Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(56)

“Thank you, Alessandro.”

? ? ?

On the evening of the second day, the girl—the one who Goddard said was so important—came into his room in between deliriums. What was her name again? Amy? Emmy? Oh yes—Esme.

“I hate that they did this to you,” she said with tears in her eyes. “But you’ll get better.”

Of course he’d get better. He didn’t have any choice in the matter. In mortal days, one died or recovered. Now there was only one option.

“Why are you here?”

“To see how you were getting on,” she said.

“No . . . I mean here, in this place?”

She hesitated before she spoke. Then she looked away. “Scythe Goddard and his friends came to a mall near where I lived. They gleaned everyone in the food court except for me. Then he told me to come with him. So I did.”

It didn’t explain anything, but it was the only explanation she offered—perhaps the only one she knew. From what Rowan could see, this girl served no discernible function at the estate. ?Yet Goddard gave orders that anyone who ran afoul of her would be severely disciplined. She was not to be bothered in any way, and was allowed free run of the estate. She was the biggest mystery he’d encountered yet in Scythe Goddard’s world.

“I think you’ll be a better scythe than the others,” she told him, but gave no explanation as to why she thought so. Perhaps it was a gut feeling, but she couldn’t be more wrong.

“I won’t be a scythe,” he told her. She was the first person he confessed it to.

“You will if you want to,” she said. “And I think you’ll want to.”

Then she left him to ponder the pain and the possibility.

? ? ?

Scythe Goddard didn’t show his face in Rowan’s room until day three.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Rowan wanted to spit at him, but knew it would hurt too much, and might even bring about a second beating.

“How do you think I’m feeling?” Rowan answered.

He sat on the edge of the bed and studied Rowan’s face. “Come see yourself.” Then he helped Rowan out of the bed, and Rowan hobbled to an ornate wardrobe on which was a full-length mirror.

Rowan barely recognized himself. His face was so swollen it was pumpkin-like. Purple bruises all over his face and body were mottling to all shades of the spectrum.

“Here is where your life begins,” Goddard told him. “What you see is the boy dying. The man will emerge.”

“That’s such a load of crap.” Rowan said, not even caring what response it might evoke.

Goddard merely raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps . . . but you can’t deny this is a turning point in your life, and every turning point must be marked by an event—one that burns itself into you as indelibly as a brand.”

So now he was branded. Yet he suspected this was just the beginning of a much larger trial by fire.

“The world longs to be like us,” Goddard told Rowan. “Taking and doing what we choose, with neither consequence nor remorse. They would steal our robes and wear them if they could. You have been given an opportunity to become greater than royalty, so at the very least it requires this rite of passage that I have provided for you.”

Goddard stood there, studying Rowan a few moments more. ?Then he pulled out the tweaker from his robes. “Arms up, legs spread.”

Rowan took as deep a breath as he could, and did as he was told. Goddard wanded him. Rowan felt tingling in his extremities, but when it was done, he didn’t feel the warmth of opiates or the deadening of his pain.

“It still hurts,” Rowan told him.

“Of course it does. I didn’t activate your painkillers, just your healing nanites. You’ll be good as new by morning, and ready to begin your training. But from this moment on, you’ll feel every measure of your body’s pain.”

“Why?” Rowan dared to ask. “What person in their right mind would want to feel that kind of pain?”

“Rightmindedness is overrated,” Goddard said. “I’d rather have a mind that’s clear than one that’s ‘right.’”





* * *





In the business of death, we scythes have no competition. Unless, of course, you consider fire. Fire kills just as swiftly and completely as a scythe’s blade. It’s frightening, but also somehow comforting to know that there’s one thing the Thunderhead can’t fix. One type of damage that revival centers are powerless to undo. Once one’s goose is cooked, it is truly and permanently cooked.

Death by fire is the only natural death left. It almost never happens, though. The Thunderhead monitors heat on every inch of the planet, and the fighting of fires often begins before one can even smell smoke. There are safety systems in every home and every office building, with multiple levels of redundancy, just in case. The more extreme tone cults try to burn their deadish, to make it permanent, but ambu-drones usually get to them first.

Isn’t it good to know that we are all safe from the threat of the inferno? Except, of course, when we’re not.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



* * *





22


Sign of the Bident