Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(31)

12


No Room for Mediocrity




“The Scythedom is the world’s only self-governing body,” said Scythe Faraday. “While the rest of the world is under Thunderhead rule, the Scythedom is not. Which is why we hold conclaves three times a year to resolve disputes, review policy, and mourn the lives we’ve taken.”

Vernal Conclave, which was to take place during the first week of May, was less than a week away. Rowan and Citra had studied enough of the structure of the Scythedom to know that all twenty-five regions of the world held their conclaves on the same day, and that there were currently three hundred twenty-one scythes in their region, which encompassed the heart of the North Merican continent.

“The MidMerican Conclave is an important one,” Scythe Faraday told them, “because we tend to set the trend for much of the world. There’s an expression, ‘As goes MidMerica, so goes the planet.’ The Grandslayer scythes of the Global Conclave always have their eyes on us.”

Scythe Faraday explained that at each conclave they would be tested. “I do not know the nature of this first test, which is why you need to be as prepared as possible in all aspects of your training.”

Rowan found he had a million questions about conclave, but kept them to himself. He let Citra do all the asking—mainly because the questions irritated Scythe Faraday, and he never answered them.

“You’ll find out all you need to know when you get there,” the scythe told them. “For now all your attention must be on your training and your studies.”

Rowan had never been an exceptional student—but that was by design. To be either too good or too bad drew attention. As much as he hated being the lettuce, it was his comfort zone.

“If you apply yourself, I have no doubt you could be at the top of your class,” his science teacher told him after getting the highest grade on his midterm last year. He had done it just to see if he could. Now that he knew, he saw no great need to do it again. There were many reasons, not the least of which was his own ignorance about scythes in those days before his apprenticeship. He assumed that being a stellar student would make him a target. Supposedly, a friend of a friend was gleaned at eleven because he was the smartest kid in fifth grade. It was nothing more than an urban myth, but Rowan believed it just enough that it kept him from wanting to stand out. He wondered if other kids held back for fear of being gleaned.

He had little experience with being so studious. He found it exhausting, and there was more than just poison chemistry, post-mortal history, and journaling. There was metallurgy as it applies to weapons, the philosophy of mortality, the psychology of immortality, and the literature of the Scythedom, from poetry to the wisdom found in famous scythes’ journals. And of course, the mathematical statistics that Scythe Faraday relied upon so heavily.

There was no room for mediocrity, especially now with conclave coming up.

Rowan did ask him one question about conclave. “Will we be disqualified if we fail the test?”

Faraday took a moment before answering. “No,” he told them, “but there is a consequence.” Although he would not tell them what that consequence was. Rowan concluded that not knowing was more terrifying than knowing.

With just a few days before conclave, he and Citra stayed up late studying in the weapons den. Rowan found himself dozing, but was quickly awakened when Citra slammed a book.

“I hate this!” she announced. “Cerberin, aconite, conium, polonium—the poisons are all running together in my head.”

“That would sure make a person die faster,” Rowan said with a smirk.

She crossed her arms. “Do you know your poisons?”

“We’re only supposed to know forty by conclave,” he pointed out.

“And do you know them?”

“I will,” he told her.

“What’s the molecular formula for tetrodotoxin?”

He wanted to ignore her, but found he couldn’t back away from the challenge. Perhaps a bit of her competitive nature was rubbing off on him. “C11H17N3O6.”

“Wrong!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “It’s O8, not O6. You fail!”

She was trying to rile him up, so she wouldn’t be the only one riled. He wasn’t going to oblige. “Guess so,” he said, and tried to return to his studies.

“Aren’t you the least bit worried?”

He took a breath and closed his book. When Faraday first began teaching them, Rowan found the use of actual old-school books very off-putting, but over time, he’d learned there was something very satisfying to the turning of pages, and—as Citra had already discovered—the emotional catharsis of slamming a book shut.

“Of course I’m worried, but here’s the way I look at it. We know they won’t disqualify us, and we already know we can’t be gleaned, and we’ll have two more chances to make up for any screw-ups before one of us is chosen. Whatever the consequence of failing the first round of tests, if either of us fail, we’ll deal with it.”

Citra slumped in her chair. “I don’t fail,” she said, but didn’t sound too convinced of it. There was this pouty look on her face that made Rowan want to smile, but he didn’t because he knew that would infuriate her. He actually liked how she would get infuriated—but they had too much work to do to indulge in emotional distraction.