“It’s always a terrible thing when a scythe leaves us,” the High Blade lamented, “especially one as well-respected as Scythe Faraday.”
Xenocrates had a full retinue of assistants and flunkies in the outside world to help him go about his business, but here in his home, he didn’t have as much as a single servant. Yet another contradiction. He had brewed them tea, and now poured it for them, offering cream but no sugar.
Rowan sipped his, but Citra refused the slightest kindness from the man.
“He was a fine scythe and a good friend,” Xenocrates said. “He will be sorely missed.”
It was impossible to guess at Xenocrates’ sincerity. Like everything else about him, his words seemed both sincere—and not—at the same time.
He had told them the details of Scythe Faraday’s demise on the way here. At about ten fifteen the evening before, Faraday was on a local train platform. Then, as a train approached, he hurled himself in front of it. There were several witnesses—all probably relieved that the scythe had gleaned himself and not any of them.
Had it been anyone but a scythe, his broken body would have been rushed to the nearest revival center, but rules for scythes were very clear. There would be no revival.
“But it doesn’t make sense,” Citra said, fighting tears with little success. “He wasn’t the kind of man who would do something like that. He took his responsibility as a scythe—and training us—very seriously. I can’t believe he would just give up like that. . . .”
Rowan held his silence on the subject, waiting for the High Blade’s response.
“Actually,” Xenocrates said, “it makes perfect sense.” He took an excruciatingly long sip of tea before he spoke again. “Traditionally, when a mentor scythe self-gleans, anyone bound to an apprenticeship is unbound.”
Citra gasped, realizing the implication.
“He did it,” said Xenocrates, “to spare one of you from having to glean the other.”
“Which means,” said Rowan, “that this is your fault.” And then he added with a little bit of derision, “Your Excellency.”
Xenocrates stiffened. “If you are referring to the decision to set the two of you in mortal competition, that was not my suggestion. I was merely carrying out the will of the Scythedom, and frankly, I find your insinuation offensive.”
“We never heard the will of the Scythedom,” Rowan reminded him, “because there was never a vote.”
Xenocrates stood, ending the conversation with, “I’m sorry for your loss.” It was more than just Rowan’s and Citra’s loss, though; it was a loss to the entire Scythedom, and Xenocrates knew it, whether he said so or not.
“So . . . that’s it then?” said Citra. “We go home now?”
“Not exactly,” said Xenocrates, this time not looking either of them in the eye. “While it’s traditional for the apprentices of dead scythes to go free, another scythe can come forward and take over the training. It’s rare, but it does happen.
“You?” Citra asked. “You’ve volunteered to train us now?”
It was Rowan who saw the truth of it in his eyes. “No, it’s not him,” Rowan said. “It’s someone else. . . .”
“My responsibilities as High Blade would make it far too difficult to take on apprentices. You should be flattered, however; not just one, but two scythes have come forward—one for each of you.”
Citra shook her head. “No! We were pledged to Scythe Faraday and no one else! He died to free us, so we should be freed!”
“I’m afraid I’ve already given my blessing, so the matter is settled.” Then he turned to each of them in turn. “You, Citra, will now be the apprentice of Honorable Scythe Curie. . . .”
Rowan closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next, even before Xenocrates said the words.
“And you, Rowan, will complete your training in the capable hands of Honorable Scythe Goddard.”
Part Three
THE OLD GUARD AND THE NEW ORDER
* * *
I have never taken an apprentice. I simply never felt compelled to subject another human being to our way of life. I often wonder what motivates other scythes to do so. For some it is a form of vanity: “Learn from me and be awed because I am so wise.” For others perhaps it is compensation for not being allowed to have children: “Be my son or my daughter for a year, and I will give you power over life and death.” Yet for others, I imagine it is to prepare for their own self-gleaning. “Be the new me, so that the old me can leave this world satisfied.”
I suspect, however, if I ever take on an apprentice, it will be for a different reason entirely.
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie
* * *
18
Falling Water
At the far eastern edge of MidMerica, near the EastMerica border, was a home with a river running beneath it, spilling from its foundations into a waterfall.
“It was designed by a very well-known mortal age architect,” Scythe Curie told Citra as she led the way across a footbridge to the front door. “The place had fallen into disrepair; as you can imagine, a home such as this couldn’t survive without constant attention. It was in a horrible state, and no one cared enough to preserve it. Only the presence of a scythe would bring forth the kind of donations required to save it. Now it’s been returned to its former glory.”
The Scythe opened the door and let Citra step in first. “Welcome to Falling Water,” Scythe Curie said.
The main floor was a huge open room with a polished stone floor, wooden furniture, a large fireplace, and windows. Lots and lots of windows. The waterfall was right beneath an expansive terrace. The sound of the river running beneath the home and over the falls was a constant but calming white noise.
“I’ve never been in a house with a name,” Citra said as she looked around, doing her best to be unimpressed. “But it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Especially for a scythe. Aren’t you all supposed to live simple lives?”
Citra knew such a comment could bring forth the scythe’s temper, but she didn’t care. Her presence here meant that Scythe Faraday died for nothing. A beautiful home was no consolation.
Scythe Curie did not respond in anger. She just said, “I live here not because of its extravagance, but because my presence here is the only way to preserve it.”
The decor seemed to be frozen in the twentieth century, when the place was built. The only hints of modernization were a few simple computer interfaces in unobtrusive corners. Even the kitchen was a throwback to an earlier time.
“Come, I’ll show you to your room.”
They climbed a staircase that was lined on the left by layered sheets of granite and echoed on the right by rows and rows of shelved books. The second floor was the scythe’s bedroom suite. The third floor held a smaller bedroom and a study. The bedroom was simply furnished, and, like the rest of the home, had huge windows framed in polished cedar, wrapping around two entire walls. The view of the forest made Citra feel as if she were perched in a treehouse. She liked it. And she hated that she did.
“You know that I don’t want to be here,” Citra said.
“At last some honesty from you,” Scythe Curie said with the slightest of grins.
“And,” added Citra, “I know you don’t like me—so why did you take me on?”
The scythe looked at her with those cold, inscrutable gray eyes. “Whether or not I like you is irrelevant,” she said. “I have my reasons.”
Then she left Citra alone in her room without as much as a good-bye.
? ? ?
Citra didn’t remember falling asleep. She hadn’t even considered how exhausted she was. She recalled lying down on the comforter, looking out at the trees, listening to the river roaring endlessly below, wondering if the noise would eventually go from soothing to unbearable. And then she opened her eyes to stark incandescence, squinting at Scythe Curie who was standing in the doorway, by the light switch. It was dark outside now. Not just dark but lightless, like space. She could still hear the river, but couldn’t see even a hint of the trees.
“Did you forget about dinner?” Scythe Curie asked.