Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,88

being seen together more than they already had been might raise suspicion. She stood by Scythe Curie for lunch, and the scythe introduced Citra to several of the greatest living scythes: Scythe Meir, who had once been a delegate to the Global Conclave in Geneva; Scythe Mandela, who was in charge of the bejeweling committee; and Scythe Hideyoshi, the only scythe known to have mastered the skill of gleaning through hypnosis.

Citra tried not to be too starstruck. Meeting them almost gave her hope that the old guard, could triumph against the likes of Goddard. She kept glancing over at Rowan, who, once more, couldn’t seem to get away from the other apprentices, although she didn’t know how hard he tried.

“It’s a bad sign,” said Scythe Hideyoshi, “when our young hopefuls gravitate so openly to the enemy.”

“Rowan’s not the enemy,” Citra blurted, but Scythe Curie put a hand on her shoulder to quiet her.

“He represents the enemy,” Scythe Curie said. “At least he does to those other apprentices.”

Scythe Mandela sighed. “There shouldn’t be enemies in the Scythedom. We should all be on the same side. The side of humanity.”

It was generally agreed among the old guard that these were troubling times, but aside from raising objections that were repeatedly dismissed, no one took action.

Citra found herself getting increasingly anxious after lunch, as the weapons manufacturers touted their wares and various motions were hotly debated. Things like whether a scythe’s ring should be worn on the left or right hand, and whether or not a scythe should be allowed to endorse a commercial product, like running shoes or a breakfast cereal. It all seemed insignificant to Citra. Why should any of that matter when the hallowed act of gleaning was slowly devolving into mortal age murder?

Then at last it came time for the apprentice trials. As before, the candidates for Scythedom went first, having been tested the night before. Of the four candidates who made it through their final test, only two were ordained. The other two had to suffer the walk of shame, as they exited the chamber and went back to their old lives. Citra took guilty pleasure at the fact that the girl who had been sucking up to Rowan was one of those ejected.

Once the new scythes were given their rings and took their new names, the remaining apprentices were called down front.

“Today’s test,” announced Scythe Cervantes, “will be a competition in the martial art of Bokator. The candidates will be paired and judged on their performance.”

A mat was brought in and rolled out in the semicircular space in front of the rostrum. Citra took a deep breath. She had this. Bokator was a balance among strength, agility, and focus, and she had found her perfect balance. And then they stuck a blade right in the heart of her confidence.

“Citra Terranova will spar against Rowan Damisch.”

A murmur from the crowd. Citra realized this was no random draw. They were paired intentionally, doomed to be adversaries. How could it be any other way? Her eyes met Rowan’s, but his expression gave away nothing.

The other matches went first. Each apprentice gave their best, but Bokator was a bruising discipline and not everyone’s strength. Some victories were close, others were routs. And then it came time for Citra and Rowan’s match.

Still, Rowan’s expression gave her neither camaraderie nor sympathy, nor misery at having to be set against each other. “Okay, let’s do this,” is all he said, and they began to circle each other.

• • •

Rowan knew that today was his first true test, but not the one they had devised for him. Rowan’s test was to look convincing but still throw the match. Goddard, Xenocrates, Cervantes—and for that matter, all the scythes assembled—needed to believe he was doing his best, but that his best just wasn’t good enough.

It began with the ritualistic rhythmic circling. Then posturing and physical taunting. Rowan launched himself at Citra, threw a kick that he telegraphed with his body language, and missed her by a fraction of an inch. He lost his footing and fell down on one knee. A very good start. He turned quickly, rising, remained off balance, and she lunged toward him. He thought she would take him down with an elbow strike, but instead she grabbed him, pulling him forward even as she appeared to push him back. It brought him to balance and made it appear as if her move had failed—that she didn’t have the leverage to do the job.