Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(74)
“Or what about a Tonist? The tone cults hate scythes.”
The rotunda was quickly emptying. They left the alcove and moved toward the chamber doors. “You don’t have enough facts to accuse anyone of anything.” Rowan said. “You should let it sit for now.”
“Let it sit? You can’t be serious.”
“I said for now! You’ll have full access to the Scythedom’s records once you’re ordained, and you’ll be able to prove exactly what happened.”
Citra stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean once I’m ordained. It could just as easily be you. Or is there something I’m missing?”
Rowan pursed his lips, furious at himself for the slip. “Let’s just get inside before they close the doors.”
? ? ?
The rituals of conclave were just as they had been before. The tolling of the dead. The washing of hands, grievances, and discipline. Once again an anonymous accusation was leveled against Scythe Goddard—this time accusing him of handing out immunity too freely.
“Who brings this accusation?” Goddard demanded. “Let the accuser stand and identify his or herself!”
Of course no one took credit, which allowed Goddard to retain the floor. “I will admit that his accusation has merit,” Goddard said. “I am a generous man, and have perhaps been too liberal in my doling of immunity. I make no excuses and am unrepentant. I throw myself on the mercy of the High Blade to levy my punishment.”
High Blade Xenocrates waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, just sit down, Goddard. Your penance will be to shut up for a whole five minutes.”
That brought a round of laughter. Goddard bowed to the High Blade and took his seat. And although a few scythes—including Scythe Curie—tried to object, pointing out that historically, scythes who over-used their ring had their power to grant immunity limited to the families of the gleaned, their complaints fell on deaf ears. Xenocrates overruled all objections in the interest of speeding up the day’s proceedings.
“Amazing,” said Scythe Curie quietly to Citra. “Goddard’s becoming untouchable. He can get away with anything. I wish someone would have had the foresight to glean him as a child. The world would be better off.”
Citra avoided Rowan at lunch, afraid that being seen together more than they already had been might raise suspicion. She stood by Scythe Curie for lunch, and the scythe introduced Citra to several of the greatest living scythes: Scythe Meir, who had once been a delegate to the Global Conclave in Geneva; Scythe Mandela, who was in charge of the bejeweling committee; and Scythe Hideyoshi, the only scythe known to have mastered the skill of gleaning through hypnosis.
Citra tried not to be too starstruck. Meeting them almost gave her hope that the old guard, could triumph against the likes of Goddard. She kept glancing over at Rowan, who, once more, couldn’t seem to get away from the other apprentices, although she didn’t know how hard he tried.
“It’s a bad sign,” said Scythe Hideyoshi, “when our young hopefuls gravitate so openly to the enemy.”
“Rowan’s not the enemy,” Citra blurted, but Scythe Curie put a hand on her shoulder to quiet her.
“He represents the enemy,” Scythe Curie said. “At least he does to those other apprentices.”
Scythe Mandela sighed. “There shouldn’t be enemies in the Scythedom. We should all be on the same side. The side of humanity.”
It was generally agreed among the old guard that these were troubling times, but aside from raising objections that were repeatedly dismissed, no one took action.
Citra found herself getting increasingly anxious after lunch, as the weapons manufacturers touted their wares and various motions were hotly debated. Things like whether a scythe’s ring should be worn on the left or right hand, and whether or not a scythe should be allowed to endorse a commercial product, like running shoes or a breakfast cereal. It all seemed insignificant to Citra. Why should any of that matter when the hallowed act of gleaning was slowly devolving into mortal age murder?
Then at last it came time for the apprentice trials. As before, the candidates for Scythedom went first, having been tested the night before. Of the four candidates who made it through their final test, only two were ordained. The other two had to suffer the walk of shame, as they exited the chamber and went back to their old lives. Citra took guilty pleasure at the fact that the girl who had been sucking up to Rowan was one of those ejected.
Once the new scythes were given their rings and took their new names, the remaining apprentices were called down front.
“Today’s test,” announced Scythe Cervantes, “will be a competition in the martial art of Bokator. The candidates will be paired and judged on their performance.”
A mat was brought in and rolled out in the semicircular space in front of the rostrum. Citra took a deep breath. She had this. Bokator was a balance among strength, agility, and focus, and she had found her perfect balance. And then they stuck a blade right in the heart of her confidence.
“Citra Terranova will spar against Rowan Damisch.”
A murmur from the crowd. Citra realized this was no random draw. They were paired intentionally, doomed to be adversaries. How could it be any other way? Her eyes met Rowan’s, but his expression gave away nothing.
The other matches went first. Each apprentice gave their best, but Bokator was a bruising discipline and not everyone’s strength. Some victories were close, others were routs. And then it came time for Citra and Rowan’s match.