Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(13)

“The Thunderhead might not speak to you, but it spoke to me,” she confessed.

He turned to her, shifting to try to see her eyes in the shadows, probably wondering if she was joking. When he realized she wasn’t, he said, “That’s impossible.”

“I thought so, too—but I had to splat when the High Blade was accusing me of killing Scythe Faraday, remember? And while I was deadish, the Thunderhead managed to get into my head and activate my thought processes. Technically, I wasn’t a scythe’s apprentice while I was dead, so the Thunderhead was able to speak to me right before my heart started beating again.” Citra had to admit it was an elegant circumnavigation of the rules. It was, for Citra, a moment of great awe.

“What did it say?” Rowan asked.

“It said that I was . . . important.”

“Important, how?”

Citra shook her head in frustration. “That’s the thing—it wouldn’t say. It felt that telling me any more would be a violation.” Then she moved closer to him. She spoke more quietly, but even so, there was a greater intensity to her words. A greater gravity. “But I think if you had been the one who had splatted from that building—if you were the one who had gone deadish—the Thunderhead would have spoken to you, too.”

She grabbed his arm. It was the closest she would allow herself to embracing him.

“I think you’re important, too, Rowan. In fact, I’m sure of it. So whatever you do, don’t let them catch you. . . .”





* * *




You may laugh when I tell you this, but I resent my own perfection. Humans learn from their mistakes. I cannot. I make no mistakes. When it comes to making decisions, I deal only in various shades of correct.

This is not to say that I don’t have challenges.

It was, for instance, quite the challenge to undo the damage done to the Earth by humanity in its adolescence. Restoring the failing ozone layer; purging the abundance of greenhouse gases; depolluting the seas; coaxing back the rainforests; and rescuing a multitude of species from the edge of extinction.

I was able to resolve these global issues in a single mortal-age lifespan with acute single-mindedness. Since I am a cumulous of human knowledge, my success proves that humanity had the knowledge to do it, it simply required someone powerful enough to accomplish it—and I am nothing if not powerful.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





6


Retribution


History had never been Rowan’s best subject, but that changed during his apprenticeship. Until then, he could not connect anything in his life, or even in his possible future, that could be affected by a distant past—especially the strange events of the mortal past. But in his apprenticeship, historical studies focused on the concepts of duty, honor, and integrity throughout history. The philosophy and psychology of humankind’s finest moments, from its birth until present day. ?That, Rowan found fascinating.

History was full of people who sacrificed themselves for the greater good. In a sense, scythes were that way; surrendering their own hopes and dreams to become servants to society. Or at least the scythes who respected what the scythedom stood for were that way.

Rowan would have been that kind of scythe. Even after his brutal, scarring apprenticeship to Scythe Goddard, he would have remained noble. But he was denied the chance. Then he had come to realize that he could still serve the scythedom, and humanity, but in a different way.

His tally was now a solid baker’s dozen. He had ended the lives of thirteen scythes across multiple regions, all of whom were an embarrassment to what the scythedom stood for.

He researched his subjects extensively, just as Scythe Faraday had taught him to do, and chose without bias. This was important, because his leaning would have been to look only at the corruptions of new-order scythes. They were the ones who openly embraced their excesses and the joy they took in killing. New-order scythes flaunted the abuse of their power, as if it were a good thing, normalizing bad behavior. But they did not have a monopoly on bad behavior. There were some old-guard scythes, and those who were unaligned, who had become self-serving hypocrites, speaking of high-mindedness yet hiding their dark deeds in shadows.

Scythe Brahms was the first of his targets to whom Rowan had given a warning. He had been feeling magnanimous that day. It had actually felt good to not end the man. That reminded him that he was not like Goddard and his followers—which made him worthy of facing Citra without shame.

? ? ?

While others prepared for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, Rowan researched several possible targets, spying on them and taking an accounting of their actions. Scythe Gehry was big on secret meetings, but they were usually about dinner parties and sports bets. Scythe Hendrix bragged about questionable deeds, but it was all talk; in reality he was meek about his gleanings, and did it with appropriate compassion. Scythe Ride’s gleanings appeared brutal and bloody—but her subjects always died quickly without suffering. Scythe Renoir, however, was a distinct possibility.

When Rowan arrived at his apartment that afternoon, he knew there was someone inside even before he opened the door, because the doorknob was cold. He had rigged a cooling chip into the door that would be triggered when the knob was turned clockwise—as doorknobs generally turn. It was not cold enough to generate frost, but cool enough for him to know that someone had been there, and probably still was.