Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(55)

It was only when the other scythes in attendance shook his hand and wished him luck in his mortal competition against Citra that he sobered and remembered what was at stake.

He borrowed brief snippets of sleep in the cabana, always awakened by music, or raucous laughter, or fireworks. Then, late in the afternoon of the second day, when Scythe Goddard had enough, he merely whispered so and word spread quickly. In less than an hour the guests had left, and servants began to clean the detritus of revelry from the eerily silent grounds. Now only the other residents of the estate remained: Scythe Goddard, his three junior scythes, the servants, and the girl, Esme, who peered out of her bedroom window at Rowan like a wraith, as he sat in Goddard’s cabana, awaiting whatever came next.

Scythe Volta approached, his yellow robes rippling in the breeze. “What are you still doing out here?” he asked.

“I have nowhere else to be,” Rowan told him.

“Come with me,” Volta said. “It’s time to begin your training.”

? ? ?

There was a wine cellar in the basement of the main house. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of bottles of wine rested in brick alcoves. A bare minimum of bulbs lit the space, casting long shadows and making the alcoves seem like portals to undisclosed hells.

Scythe Volta led Rowan to the central chamber of the cellar, where Goddard and the other scythes waited. Scythe Rand produced a device from her green robe. It looked like a cross between a gun and a flashlight.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

“It’s a tweaker,” Rowan told her. He’d had the occasion several years ago to have his nanites tweaked when his teachers decided his moodiness had crossed the line into depression. That was five or six years ago. The tweaking was painless, and the effect subtle. He hadn’t noticed much of a change, but everyone agreed that he had begun to smile more.

“Arms out, legs spread,” said Scythe Rand. Rowan did as he was told and Scythe Rand passed the tweaker all over his body like some sort of magic wand. Rowan felt a mild tingling in his extremities that quickly faded. She stepped back, and Scythe Goddard approached.

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘being made?’” asked Scythe Goddard. “Or being ‘jumped in?’”

Rowan shook his head, noticing that the other scythes had positioned themselves around him, leaving Rowan at the center of their circle.

“Well, you are about to find out what it means.”

The other scythes then removed their cumbersome outer robes. Now down to their tunics and knickers, they took aggressive stances. There was a look of determination on each of their faces, and maybe a little bit of joyous anticipation. Rowan knew what was about to happen an instant before it began.

Scythe Chomsky, the largest of them, stepped forward and, without warning, swung his fist, connecting with Rowan’s cheek so hard, he spun around, lost his footing, and fell to the dusty floor.

Rowan felt the shock of the punch, the jagged bolt of pain, and waited for the telltale warmth of his nanites releasing painkilling opiates into his bloodstream. But relief didn’t come. Instead the pain swelled.

It was horrible.

Overwhelming.

Rowan had never experienced such pain—he never knew such pain could even exist.

“What did you do?” he wailed. “What did you do to me?”

“We turned off your nanites,” Scythe Volta said calmly, “so you could experience what our ancestors once did.”

“There’s a very old expression,” Scythe Goddard told him. “‘To be painless is to be gainless.’” He gripped Rowan warmly on the shoulder. “And I wish you to gain much.”

Then he stood back, signaled the others to advance, and they began to beat Rowan to a pulp.

? ? ?

Recovery without the aid of healing nanites was a slow, miserable process that seemed to get worse before it got better. The first day Rowan longed to die. The second day he thought he actually might. His head pounded, his thoughts swam. He slipped in and out of consciousness with little warning. It was hard to breathe, and he knew he had several broken ribs. And although Scythe Chomsky had painfully popped his dislocated shoulder back into place at the end of his beating, it still ached with each heartbeat.

Scythe Volta visited him several times a day. He sat with Rowan, spoon-feeding him soup, and blotting where it spilled from his split, swollen lips. There seemed to be a halo around him, but Rowan knew it was just optical damage that caused the effect. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had detached retinas.

“It burns,” he told Volta as the salty soup spilled over his lips.

“It does for now,” ?Volta told him with genuine compassion. “But it will pass, and you’ll be better for it.”

“How could I be better for any of this?” he asked, horrified at how distorted and liquid his words sounded, as if he were speaking through the blowhole of a whale.

Volta fed him another spoonful of soup. “Six months from now, you tell me if I was right.”

He thanked Volta for taking the time to visit him when no one else did.

“You can call me Alessandro,” ?Volta said.

“Is that your real name?” Rowan asked.

“No, idiot, it’s Volta’s first name.”

Rowan supposed that’s as close as anyone got to knowing anyone else in the Scythedom.