Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(45)

“It’s always a terrible thing when a scythe leaves us,” the High Blade lamented, “especially one as well-respected as Scythe Faraday.”

Xenocrates had a full retinue of assistants and flunkies in the outside world to help him go about his business, but here in his home, he didn’t have as much as a single servant. Yet another contradiction. He had brewed them tea, and now poured it for them, offering cream but no sugar.

Rowan sipped his, but Citra refused the slightest kindness from the man.

“He was a fine scythe and a good friend,” Xenocrates said. “He will be sorely missed.”

It was impossible to guess at Xenocrates’ sincerity. Like everything else about him, his words seemed both sincere—and not—at the same time.

He had told them the details of Scythe Faraday’s demise on the way here. At about ten fifteen the evening before, Faraday was on a local train platform. Then, as a train approached, he hurled himself in front of it. There were several witnesses—all probably relieved that the scythe had gleaned himself and not any of them.

Had it been anyone but a scythe, his broken body would have been rushed to the nearest revival center, but rules for scythes were very clear. There would be no revival.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Citra said, fighting tears with little success. “He wasn’t the kind of man who would do something like that. He took his responsibility as a scythe—and training us—very seriously. I can’t believe he would just give up like that. . . .”

Rowan held his silence on the subject, waiting for the High Blade’s response.

“Actually,” Xenocrates said, “it makes perfect sense.” He took an excruciatingly long sip of tea before he spoke again. “Traditionally, when a mentor scythe self-gleans, anyone bound to an apprenticeship is unbound.”

Citra gasped, realizing the implication.

“He did it,” said Xenocrates, “to spare one of you from having to glean the other.”

“Which means,” said Rowan, “that this is your fault.” And then he added with a little bit of derision, “Your Excellency.”

Xenocrates stiffened. “If you are referring to the decision to set the two of you in mortal competition, that was not my suggestion. I was merely carrying out the will of the Scythedom, and frankly, I find your insinuation offensive.”

“We never heard the will of the Scythedom,” Rowan reminded him, “because there was never a vote.”

Xenocrates stood, ending the conversation with, “I’m sorry for your loss.” It was more than just Rowan’s and Citra’s loss, though; it was a loss to the entire Scythedom, and Xenocrates knew it, whether he said so or not.

“So . . . that’s it then?” said Citra. “We go home now?”

“Not exactly,” said Xenocrates, this time not looking either of them in the eye. “While it’s traditional for the apprentices of dead scythes to go free, another scythe can come forward and take over the training. It’s rare, but it does happen.

“You?” Citra asked. “You’ve volunteered to train us now?”

It was Rowan who saw the truth of it in his eyes. “No, it’s not him,” Rowan said. “It’s someone else. . . .”

“My responsibilities as High Blade would make it far too difficult to take on apprentices. You should be flattered, however; not just one, but two scythes have come forward—one for each of you.”

Citra shook her head. “No! We were pledged to Scythe Faraday and no one else! He died to free us, so we should be freed!”

“I’m afraid I’ve already given my blessing, so the matter is settled.” Then he turned to each of them in turn. “You, Citra, will now be the apprentice of Honorable Scythe Curie. . . .”

Rowan closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next, even before Xenocrates said the words.

“And you, Rowan, will complete your training in the capable hands of Honorable Scythe Goddard.”





Part Three


THE OLD GUARD AND THE NEW ORDER





* * *





I have never taken an apprentice. I simply never felt compelled to subject another human being to our way of life. I often wonder what motivates other scythes to do so. For some it is a form of vanity: “Learn from me and be awed because I am so wise.” For others perhaps it is compensation for not being allowed to have children: “Be my son or my daughter for a year, and I will give you power over life and death.” Yet for others, I imagine it is to prepare for their own self-gleaning. “Be the new me, so that the old me can leave this world satisfied.”

I suspect, however, if I ever take on an apprentice, it will be for a different reason entirely.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



* * *





18


Falling Water




At the far eastern edge of MidMerica, near the EastMerica border, was a home with a river running beneath it, spilling from its foundations into a waterfall.

“It was designed by a very well-known mortal age architect,” Scythe Curie told Citra as she led the way across a footbridge to the front door. “The place had fallen into disrepair; as you can imagine, a home such as this couldn’t survive without constant attention. It was in a horrible state, and no one cared enough to preserve it. Only the presence of a scythe would bring forth the kind of donations required to save it. Now it’s been returned to its former glory.”