Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,121

get up. He told his squad to fall back, and the squad, having seen the scythe take their captain down so effectively, didn’t question it.

“You can protect other buildings that are threatened,” the young scythe said, “but you’ll let this entire compound burn to the ground.”

“I understand, Your Honor.”

Then the scythe held up his ring, and the captain kissed it with such force, he cracked a tooth.

• • •

Rowan felt his skin crawling beneath Scythe Goddard’s blood-soaked robe, but as unpleasant as it was, he needed it to play the part. He was far more convincing than he thought he’d be. He frightened himself.

The firefighters now directed all their attention to adjacent buildings, hosing down nearby roofs with fire retardant. Rowan found himself standing alone between the burning Tonist cloister and the crowds still held back by peace officers. He stayed until the steeple caved in and the giant fork at its apex plunged into the flames, resounding with a mournful clang as it hit the ground.

I have become the monster of monsters, he thought as he watched it all burn. The butcher of lions. The executioner of eagles.

Then, trying not to trip over the robe, Rowan strode away from the all-consuming inferno that would leave nothing behind of Scythe Goddard and his disciples but bones too charred to ever be revived.

Part Five

SCYTHEHOOD

* * *

Scythes Rand and Chomsky have these morbid conversations. They’re twisted, and the first to admit it, but I guess that’s part of their charm. Today they were talking about the method they might use to self-glean one day. Noam said he would climb to the top of an active volcano, and, surrounded by grand ceremony, hurl himself into the lava. Ayn said she would scuba dive the Great Barrier Reef until she either ran out of air or got eaten by a great white. They wanted me to join in their game and tell them how I’d want to go. Call me boring, but I didn’t want to play. Why talk about self-gleaning when it should be the furthest thing from our minds? It’s our job to end other people’s lives, not our own—and I intend to be doing it well into my thousands.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Volta

* * *

37

Shaking the Tree

“A tragedy. A terrible tragedy.” High Blade Xenocrates sat on a plush sofa in the grandiose mansion that had, until just two days ago, been occupied by the late Scythe Goddard. Now he faced the apprentice, who seemed much too calm for a young man who had been through such an ordeal.

“Rest assured that the use of fire by any MidMerican scythe will be banned in conclave tomorrow,” he said.

“That’s definitely long overdue,” Rowan told him—speaking not like an apprentice, but more like an equal, which irritated the High Blade. Xenocrates took a good look at Rowan. “You were very lucky to get out of there alive.”

Rowan looked him square in the eye. “I was stationed by the outer gate,” he said. “By the time I saw that the fire had gotten out of control, there was nothing I could do; Scythe Goddard and the others were trapped. That place was a maze—they never stood a chance.” Then Rowan paused. He seemed to look as deeply into Xenocrates as Xenocrates was looking into him. “All the other scythes must see me as very bad luck. After all, I’ve gone through two scythes in one year. I suppose this nullifies my apprenticeship.”

“Nonsense. You’ve come this far,” Xenocrates told him. “Out of respect for Scythe Goddard, you’ll take your final test tonight. I can’t speak for the bejeweling committee, but I have no doubt that, taking into consideration what you’ve been through, they will find in your favor.”

“And Citra?”

“If you receive the ring, I trust you’ll glean Miss Terranova, and thus put an end to this unpleasant chapter of our history.”

A servant arrived with champagne and finger sandwiches. Xenocrates looked around. The mansion, which had been so full of servants in days past, now seemed to have only this one. The others must have fled the moment they heard that Scythe Goddard and his associates had succumbed to fire. Apparently, Xenocrates wasn’t the only one who felt freed by Goddard’s untimely end.

“Why are you still here when the others have all left?” he asked the servant. “It certainly couldn’t be out of loyalty.”

It was Rowan who answered him. “Actually, this estate belongs to him.”

“Yes,” said the man. “But I’ll be putting it up for sale.