Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(78)
“What did you do to—” Rowan couldn’t even bring himself to say the word “—to the rest of him?”
Rand shrugged, as if it were nothing. “You said it yourself, Tyger wasn’t much in the brains department. Everything above the neck was expendable.”
“Where is he?”
Rand didn’t answer the question, so Goddard did.
“Thrown out with the rest of the garbage,” he said, with a dismissive wave of ?Tyger’s hand.
Rowan lunged forward, forgetting his bonds—but his fury did little more than rock the chair. If he could ever get free from this chair, he would kill them. Not just glean them, but kill them. Rip them limb from limb with such blatant bias and malice aforethought it would incinerate the second commandment!
And this was what Goddard wanted. He wanted Rowan to be consumed by murderous rage, yet be powerless to use it. Impotent to avenge his friend’s terrible fate.
Goddard soaked up Rowan’s misery as if nourished by it.
“Would you have given yourself to save him?” Goddard asked.
“Yes!” Rowan screamed. “Yes, I would have! Why didn’t you take me?”
“Hmm,” said Goddard, as if it were merely a minor revelation. “In that case, I’m glad for the choice Ayn made. Because after what you did to me, you must be made to suffer, Rowan. I am the aggrieved party here, so it is my wishes that must be honored—and it is my wish that you live in abject misery. It’s fitting that this began in fire, because you, Rowan, now suffer the fate of the mythical Prometheus—the bringer of fire. Not all that different from Lucifer—the ‘bearer of light’ from whom you took your scythe name. Prometheus was chained to the face of a mountain for his indiscretion, doomed to have his liver devoured by eagles until the end of time.”
Then he rolled closer, and whispered, “I am your eagle, Rowan. ?And I will feed on your misery day after day for eternity. Or until your suffering bores me.”
Goddard held his gaze for a moment more, then had the guard roll him out.
Over the past two years, Rowan had been physically beaten, psychologically flayed, and emotionally battered. But he had survived it. What hadn’t killed him had made him stronger—more resolved to do what was necessary to fix what was broken. But now it was he who was broken. And there weren’t enough nanites in the world to repair the damage.
When he looked up, he saw that Scythe Rand was still there. She made no move to cut his bonds. He didn’t expect her to. How could the eagle devour his insides if he were cut free? Well, the joke was on them. He didn’t have anything left inside to devour. And if he did, it was pure poison.
“Get out,” he told Rand.
But she didn’t go. She just stood there in her bright green robe—a color that Rowan had come to despise.
“He didn’t go out with the garbage,” Scythe Rand said. “I took care of it myself, then spread his ashes in a field of wild bluebonnets. Just saying.”
Then she left, leaving Rowan to find what solace he could from the lesser of two horrors.
Part Five
CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND
* * *
There is a vast difference between the things I can do, and the things I choose to do.
I can remove and raise every unwanted fetus in vitro, then place it with the perfect loving family—thereby ending the argument between right of choice and sanctity of life.
I can balance the chemicals that once led to clinical depression, suicidal ideation, delusional thinking, and every form of mental illness, thereby creating a population that is not only physically healthy, but emotionally and psychologically healthy as well.
I can, through a person’s individual network of nanites, upload memories daily, so, should that person suffer brain damage, their memories can be layered into fresh brain tissue. I can even catch the memories of splatters on the way down, so that they can remember most of the fall, which, after all, is why they chose to splat in the first place.
But there are some things that I simply. Will. Not. Do.
However, the scythedom is not bound by my laws, or my sense of ethical propriety. ?Which means that I must endure any abomination that it inflicts upon the world. Including the awful restoration of a dangerous scythe who was better off removed from service.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
30
Irascible Glass Chicken
The Great Library of Alexandria remained quiet as a crypt in the midnight hours, so no one but Munira and the BladeGuards who stood at the entrance knew about the mysterious visitor who came during her shift. The guards did not care enough to ask questions, so Scythe Faraday was able to do his research in as much secrecy as was possible in a public institution.
He would pore over the volumes in the Hall of the Founders, but would not tell Munira what he was looking for. She did not ask after that first day, although she did, on occasion, subtly probe.
“If you’re looking for words of wisdom to ponder, you might try Scythe King,” she had suggested one night.
“Scythe Cleopatra wrote a lot about the early conclaves and the personalities of the first scythes in her journals,” she offered on another night.
Then one night, she mentioned Scythe Powhatan. “He had a penchant for travel and geography,” she said. Apparently that hit the spot, because Faraday began to take a keen interest in the man’s work.