Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(82)

“I think maybe Citra is messing with you, too. Have you even considered that?” ?Volta took his shot, sinking both a striped ball and a solid, which didn’t help Rowan in knowing what he was going for. “I mean, look at you—you’re a basket case. She’s playing head games with you and you don’t even see it!”

“She’s not like that,” said Rowan, choosing a striped ball and sinking it. Apparently it was the right choice, because Volta let him play on.

“People change,” Volta said. “Especially an apprentice. Being a scythe’s apprentice is all about change. Why do you think we give up our names and never use them again? It’s because by the time we’re ordained, we’re completely different people. Professional gleaners instead of candy-ass kids. She’s working you like chewing gum.”

“And I broke her neck,” reminded Rowan. “So I guess we’re even.”

“You don’t want to be even. You want to go into Winter Conclave with a clear advantage—or at least feeling like you have one.”

Esme popped in just long enough to say, “I play the winner,” then left.

“Best argument for losing ever,” grumbled Volta.

“I should take her on my morning runs,” Rowan suggested. “She could use the exercise. It might get her into better shape.”

“True,” said Volta, “but she comes by her weight naturally. It’s genetic.”

“How would you know—”

And then Rowan got it. It was staring him in the face, but he was too close to see. “No! You’re kidding me!”

Volta shook his head nonchalantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Xenocrates?”

“It’s your shot,” said Volta.

“If it came out that the High Blade had an illegitimate daughter, it would destroy him. He’d be in serious violation.”

“You know what would be even worse?” said Volta. “If the daughter that no one knew about got herself gleaned.”

Rowan ran a dozen things through this new lens. It all made sense now. The way Esme was spared at the food court, the way she was treated—what was it Goddard had said? That she was the most important person he’d meet that day? The key to the future? “But she won’t get gleaned,” Rowan said. “Not as long as Xenocrates does whatever Goddard says. Like jump in the deep end of a pool.”

Volta nodded slowly. “Among other things.”

Rowan took his shot and accidentally sunk the eight ball, ending the game.

“I win,” said Volta. “Damn. Now I’ll have to play Esme.”





* * *





I am apprenticed to a monster. Scythe Faraday was right: Someone who enjoys killing should never be a scythe. It goes against everything the founders wanted. If this is what the Scythedom is turning into, someone has to stop it. But it can’t be me. Because I think I’m becoming a monster, too.



* * *




Rowan looked at what he wrote and carefully, quietly tore the page out, crumpled it, and tossed it into the flames of his bedroom fireplace. Goddard always read his journal. As Rowan’s mentor, it was his prerogative to do so. It had taken forever for Rowan to learn how to write his true thoughts, his true feelings. Now he had to learn to hide them again. It was a matter of survival. So he picked up his pen and wrote a new official entry.



* * *




Today I killed twelve moving targets using only twelve bullets, and saved the life of my friend. Scythe Goddard sure knows how to motivate someone to do their best. There’s no denying that I’m getting better. I’m learning more and more each day, perfecting my mind, my body, and my aim. Scythe Goddard is proud of my progress. Someday I hope I can repay him, and give him what he deserves in return for all he’s done for me.





* * *





29


They Called It Prison




Scythe Curie hadn’t gleaned since conclave. All her concern was on Citra. “I’m entitled to some down time,” the scythe told her. “I have plenty of time to pick up the slack.”

It was at dinner on their first day back at Falling Water that Citra finally broached the subject she had been dreading.

“I have a confession to make,” Citra said five minutes into the meal.

Scythe Curie chewed and swallowed before she responded. “What kind of confession?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I’m listening.”

Citra did her best to hold the woman’s cool gray gaze. “It’s something that I’ve been doing for some time. Something you don’t know about.”

The scythe’s lips screwed into a wry grin. “Do you honestly think there’s anything you do that I don’t know about?”

“I’ve been looking into the murder of Scythe Faraday.”

Scythe Curie actually dropped her fork with a clatter. “You’ve been what?”

Citra told Scythe Curie everything. How she dug through the backbrain, how she painstakingly reconstructed Faraday’s moves on his last day. And how she found two of the five witnesses that were given immunity, suggesting, if not proving, that the act was committed by a scythe.