Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(34)

“Citra, Rowan, I’d like you to meet High Blade Xenocrates,” Faraday said, then turned back to the large man. “These are my new apprentices.”

He took a moment to appraise them. “A double apprenticeship,” he said jovially. “I believe that’s a first. Most scythes have trouble with just one.”

“The better of the two shall receive my blessing for the ring.”

“And the other,” said the High Blade, “will be sorely disappointed, I’m sure.” ?Then he moved on to greet other scythes that were just now coming in from the rain.

“See?” Rowan said. “And you were worried.”

But to Citra, nothing about the man seemed sincere.

? ? ?

Rowan was nervous, he just didn’t want to admit it. He knew admitting it would make Citra more worried, which would make him more worried. So he bit back his fears and misgivings, and kept his eyes and ears open, taking in everything that happened around him. There were other apprentices there. He overheard two talking about how this was the “big day.” A boy and a girl—both older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, would be getting their rings today and become junior scythes. The girl lamented about how, for the first four years, they would have to get approval from the selection committee for their gleanings.

“Every single one,” she complained. “Like we’re babies.”

“At least the apprenticeship isn’t four years long,” Rowan interjected, as a way to get into the conversation. The two looked at him with mild disgust.

“I mean, it takes four years to get a college degree, right?” Rowan knew he was just digging himself deeper, but he had already committed. “At least it doesn’t take that long to get a license to glean.”

“Who the hell are you?” the girl asked.

“Ignore him, he’s just a spat.”

“A what?” Rowan had been called many things, but never that.

They both smirked at him. “Don’t you know anything?” said the girl. “‘Spat,’ as in ‘spatula.’ It’s what they call new apprentices, because you’re not good for anything but flipping your scythe’s burgers.”

Rowan laughed at that, which just irritated them.

Then Citra came up next to them. “So if we’re spatulas, what does that make you? Safety scissors? Or are you just a couple of tools?”

The boy looked like he might slug Citra. “Who’s your mentor scythe?” he asked her. “He should be told of this disrespect.”

“I am,” said Faraday, putting his hand on Citra’s shoulder. “And you don’t warrant anyone’s respect until after you receive your ring.”

The boy seemed to shrink by about three inches. “Honorable Scythe Faraday! I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” The girl took a step away as if to distance herself from him.

“Best of luck today,” he told them with a magnanimous gesture that they didn’t deserve.

“Thank you,” said the girl, “but if I may say, luck plays no part. We’ve both trained long and have been taught well by our scythes.”

“Very true,” Faraday said. They nodded respectful good-byes that bordered on bows, and left.

After they were gone, Faraday turned to Rowan and Citra. “The girl will get her ring today,” he said. “The boy will be denied.”

“How do you know?” asked Rowan.

“I have friends on the bejeweling committee. The boy is smart, but too quick to anger. It’s a fatal flaw that cannot be tolerated.”

As annoying as Rowan found the kid, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. “What happens to the apprentices that get denied?”

“They are returned to their families to take up life where they left off.”

“But life can never be the same after a year of training to be a scythe,” Rowan pointed out.”

“True,” said Faraday, “but only good can come from a keen understanding of what it takes to be a scythe.”

Rowan nodded, but thought, for a man of such wisdom, that seemed very naive. Scythe training was a scarring endeavor. Purposefully so, but it was scarring nonetheless.

The rotunda became increasingly crowded with scythes, and the marble walls, floor, and dome made voices echo into a cacophony. Rowan tried to hear more individual conversations, but they were lost in the din. Faraday had told them that the great bronze doors to the assembly room would open promptly at seven a.m., and the scythes would be dismissed at the stroke of seven p.m. Twelve hours to accomplish any and all business. Anything left undone would have to wait four months until the next conclave.

“In the early days,” Scythe Faraday told them as the doors opened to admit the throng, “a conclave would last for three days. But they discovered that after the first day, it became little more than arguments and posturing. There’s still plenty of that, but it’s curtailed. It behooves us all to move through the agenda quickly.”

The chamber was a huge semicircle with a large wooden rostrum at the front where the High Blade sat, and slightly lower seats on either side for the Conclave Clerk, who kept records, and the Parliamentarian, who interpreted rules and procedures if any questions arose. Scythe Faraday had told them enough about the power structure of the Scythedom for Rowan to know that much.