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20
Guest of Honor
I am going to die.
Rowan had begun repeating this to himself like a mantra, hoping it would make it easier to digest. Yet he seemed no closer to accepting it. Even under different scythes, the edict pronounced at conclave still stood. He would kill Citra at the end of their apprenticeship, or she would kill him. It was too juicy a bit of drama for the scythes to cancel just because they were no longer apprentices of Scythe Faraday. Rowan knew he could not kill Citra. And the only way to avoid the possibility would be to throw the competition; to perform so poorly between now and the final conclave that they had no choice but to grant scythehood to Citra. Then, her first honor-bound duty would be to glean Rowan. He trusted she would make it quick, and that she would be merciful. The trick would be to not make his failure obvious. He must appear to be doing his best. No one must know his true plan. He was up to the task.
I am going to die.
Before that fateful day in the principal’s office with Kohl Whitlock, Rowan hadn’t even known anyone who died. Gleaning had always been at least three degrees removed. The relative of someone who knew someone he knew. But over the past four months, he’d witnessed dozens upon dozens of gleanings firsthand.
I am going to die.
Eight more months. He would see his seventeenth birthday, but not much more. Even though it would be his choice, the thought of being just another statistic for the scythes’ records infuriated him. His life had been a whole lot of nothing. Lettuce-kid. He had thought the label was funny—a badge of honor—but now it was an indictment. His was a life without substance, and now it would end. He should never have accepted Scythe Faraday’s invitation to be a scythe’s apprentice. He should have just gone on with his unremarkable life—because then, maybe, just maybe, he might have had the chance to do something remarkable with it in time.
“You’ve barely said a word since you got into the car.”
“I’ll talk when I have something to say.”
He rode with Scythe Volta in an off-grid Rolls Royce perfectly maintained since the Age of Mortality, the scythe’s yellow robe in stark contrast to the dark earth tones of the vehicle’s interior. Volta didn’t do the driving; there was a chauffeur. They wove through a neighborhood where the homes became increasingly larger and the grounds more vast, until the residences disappeared entirely behind gates and ivy-covered walls.
Volta, one of Goddard’s disciples, had golden citrine gems embedded in his yellow robe. He was clearly a junior scythe, just a few years out of apprenticeship, in his early twenties perhaps—still an age where numbering one’s years felt important. His features and skin tone had an Afric leaning, which made the yellow of his garment seem even brighter.
“So is there a reason why you chose your robes to be the color of piss?”
Volta laughed. “I think you’ll fit in just fine. Scythe Goddard likes those close to him to be as sharp as his blades.”
“Why do you follow him?”
The honest question seemed to bother him more than the urinary barb. Volta became the tiniest bit defensive. “Scythe Goddard is a visionary. He sees our future. I’m much more interested in being a part of the Scythedom’s future than its past.”
Rowan turned back to the window. The day was bright but the tinted windows dimmed it, as if they were in the midst of a partial eclipse. “You glean people by the hundreds. Is that the future you mean?”
“We have the same quota as all other scythes,” was all Volta said on the matter.
Rowan turned back to look at Volta, who now seemed to have trouble keeping eye contact. “Who did you train under?” Rowan asked.
“Scythe Nehru.”
Rowan seemed to recall Scythe Faraday chatting with Scythe Nehru during conclave. They appeared to be on good terms.
“How does he feel about you hanging around with Goddard?”
“To you, he’s Honorable Scythe Goddard,” Volta said, a bit indignant. “And I couldn’t care less how Scythe Nehru feels. Old-guard scythes have obsolete ideas. They’re too set in their ways to see the wisdom of the Change.”
He spoke of “the Change” as if it were a tangible thing. A thing that, by its very weight, could make a person strong simply by pushing it.
They stopped at a pair of wrought iron gates, which slowly swung open to admit them. “Here we are,” said Volta.
A quarter-mile driveway ended at a palatial estate. A servant greeted them and led them into the mansion.
Rowan was immediately assaulted by loud dance music. There were people everywhere, reveling as if it were New Year’s Eve. The whole estate seemed to undulate in the throes of the relentless beat. People laughing, drinking, and laughing some more. Some of the guests were scythes—and not just Goddard’s obvious disciples, other scythes as well. There were also some minor celebrities. The rest seemed to be beautiful people who were probably professional party guests. His friend Tyger aspired to be one of those. A lot of kids said that, but Tyger really meant it.
The servant led them out back to a huge pool that seemed more suited to a resort than a home. There were waterfalls and a swim-up bar, and more beautiful people happily bobbing. Scythe Goddard was in a cabana beyond the deep end, its front open to the festivities before him. He was attended by more than one fawning bimbotech. He wore his signature royal blue robe, but as Rowan got closer, he could see it was a sheerer variation than the one he had worn at conclave. His leisure robe. Rowan wondered if the man had a diamond-studded bathing suit in his wardrobe as well.
“Rowan Damisch!” said Scythe Goddard as they approached. He told a servant passing with a tray of drinks to give Rowan a glass of champagne. When Rowan didn’t take it, Scythe Volta grabbed one and put it in Rowan’s hand before disappearing into the throng, leaving Rowan to fend for himself.
“Please—enjoy,” said Goddard. “I serve only Dom Pérignon.”
Rowan took a sip, wondering if an underage scythe’s apprentice could get marked down for drinking. Then he remembered that such rules didn’t apply to him anymore. So he took another sip.
“I arranged this little bacchanal in your honor,” the scythe said, gesturing to the party around them.
“What do you mean, in my honor?”
“Exactly that. This is your party. Do you like it?”
The surreal display of excess was even more intoxicating than the champagne, but did he like it? Mostly he just felt weird, and weirder still to know that he was the guest of honor.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a party before,” Rowan told him. It was true—his parents had seen so many birthdays by the time Rowan was born, they had stopped celebrating them. He was lucky if they even remembered to get him a gift.
“Well then,” said Scythe Goddard, “let this be the first of many.”
Rowan had to remind himself that this man with the perfect smile, secreting charisma instead of sweat, was the man who had manipulated him and Citra into mortal competition. But it was hard not to be dazzled by his style. And as distasteful as all this spectacle was, it still made his adrenaline flow.
The scythe patted the seat beside him for Rowan to sit, and Rowan took his place at the scythe’s right hand.
“Doesn’t the eighth commandment say that a scythe can’t own anything but his robe, ring, and journal?”
“Correct,” said Scythe Goddard brightly. “And I own none of this. The food is donated by generous benefactors, the guests are here by choice, and this fine estate has been graciously loaned to me for as long as I choose to grace its halls.”
Upon the mention of the estate, a man cleaning the pool looked up at them for a moment before returning to his labors.