Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(83)
Anastasia found that hard to believe . . . but on the other hand, finding easy scapegoats for complicated problems had been a human pastime since the first mob of cavemen struck someone down with a rock.
The uneasy truth was that the division in the scythedom was as deep as a gleaning wound. There was the new order, with platitudes to justify its sadistic appetites, and the old guard, which blustered about how things were supposed to be but was unable to take action to do anything about it. The two factions were locked in a death grip now, but neither could die.
As always, there was a lavish spread of donated breakfast foods in the rotunda, where the scythes gathered informally before conclave began. Today’s morning feast was a seafood buffet, designed with staggering artistic skill. Slabs of smoked salmon and kippered herring; bushels of shrimp and oysters on ice; artisan breads and countless varieties of cheese.
Anastasia thought she had no appetite, but seeing such a spread could entice the dead to rise for one last meal. Still, she hesitated at first to partake, because it felt like defacing a sculpture. But the rest of the scythes, the good and the bad, attacked it like piranha, so Anastasia gave in and did the same.
“It is an unofficial rite that dates back to the old days,” Scythe Curie once told her, “when the most austere and reserved of scythes would, just thrice a year, give in to gluttony without regret.”
Marie drew Anastasia’s attention to the groups of scythes and how they huddled in social cliques. Nowhere was the division clearer than here in the rotunda. The new-order Scythes gave forth a vibe that was palpable—filled with a brazen egotism that was markedly different from the more subdued self-importance of the rest of the scythedom.
“We’re all arrogant,” Marie had once told her. “After all, we are chosen because we are the brightest and the wisest. The best we can hope for is to be humble in our arrogance.”
As Anastasia took in the crowd, it chilled her to see how many scythes had altered their robes to include embedded jewels—which, thanks to Goddard, their martyr, had become a symbol of the new order. When Citra first came to conclave as an apprentice, there were far more independent scythes who did not align themselves with either faction—but it seemed there were fewer and fewer, as the line in the sand became a fissure that threatened to swallow those who did not choose a side. She was horrified to find that Honorable Scythe Nehru had added amethyst gems to his pewter-gray robe.
“Volta had been my apprentice,” Nehru explained. “When he sided with the new order, I took it as a personal insult . . . but then when he died in the fire at that Tonist monastery, I felt I owed him an open mind. I now find joy in gleaning, and surprisingly, it’s not a terrible thing.”
Anastasia respected the venerable scythe too much to put forward her opinion, but Marie was not one to hold her tongue.
“I know you cared for Volta,” Scythe Curie said, “but grief is not an excuse for depravity.”
It left Nehru speechless, as it was intended to.
They stood eating among like-minded scythes, all of whom lamented the trajectory of the scythedom.
“We should never have allowed them to brand themselves the ‘new order,’?” Scythe Mandela said. “There’s nothing new about what they do. And casting those of us who hold onto the integrity of the founders as ‘old guard’ diminishes us. We are far more forward thinking than those who serve their primal appetites.”
“You can’t say that while eating a pound of shrimp, Nelson,” quipped Scythe Twain. Which made some of the others chuckle, but Mandela was not amused.
“The conclave meals were intended to make up for a life of self-denial,” Mandela said. “But they mean nothing when there are scythes who deny themselves nothing.”
“Change is fine as long as it serves the greater good,” Scythe Curie said, “but the new-order scythes don’t even serve a lesser good.”
“We must continue to fight the good fight, Marie,” said Scythe Meir. “We must maintain and exalt the virtues of the scythedom; stick to the highest ethical ground. We must always glean with wisdom and compassion, for it is at the core of what we are—and we must never take the ending of life for granted. It is a burden, not a delight. It is a privilege, not a pastime.”
“Well said!” agreed Scythe Twain. “I must believe virtue will triumph over the selfishness of the new order.” But then he smirked at Scythe Meir. “Of course, Golda, it does sound as if you are campaigning for High Blade.”
She laughed heartily at that. “A job I wouldn’t want.”
“But you have heard the rumblings, haven’t you?” Twain asked.
She shrugged. “Rumblings are just that. I leave gossip to scythes who have not yet turned a corner. Me, I’m too old to waste my time with petty speculation.”
Anastasia turned to Scythe Curie. “What rumblings?” she asked.
But Scythe Curie was blasé about it. “Every couple of years there are rumors that Xenocrates will step down as High Blade, but he never does. I think he starts those rumors himself to make sure he’s the center of everyone’s conversation.”
And, as she eavesdropped on several other discussions, Anastasia could see that he had succeeded. What discussions weren’t about Scythe Lucifer featured all sorts of rumors about Xenocrates. That he had already self-gleaned; that he had fathered a child; that he had a tragic accident while setting his age back that left him with the body of a three-year-old. Speculation was rampant, and nobody seemed to care that some of the rumors were ridiculous. That was part of the fun.