Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(72)

Citra spotted Junior Scythe Goodall—the girl who had been ordained at the last conclave. She had her robes made by Claude DeGlasse, one of the world’s preeminent fashion designers. It had been a monumental mistake, because today’s designers were all about shocking people out of their happy place. Scythe Goodall’s orange-and-blue-striped robe made her look more like a circus clown than a scythe.

Citra couldn’t help but notice how Goddard and his junior scythes were the center of even more attention than at the Vernal Conclave. Although there were a number of scythes who turned a cold shoulder, even more crowded them, seeking to ingratiate themselves.

“There are more and more scythes who think like Goddard,” Scythe Curie said quietly to Citra. “They’ve slipped between the cracks like snakes. Infiltrating our ranks. Supplanting the best of us like weeds.”

Citra thought about Faraday, a decent scythe most certainly choked out by the weeds.

“The killers are rising to power,” Scythe Curie said. “And if they do, the days of this world will be very dark indeed. It is left to the truly honorable scythes to stand firm against it. I look forward to the day you join in that fight.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Citra had no problem fighting the good fight if she became a scythe. It was the events that would lead up to it that she couldn’t bear to consider.

Scythe Curie went off to greet several of the old-guard scythes who held true to the founders’ ideals. That’s when Citra finally spotted Rowan. He didn’t bask in the false glow of Goddard. Instead, he was his own little center of attention. He was surrounded by other apprentices, and even a few junior scythes. They chatted, they laughed, and Citra found herself feeling slighted that Rowan hadn’t even sought her out.

? ? ?

Rowan had, in fact, tried to find her, but by the time Citra entered the rotunda, Rowan had already been set upon by unexpected admirers. Some were envious of his position with Goddard, others were just curious, and others were clearly hoping to attach themselves to his rising star. Political positioning started young in the Scythedom.

“You were there at that office building, weren’t you?” one of the other apprentices said—a “spat,” one of the new ones, at conclave for the first time. “I saw you in the videos!”

“He wasn’t just there,” said another spat. “He had Goddard’s freaking ring, handing out immunity!”

“Wow! Is that even allowed?”

Rowan shrugged. “Goddard said it was, and anyway, it wasn’t like I asked him to give me his ring. He just did it.”

One of the junior scythes sighed wistfully. “Man, he must really like you if he let you do that.”

The thought that Goddard might actually like him made Rowan uncomfortable—because the things that Goddard liked, Rowan categorically despised.

“So what’s he like?” one girl asked.

“Like . . . no one I’ve ever met,” Rowan told her.

“I wish I was his apprentice,” said one of the spats, then grimaced like he had just bitten into a rancid cheese Danish. “I was taken on by Scythe Mao.”

Scythe Mao, Rowan knew, was another showboater, enjoying the celebrity of his public image. He was notoriously independent and didn’t align himself with the old guard or the new. Rowan didn’t know if he was a man who voted his own conscience or sold his vote to the highest bidder. Faraday would have known. There were so many things Rowan missed about being Faraday’s apprentice. The inside scoop was one of them.

“Goddard and his junior scythes totally owned the Capitol steps when they came up,” said an apprentice Rowan remembered from last conclave—the one who knew his poisons. “They looked so good.”

“Have you decided what color you’ll be? And what jewels you’ll have on your robe?” a girl asked, suddenly hanging on his arm like a fast-growing vine. He didn’t know which would be more awkward, pulling out of her grip or not.

“Invisible,” Rowan said. “I’ll come up the statehouse steps naked.”

“Those’ll be some jewels,” quipped one of the junior scythes, and everyone laughed.

Then Citra pushed her way through, and Rowan felt as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Citra, hi!” he said. It felt so forced, he just wanted to take it back and find another way to say it. He shrugged out of the vine girl’s grip, but it was too late, because Citra had seen it.

“Looks like you’ve made a lot of friends,” Citra said.

“No, not really,” he said, then realized he’d just insulted them all. “I mean, we’re all friends, right? We’re in the same boat.”

“Same boat,” repeated Citra with deadpan dullness but daggers in her eyes as sharp as the ones that used to hang in Faraday’s weapons den. “Good to see you too, Rowan.” Then she strode away.

“Let her go,” said the vine girl. “She’ll be history after the next conclave anyway, right?”

Rowan didn’t even excuse himself as he left them.

He caught up with Citra quickly, which told him she really wasn’t trying all that hard to get away. This was a good sign.

He gently grabbed her arm and she turned to him.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry about back there.”