Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(84)

“I don’t think you realize how serious this charge against you is, Miss Terranova.”

“I know how serious it is. I also know it’s ridiculous.”

The High Blade didn’t respond to that. She struggled in the blasted things cuffing her hands. What kind of world would make such a device? What sort of world would need one?

Then out of the shadows stepped another scythe, robed in earthtone brown and forest green. Scythe Mandela.

“Finally, someone reasonable!” said Citra. “Scythe Mandela, please help me! Please tell him I’m not guilty!”

Scythe Mandela shook his head. “I’ll do nothing of the sort, Citra,” he said sadly.

“Talk to Scythe Curie! She knows I didn’t do this!”

“This is too sensitive a situation to involve Scythe Curie at this time,” said Xenocrates. “She will be informed once we’ve determined your guilt.”

“Wait—you mean she doesn’t know where I am?”

“She knows we’ve detained you,” said Xenocrates. “We’re sparing her the details for now.”

Scythe Mandela sat in a chair across from her. “We know you’ve been in the backbrain, attempting to erase records of Scythe Faraday’s movements on the day he died, to foil our own internal investigation.”

“No! That’s not what I was doing!” But the more she denied it, the more guilty she appeared.

“But that’s not the most damning evidence,” said Scythe Mandela. Then he looked to Xenocrates. “May I show her?”

Xenocrates nodded, and Mandela pulled out from his robe a sheet of paper, putting it in one of Citra’s cuffed hands. She raised it to read it, not even imagining what it could be. It was a copy of a handwritten journal entry. Citra recognized the handwriting. There was no question it was Scythe Faraday’s. And as she read, her heart sank to a place she didn’t know existed in this, or any other world.

I fear I’ve made a dreadful mistake. An apprentice should never be chosen in haste, but I was foolish. I felt a need to impart all I know, all I’ve learned. I sought to increase the allies I have in the Scythedom who think as I do.



She comes to my door at night. I hear her in the darkness, and can only guess her intentions. Only once did I catch her entering my room. Had I actually been asleep, who can say what she might have done?



I am concerned that she may mean to end me. She’s shrewd, determined, calculating, and I’ve taught her the many arts of killing far too well. Let it be known that if death befalls me, it is not the result of self-gleaning. Should my life be brought to an unexpected end, it will be her hand, not mine, that bears the blame.



Citra found her eyes filling with tears of anguish and betrayal. “Why? Why would he write this?” Now she was beginning to doubt her own sanity.

“There’s really only one reason, Citra,” said Scythe Mandela.

“Our own investigation has ascertained that the witnesses were bribed to lie about what truly occurred. Further, their identities have been tampered with, and we can’t locate them.”

“Bribed!” said Citra, holding on to a last thread of hope. “Yes! They were bribed with immunity! Which proves it couldn’t have been me! It could only have been another scythe!”

“We tracked the source of the immunity,” said Scythe Mandela. “Whoever killed Scythe Faraday also gave him one final insult. After he was dead, the killer defeated the security measures on Faraday’s ring, and used it to grant the witnesses immunity.”

“Where’s the ring, Citra?” demanded Xenocrates.

She couldn’t look him in the face anymore. “I don’t know.”

“I only have one question for you, Citra,” said Scythe Mandela. “Why did you do it? Did you despise his methods? Are you working for a tone cult?”

Citra kept her eyes cast down to the damning journal entry in her hands. “None of those things.”

Scythe Mandela shook his head and stood up. “In all my years as a scythe, I’ve never seen such a thing,” he said. “You disgrace us all.” Then he left her alone with Xenocrates.

The High Blade paced silently for a few moments. Citra wouldn’t look at him.

“There is this concept I’ve been studying from the Age of Mortality,” he informed her. “It is a number of procedures designed to uncover truths. I believe it is pronounced ‘tor-turé.’ It would involve turning off your pain nanites, and then inflicting high levels of physical suffering until you finally confess the truth of what you’ve done.”

Citra said nothing. She still couldn’t process any of this. She didn’t know if she ever would.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” said Xenocrates. “I have no intent of submitting you to tor-turé. That is only a last resort.” Then he pulled out another piece of paper and put it down on his desk.

“If you sign this confession, we can avoid any more mortal-age unpleasantness.”

“Why should I have to sign anything? I’ve already been tried, and . . . what’s the word? Convicted.”

“A confession will remove all doubt. We would all sleep much easier if you’d be so kind as to remove the specter of doubt.” Now Xenocrates finally offered her a sympathetic smile.