Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,75

with her.

“Why?” Rowan asked. “Goddard doesn’t seem to care about anyone who doesn’t wear scythe robes, so why does he care about her?”

“Just be decent to her.”

“I’m decent to everyone,” Rowan pointed out. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a decent person.”

Volta laughed. “Hold on to that for as long as you can,” he said, as if doing so would be a very difficult thing.

• • •

Then came the day Scythe Goddard threw a new wrinkle into the taut fabric of Rowan’s life. It came without warning, as did all things Scythe Goddard threw at him. It was during killcraft. Today Rowan was working with two blades—daggers in each hand. Two blades were difficult for him; he favored his right and had little dexterity with his left. Scythe Goddard loved to make it difficult for Rowan in these training sessions and always judged him harshly when he didn’t rise to some imaginary level of perfection. Yet Rowan had been surprising himself. He had been getting better at wielding weaponry, and had even drawn forth mild admissions of approval from Goddard.

“Adequate,” Goddard would say, or, “That wasn’t entirely dismal.” High praise from the man.

And in spite of himself, Rowan felt satisfaction each time Goddard gave him approval. And he had to admit he was beginning to like wielding deadly weapons. It had grown on him like any other sport. Skill for the sake of skill, and then a sense of accomplishment when he did well.

On this particular day, things took a severe turn. It was evident from the moment he stepped out onto the lawn that something was up, because the dummies had not yet been put out. Instead, there were at least a dozen people milling about the lawn. He didn’t get it at first. He should have know that something was different because all the junior scythes were there today to watch his training. Usually it was just Goddard.

“What’s going on here?” Rowan asked. “I can’t do my training with people in the way—tell them to clear out.”

Scythe Rand laughed at him. “You’re charmingly dense,” she said.

“This ought to be fun,” said Scythe Chomsky, folding his arms, ready to relish what was to come.

And then Rowan finally understood. On the lawn the people weren’t milling around, they were standing, evenly spaced. They were waiting for him. There were to be no more dummies. Now his practice would be the real thing. Killcraft would now truly be killcraft.

“No,” Rowan said, shaking his head. “No, I can’t do this!”

“Oh, but you will,” Scythe Goddard said calmly.

“But . . . but I’m not ordained yet, I can’t glean!”

“You won’t be gleaning,” Scythe Volta said, putting a comforting hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “There are ambu-drones waiting for each of them. As soon as you’re done with them, they’ll be rushed to the nearest revival center, and be as good as new in a day or two.”

“But . . . but . . .” Rowan found he had no viable argument except to say, “It isn’t right!”

“Listen here,” Scythe Goddard said, stepping forward. “There are thirteen people out on that lawn. Every single one of them is here by choice, and every single one of them is being well paid for the service provided. They all know why they’re here, they know what their job is, they are more than happy to do it, and I expect the same from you. So do your job.”

Rowan pulled out his blades and looked at them. Those blades would not be cutting into cotton today, but into flesh.

“Hearts and jugulars,” Scythe Goddard told him. “Dispatch your subjects with speed.  You will be timed.”

Rowan wanted to protest—insist that he couldn’t do it—but as much as his heart told him he couldn’t, his mind knew the truth.

Yes, he could.

He had been training for precisely this. All he had to do was dial his conscience down to zero. He knew he was capable of that, and it terrified him.

“You are to take down twelve of them,” Scythe Goddard told him, “and leave the last one alive.”

“Why leave the last?”

“Because I said so.”

“C’mon, we don’t have all day,” grumbled Chomsky. Volta threw Chomsky a withering glare, then spoke to Rowan with far more patience. “It’s just like jumping into a cold pool. The anticipation is much worse than the reality. Take the leap, and I promise all will be well.”

Rowan could leave.

He could drop his blades and go into the house. He could prove himself to be a failure here and