Conclave.
Rowan watched Citra closely, but she would not meet his gaze. She looked over the tray of knives, finally settling on a nasty-looking bowie knife.
“I used one of these to kill my brother yesterday,” Citra said. “I swore I’d never touch one again, but here I am.”
“How is he?” Rowan asked. Finally Citra looked at him. There was fear in her eyes, but also resolve. Good, thought Rowan. Let her be decisive about this. It will be quicker.
“He’s in revival,” she said. “With a hot fudge sundae on order for when he wakes up.”
“Lucky him.” Rowan looked out at the grand elegy of scythes. At this moment less of a conclave and more of an audience. “They’re waiting for a show,” Rowan said. “Shall we give it to them?”
Citra nodded slightly.
And with a sentiment that was heartfelt and true, Rowan said, “It is my honor to be gleaned by you, Scythe Anastasia.”
Then Rowan drew his last breath and prepared to accept her blade. But she wasn’t ready to strike just yet. Instead, she looked to the ring on her other hand.
“This,” she said, “is for breaking my neck.”
Then she drew her fist back and punched him in the face with such force, it nearly knocked him off his feet. A collective gasp came from the crowd; this was something they were not expecting.
Rowan reached up to feel blood spilling from a huge gash that her ring had cut across his cheek.
Then finally she raised the knife to glean him—but just as she was about to thrust it into his chest, a shout came from the rostrum behind them.
“STOP!”
It was the Parliamentarian. He held up his own ring. It was glowing red. So was Citra’s—and as Rowan looked around, he could see that every scythe’s ring within ten yards was emanating the same warning glow.
“He can’t be gleaned,” the Parliamentarian said. “He has immunity.”
A roar of outrage came from the conclave. Rowan looked at Citra’s ring, which was covered with his blood. It had transmitted his DNA to the immunity database even more effectively than if he had kissed it. He smiled at her in awe and absolute amazement. “You’re a genius, Citra. You know that, don’t you?”
“It’s Honorable Scythe Anastasia to you,” she said. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was an accident.” But there was a twinkle in her eye that said otherwise.
“Order!” yelled Xenocrates, banging his gavel. “I demand this conclave come to order!”
The scythes began to calm down, and Xenocrates pointed an accusing finger. “Citr—uh . . . that is, Scythe Anastasia—you have blatantly violated a Scythedom edict!”
“I have not, Your Excellency. I was fully prepared to glean him. It was your own Parliamentarian who stopped me. It never occurred to me that hitting Rowan would grant him immunity.”
Xenocrates looked at her in utter disbelief, and then suddenly released a guffaw that he tried to stifle but couldn’t. “Sly and artful,” he said, “with just enough plausible deniability. You’ll do very well among us, Scythe Anastasia.” Then he turned to the Parliamentarian and asked what options they now had.
“I suggest imprisonment for a year, until his immunity runs out.”
“Is there still such a place where a person could be officially imprisoned?” asked one of the other scythes. Then scythes around the assembly hall began to shout out their suggestions, some even offering to take Rowan in under house arrest, which could be good or bad, depending on their motive.
As it began to devolve into a debate over Rowan’s immediate future, Citra leaned in to him and whispered.
“There’s a tray of knives next to you, and a car waiting for you at the east exit.” Then she leaned away, leaving his future firmly in his own hands.
He thought he could not be more impressed by her. She had just proved him wrong.
“I love you,” he said.
“Same here,” she responded. “Now get lost.”
• • •
He was a wonder to watch. He took three blades from the tray, and somehow managed to wield them all. Scythe Anastasia made no move to stop him—but even if she had, it would have been no use. He was too quick. He hurled himself like a fireball down the center aisle. The scythes closest to him leaped into action, trying to stop him, but he kicked and spun, and sliced and flipped. No one could get a hand on him. To Scythe Anastasia he seemed some deadly force of nature. Of the scythes in his way, the lucky ones only had their robes sliced. The less lucky ones found themselves with wounds they never even saw inflicted. One—Scythe Emerson, she believed—would be requiring a trip to a revival center.
And then he was gone, leaving pandemonium in his wake.
As the High Blade tried to regain order, Scythe Anastasia looked to her hand, and did something that was very strange for a scythe to do. She kissed her own ring, getting just the slightest bit of Rowan’s blood on her lips. Enough for her to remember the moment forever.
• • •
The car was waiting, just as Citra had said. He thought it would be a publicar. He thought he would be alone. Neither was the case.
As he hopped in, he saw a ghost in the driver’s seat. After all he’d been through today, this was the moment that nearly made his heart stop.
“Good evening, Rowan,” said Scythe Faraday. “Close the door, it’s positively arctic outside.”
“What?” said Rowan still trying to wrap his mind around the moment. “How are you not dead?”
“I could ask you the same question, but time is of the essence. Now please, close the door.”
So Rowan did, and they sped off into the frosty Fulcrum City night.
* * *
Have we ever had an enemy worse than ourselves? In the Age of Mortality we warred ceaselessly with one another, and when there was no war to be made, we beat down one another in our streets, our schools, our homes, until war turned our gaze outward again, placing the enemy at a more comfortable distance.
But all such conflict is a thing of the past. There is peace on Earth, good will toward all humankind.
Except . . .
And that’s the thing: There is always an exception. I haven’t been a scythe for long, but I can already see that the Scythedom is in danger of becoming that exception. Not just here in MidMerica, but worldwide.
The first scythes were true visionaries and saw the wisdom of continuing to cultivate wisdom. They understood that the soul of a scythe needed to remain pure. Free from malice and greed and pride, but filled with conscience. However, rot grows on even the sturdiest of foundations.
If the conscience of the Scythedom fails, replaced by the avarice of privilege, we could become our own worst enemy again. And to complicate it, new wrinkles are being added to the fabric of the Scythedom every day. Take, for instance, the latest rumor, which in the months since I was ordained has spread beyond the Scythedom and is whispered among the general population.
According to the rumor, there is someone out there who is seeking out corrupt, despicable scythes . . . and ending their existence by fire. One thing is certain: He’s not an ordained scythe. And yet people have started to call him Scythe Lucifer.
I’m terrified that it might be true—but more terrified that I might want it to be true.
It was never my desire to be a scythe. I suppose that might make me a good one. I don’t yet know, because it’s all so new and I still have so much to learn. For now I must give all my attention to gleaning with compassion and conscience, with hopes that it will help our perfect world stay perfect.
And if ever Scythe Lucifer comes my way, I hope he’ll see me as one of the good ones. The way he once did.
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Anastasia
* * *