Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(128)

“We’ll die . . . but the cold will preserve us . . . ,” she said.

“And the water won’t get in.”

“And someday, someone will find us!”

“Exactly.”

She tried to let it sink in. This new fate, this new reality was awful, and yet . . . how could something so terrible be filled with so much hope?

“How long?” she asked.

He looked around them. “I think the cold will get us before the air runs out. . . .”

“No,” she said, because she was already past that. “I mean how long do you suppose we’ll be here?”

He shrugged, as she knew he would. “A year. Ten years. A hundred. We won’t know until we’re revived.”

She put her arms around him and he held her tight. In Rowan’s arms, she found she was no longer Scythe Anastasia. She was Citra Terranova once more. It was the only place in the world where she still could be her former self. From the moment they were thrown into apprenticeship together, they were bound to one another. ?The two of them against each other. The two of them against the world. Everything in their lives was now defined by that binary. If they had to die today in order to live, it would somehow be wrong if they didn’t do it together.

Citra found a single laugh escaping her like a sudden, unexpected cough. “This was not in my plans for the day.”

“Really?” Rowan said. “It was in my plans. I had every reason to believe I would die today.”

? ? ?

Once the streets around the island’s eye were submerged, everything began to move quickly. Floor after floor of the sinking city’s towers slipped beneath the surface. Scythe Curie, satisfied that she had done what needed to be done for Anastasia and Rowan, bounded up the stairs of the founder’s tower, which was the tallest in the city, hearing the shattering of windows and the rush of water pulsing upward from below as more and more of the tower submerged. Finally, she emerged onto the roof.

There were dozens of people there, standing on the helipad, looking skyward, hoping beyond hope that rescue would come from the heavens—because it had all happened too quickly for anyone to reach a state of acceptance. As she looked off to the side of the building, she could see the lesser towers disappearing into the bubbling water. Now only the seven Grandslayer towers and the founder’s tower remained, with perhaps twenty stories to go until it was gone, too.

There was no question in her mind as to what needed to be done now. ?About a dozen of the people gathered were scythes. It was them she addressed when she spoke.

“Are we rats,” she said, “or are we scythes?”

Everyone turned to look at her, recognizing her. Realizing who she was, for everyone knew the Granddame of Death. “How will we leave this world?” she asked. “And what solemn service will we provide for those who must leave with us?” Then she pulled out a blade, and grabbed the civilian closest to her. A woman who could have been anyone. She thrust the blade beneath the woman’s rib cage, straight into her heart. The woman held her gaze, and Scythe Curie said, “Take comfort in this.”

And the woman said, “Thank you, Scythe Curie.”

As she laid the woman’s head gently down, the other scythes followed her example, and began gleaning with such heart, compassion, and love that it did bring enormous comfort, and at the end, people were crowding around them, asking to be gleaned next.

Then, when only the scythes were left, and the sea was roiling just a few floors beneath them, Scythe Curie said, “Finish it.”

She bore witness to these, the last scythes on Endura invoking the seventh commandment, and gleaning themselves, and then she held her blade above her own heart. It felt strange and awkward to have the hilt turned inward. She had lived a long life. A full life. There were things she regretted, and things she was proud of. Here was the reckoning for her early deeds—the reckoning she had been waiting for all these years. It was almost a relief. She only wished she could have been here to see Anastasia revived, when the vault was someday raised from the ocean floor—but Marie had to accept that whenever it happened, it would happen without her.

She thrust her blade inward, directly into her heart.

She fell to the ground only seconds before the sea would wash over her, but knew death would wash over her faster. And the blade hurt far less than she imagined it would, which made her smile. She was good. Very, very good.

? ? ?

In the Vault of Relics and Futures, the sinking of Endura was nothing more to Rowan and Citra than a gentle downward motion, like an elevator descending. The magnetic levitation field that kept the cube suspended dampened their sense of the fall. The power might even stay on until they reached bottom, the magnetic field absorbing the shock of impact on the sea floor two miles below. But eventually the power would go out. The inner cube would come to rest against the floor of the outer cube, its steel surface conducting away all heat, bringing on the terminal chill. But not yet.

Rowan looked to the vault around them, and the lavish robes of the founders. “Hey,” he said, “how about you be Cleopatra, and I’ll be Prometheus?”

He went to the mannequin that wore Supreme Blade Prometheus’s violet and gold robe, and put it on. He looked regal—as if he were born to wear it. Then he took Cleopatra’s robe, made of peacock feathers and silk. Citra let her own robe fall to the ground and he gently slipped the great founder’s robe over Citra’s shoulders.