the cold, she cried out and pulled the ring from her hand. It flew across the room.

Not only was her ring finger severely frostbitten, so were the fingers that had pulled it free. She bit back a whimper. She could now feel warmth flowing through her body as her healing nanites released morphine. She became woozy, but forced herself to stay alert.

“A security measure I installed myself,” the scythe said. “A micro-coolant chip in the setting. Let me see.” He turned on his nightstand light and grabbed her hand, looking at her ring finger. The flesh at the joint was pale blue and frozen solid. “In the Age of Mortality, you might have lost the finger, but I trust your nanites are already mending the damage.” He let go of her hand. “You’ll be fine by morning. Perhaps next time you’ll think before touching things that don’t belong to you.” He retrieved his ring, set it back on the nightstand, then handed her the empty glass. “From now on Rowan will bring me my evening milk,” he said.

Citra deflated. “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Your Honor. You’re right; I don’t deserve to bring you your milk.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You misunderstand. This is not a punishment. Curiosity is human; I merely allowed you to get it out of your system. I have to say, it took you long enough.” ?Then he gave her a little conspiratorial grin. “Now let’s see how long it takes Rowan to go for the ring.”





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Sometimes, when the weight of my job becomes overwhelming, I begin to lament all the things lost when we conquered death. I think about religion and how, once we became our own saviors, our own gods, most faiths became irrelevant. What must it have been like to believe in something greater than oneself? To accept imperfection and look to a rising vision of all we could never be? It must have been comforting. It must have been frightening. It must have lifted people from the mundane, but also justified all sorts of evil. I often wonder if the bright benefit of belief outweighed the darkness its abuse could bring.

There are the tone cults, of course, dressing in sackcloth and worshiping sonic vibrations—but like so many things in our world, they seek to imitate what once was. Their rituals are not to be taken seriously. They exist merely to make the passing time feel meaningful and profound.

Lately I’ve been preoccupied with a tone cult in my neighborhood. I went into their gathering place the other day. I was there to glean one of the cult’s congregants—a man who had not yet turned his first corner. They were intoning what they called “the resonant frequency of the universe.” One of them told me that the sound is alive and that harmonizing with it brings inner peace. I wonder, when they look at the great tuning fork that stands as the symbol of their faith, if they truly believe it to be a symbol of power or are they just joining in a communal joke?

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



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