Around the world, scythes convened to discuss matters of life, but more to the point, matters of death. The first conclave of the year for MidMerica was to be a historic one. Never before had scythes permanently lost their lives in a gleaning event, and the controversial nature of that event made it even more significant—as well as the controversy surrounding one apprentice’s three-month absence, following a bogus accusation by the MidMerican High Blade. Even the World Scythe Council had their eye on Fulcrum City today, and although the names of apprentices are rarely known beyond their regional bejeweling committee, scythes from every corner of the globe now knew the names of Citra Terranova and Rowan Damisch.
Fulcrum City was blistering cold that morning. Ice layered the marble steps leading up to the Capitol, making the stairs treacherous. More than one scythe slipped, spraining an ankle or breaking an arm. Healing nanites were taxed that morning, to the delight of spectators, who were thrilled by anything that slowed the scythes’ ascent, allowing more photo ops.
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Rowan arrived alone in a publicar, with no sponsor and no one to shepherd him in. He was dressed in the one color that scythes shunned—black. It made his green apprentice armband stand out and gave him a silent air of defiance. At Harvest Conclave he had been a footnote, if that. But now spectators jockeyed for position to take his picture. He ignored them, looking at no one as he climbed the stairs, making sure to keep his footing firm.
One scythe next to him stumbled on the ice and fell. Scythe Emerson, Rowan thought it was, although they’d never been introduced. Rowan reached out his hand to help the man up, but Emerson just glared at him and refused his help.
“I want no assistance from you,” he told Rowan, the emphasis on the word “you” filled with more vitriol than anyone had expressed to Rowan in all his seventeen years.
But then, when he reached the top of the stairs, a scythe he didn’t even know greeted him, and said in a comforting voice, “You’ve endured more than any apprentice should, Mr. Damisch. I do hope you achieve scythehood. And once you do, I hope we might share a pot of tea.”
The offer sounded genuine, and not the product of political posturing. This was the way of things as he entered the rotunda. Hard glares from some and comforting grins from others. It seemed few were undecided about him. He was either the victim of circumstance or a criminal the likes of whom had not been seen since the Age of Mortality. Rowan wished he knew which of the two it was.
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Citra had arrived before Rowan. She stood with Scythe Curie in the rotunda, with no appetite to partake of the lavish breakfast spread. The conversation in the rotunda was, of course, all about the Tonist cloister tragedy. And as Citra listened to various snippets of conversation, she found herself angered that it was all about the four dead scythes. No one lamented that so many Tonists were gleaned. Some, in fact, callously joked about it.
“In the wake of the Tonist tragedy, conclave takes on a certain . . . resonance, don’t you think?” she heard someone say. “No pun intended.” But of course it was.
Scythe Curie was even more anxious than she had been at Harvest Conclave.
“Scythe Mandela told me that you performed well last night,” she told Citra. “But even as he said it, he was guarded.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that if you lose today, Citra, I will never forgive myself.”
It was absurd to think that the great Scythe Marie Curie, Grande Dame of Death, would care so much for her—and would even think there could be any failure on her own part. “I’ve had the benefit of being trained by the two greatest scythes who ever lived—you and Scythe Faraday. If that hasn’t prepared me for today, nothing could have.”
Scythe Curie beamed with bittersweet pride. “When this is over and you are ordained, I hope you’ll do me the esteemed honor of staying on with me as a junior scythe. Others will make advances—perhaps even from distant regions. They’ll try to tell you there are things you can learn from them that you couldn’t learn from me. Perhaps that’s true, but I do hope you’ll choose to remain anyway.” Her eyes were on the brink of tears. If she blinked, they would fall—but Scythe Curie kept them pooled on her lower lashes, too proud to be seen weeping in conclave.
Citra smiled. “I would have it no other way, Marie.” It was the first time Citra had ever called her by her first name. She was surprised at how natural it felt.
As they waited for conclave to convene, other scythes came up to greet them. None spoke of Citra’s detainment, or her escape to the Chilargentine Region, but some did joke with Marie about that embarrassing journal entry.
“In the Age 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.
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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.