Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,127

of Mortality love and murder often went hand in hand,” quipped Scythe Twain. “Perhaps our dear Scythe Faraday might have pegged you perfectly.”

“Oh, go glean yourself,” Curie said, only partially suppressing her grin.

“Only if I can attend my own funeral, my dear.” Then he wished Citra good luck, and sauntered off.

That’s when Citra saw Rowan enter the rotunda. It wasn’t exactly as if silence fell all over the room, but the volume did dip significantly, and then rose again. There was a presence about him now. Not like that of a scythe, but something else. A pariah, perhaps. But never had a pariah had such a chilling effect on bringers of death. There were those who were saying that Rowan had killed those scythes in cold blood, and set the fire to hide the evidence. Others said he was lucky to have survived and bore no guilt. Citra suspected that whatever the truth was, it was much more complicated than either of those things.

“Don’t talk to him,” Scythe Curie said, when she saw her glancing in his direction. “Don’t even let him see you looking his way. It will just make things more difficult for both of you.”

“I know,” Citra admitted, although she secretly hoped he would be brash enough to push through the crowd and come to her. And maybe say something—anything—that would prove to her he wasn’t the unthinkable criminal people were saying he was.

If she was chosen today, Citra would not defy the edict to glean Rowan—but she did have a plan that might save both of them. It was far from foolproof—and to be brutally honest with herself, it was more like a desperate grasping at straws than a plan. But even the faintest glimmer of hope was better than no hope at all. If she was deluding herself, at least it would allow her to get through this awful day.

• • •

Rowan had played this day over in his mind many times from beginning to end. He had decided that he would not go up to Citra when he saw her. He did not need an advisor to tell him it was better this way. Let them stay separate and apart until that miserable moment of truth that would keep them apart forever.

If she won, Rowan was certain she would glean him. She was duty bound to do it. It would tear her apart, but in the end, she would do what had to be done. He wondered how she might go about it. Perhaps she would break his neck, bringing everything full circle and wrapping up their doomed twin apprenticeship with a nice red bow.

Admittedly, Rowan was afraid to die, but what he feared more than death were the depths that he now knew he was capable of reaching. The ease with which he had rendered his mother deadish during his test the night before spoke volumes about the person he’d become. He’d rather be gleaned than be that person.

Of course, it was possible he’d be chosen instead of Citra. Then things would get interesting. He decided he wouldn’t glean himself—that would be too pointless and pathetic a gesture. If he was ordained, he would defy the edict, invoking the tenth commandment, which clearly said he was beholden to no laws beyond the ten—including any edicts levied by the Scythedom. He would refuse to glean Citra, and defend her life by taking out any scythes who tried to do it for him, with bullet, blade, and his own bare hands. He would turn conclave into a brutal and bloody battleground until they took him down—which wouldn’t be easy, considering how skilled he’d become at killcraft and how motivated he was to wreak as much havoc as possible. And the irony of it was that they couldn’t even glean him for it! Once he was ordained, their hands were tied by the seventh commandment.

They could punish him, though.

They could make him die a thousand deaths and then lock him away for eternity—and it would truly be eternity, because he would never give them the satisfaction of gleaning himself. Another reason why he would rather be gleaned by Citra. A single death at her capable hands sounded awfully good when compared with the alternative.

The breakfast spread in the rotunda was an elaborate one. Slabs of real smoked salmon, hard-crusted artisan breads, and a waffle station with every conceivable topping. Only the best for the MidMerican scythes.

Rowan ate with rare gluttony that morning, for once allowing himself