Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(75)

Still, Rowan’s expression gave her neither camaraderie nor sympathy, nor misery at having to be set against each other. “Okay, let’s do this,” is all he said, and they began to circle each other.

? ? ?

Rowan knew that today was his first true test, but not the one they had devised for him. Rowan’s test was to look convincing but still throw the match. Goddard, Xenocrates, Cervantes—and for that matter, all the scythes assembled—needed to believe he was doing his best, but that his best just wasn’t good enough.

It began with the ritualistic rhythmic circling. Then posturing and physical taunting. Rowan launched himself at Citra, threw a kick that he telegraphed with his body language, and missed her by a fraction of an inch. He lost his footing and fell down on one knee. A very good start. He turned quickly, rising, remained off balance, and she lunged toward him. He thought she would take him down with an elbow strike, but instead she grabbed him, pulling him forward even as she appeared to push him back. It brought him to balance and made it appear as if her move had failed—that she didn’t have the leverage to do the job. Rowan backed away and caught her gaze. She was grinning at him, her eyes intensely on his. It was part of the taunting that Bokator was known for, but this was so much more. He could read her just as clearly as if she were speaking aloud.

You’re not going to throw this match, her eyes said. Fight badly—I dare you—because no matter how poorly you try to fight, I will find a way to make you look good.

Frustrated, Rowan launched himself at her again, an open palm strike at her shoulder, intentionally two inches off from the perfect leverage point—but she actually moved into it. His palm connected, she spun back with the force of his strike, and went down.

Damn you, Citra. Damn you!

She could beat him at everything. Even at losing.

? ? ?

Citra knew from the moment Rowan made his first kick what he was up to, and it infuriated her. How dare he think he had to fight badly for her to win this match? Had he grown so arrogant under Scythe Goddard that he actually thought this wouldn’t be a fair fight? Sure, he had been training, but so had she. So what if he had grown stronger—that also meant he was bulkier and moved slower. A fair fight was the only way to keep their consciences clean. Didn’t Rowan realize that by sacrificing himself, he’d be dooming her as well? She would sooner glean herself as her first act as a scythe than accept his sacrifice.

Rowan glared at her now, furious, and it only made her laugh. “Is that the best you can do?” she asked.

He threw out a low kick, just slow enough for her to anticipate, and without any force behind it. All she needed to do was lower her stance and the kick would have no effect. Instead she responded by raising her center of gravity just enough for the kick to knock her feet out from under her. She fell to the mat, but righted herself quickly, so it wouldn’t look as if she had done it on purpose. Then she threw her shoulder against him and hooked her right leg around his, applying force, but not enough to make his knee buckle. He grabbed her, twisted, flipped them both down to the mat, landing with her in the dominant position over him. She countered by forcing him to roll over and pin her. He tried to release her, but she held his arms in place so he couldn’t.

“What’s the matter, Rowan?” she whispered. “Don’t know what to do when you’re on top of a girl?”

He finally pulled away and she got up. They faced each other one more time, circling in the familiar battle dance while Cervantes circled them in the other direction, like a satellite, completely missing what was really going on between them.

? ? ?

Rowan knew the match was almost over. He was about to win, and by winning he would lose. He must have been crazy thinking Citra would allow him to willingly throw the match. They both cared too much about each other. That was the problem. Citra would never willingly accept the scythe’s ring as long as her feelings for him got in the way.

And all at once Rowan knew exactly what he had to do.

? ? ?

With only ten seconds left to the match, all Citra had to do was keep up the dance. Rowan was clearly the victor. Ten more seconds of guarded circling and Cervantes would blow the whistle.

But then Rowan did something Citra hadn’t anticipated at all. He threw himself forward with lightning speed. Not clumsy, not feigning false incompetence, but with perfect, practiced skill. In an instant he had put her in a headlock, squeezing her neck tight—tight enough for her pain nanites to kick in. And then he leaned close and snarled into her ear.

“You fell right into my trap,” he said. “Now you get what you deserve.” Then he flung her body into the air, twisting her head the other way. Her neck broke with a loud and horrible snap, and darkness came over Citra like a landslide.

? ? ?

Rowan dropped Citra to the ground as the crowd drew a collective gasp. Cervantes blew his whistle violently. “Illegal move! Illegal move!” Cervantes shouted, just as Rowan knew he would. “Disqualification!”

The gathering of scythes began to roar. Some were furious at Cervantes, others were spouting vitriol at Rowan for what he had done. Rowan stood stoic, letting no emotions show. He forced himself to look down at Citra’s body. Her head was twisted practically backward. Her eyes were open, but no longer seeing. She was deadish as deadish could be. He bit down on his tongue until it began to bleed.

The chamber door swung open and guards raced in, hurrying toward the deadish girl in the middle of the room.