Citra’s secret investigation led to some surprises she couldn’t wait to share with Rowan when she finally saw him at Harvest Conclave. She certainly couldn’t share them with Scythe Curie. The two had come to trust each other, and the scythe would have seen Citra secretly using her online credentials as a flagrant violation of that trust.
Citra’s life had taken a very different turn from Rowan’s. She did not attend loud, lavish parties, nor did she train against live subjects. She helped cook quiet meals for heartbroken families, and sparred with a black belt Bokator bot. She created tinctures and studied the practical use of deadly poisons in Scythe Curie’s personal apothecary and toxic herb garden. She learned about all the infamous acts of both the best and the worst scythes in history.
In the past it was usually laziness, prejudice, or lack of foresight that made a bad scythe, Citra had discovered. There were those who seemed to glean too many neighbors because they couldn’t be bothered to look further. There were those who, in spite of repeated disciplinary action, would glean people with specific ethnic traits. As for poor judgment, there were plenty of examples there as well. Such as Scythe Sartre, who thought it was a good idea to do all of his gleanings at rodeos, thereby destroying the sport entirely, since no one would attend a rodeo for fear of being gleaned.
Of course, the bad scythes weren’t all in the past. But instead of “bad” they were now called “innovative” and “forward-thinking.”
Like the innovative bloodbaths of Scythe Goddard and his killer cronies.
The mass gleaning at Magnetic Propulsion Laboratory, although never reported officially, was big news. And there were plenty of private videos uploaded to the Thunderhead, showing Goddard and his disciples doling out immunity like bread to the poor. Rowan was right there in the middle of it. Citra didn’t know what to think about that.
“The world has a talent for rewarding bad behavior with stardom,” Scythe Curie said, as she viewed some of the videos that had been uploaded. Then she got a bit pensive. “I know the pitfalls of being a celebrity scythe,” she confessed, although Citra already knew. “I was headstrong and stupid in my early days. I thought that by gleaning just the right people at just the right time, I could change the world for the better. I believed, in my arrogance, that I had a keen grasp of the big picture that others lacked. But of course, I was just as limited as anyone else. When I gleaned the president and his cabinet, it shook the world—but the world was already shaking just fine without me. They called me ‘Miss Massacre,’ and as time went on that changed to ‘the Grande Dame of Death.’ I spent more than a hundred years trying to fade into anonymity, but even the youngest of children know of me. I am the boogeyman parents use to get their children to behave. Be good or the Grande Dame will get you.” Scythe Curie shook her head sadly. “Most celebrity is fleeting, but when you’re a scythe, your defining deeds stand forever. Take my advice, Citra, and remain undefined.”
“You might be a celebrity scythe,” Citra pointed out, “but even at your worst, you were nothing like Goddard.”
“No, I wasn’t, thank goodness,” Scythe Curie said. “I never took life for sport. You see, there are some who seek celebrity to change the world, and others who seek it to ensnare the world. Goddard is of the second kind.” And then she said something that guaranteed Citra many a sleepless night.
“I wouldn’t trust your friend Rowan anymore. Goddard is as corrosive as acid hurled in the eye. The kindest thing you can do is win that ring when Winter Conclave comes, and glean the boy quickly, before that acid burns any deeper than it already has.”
Citra was glad that Winter Conclave was still months away. It was Harvest Conclave she had to worry about. At first, Citra had looked forward to September and the Harvest Conclave, but as it approached, she began to dread it. It wasn’t the upcoming test that troubled her. She felt she was prepared for whatever trials would be thrown at the apprentices. What she dreaded was seeing Rowan, because she had no idea what all these months with Goddard had done to him. Win that ring and glean him quickly, Scythe Curie had said. Well, Citra didn’t have to worry about that now. She had four months until that decision would be made. But the clock never stopped ticking. It moved inexorably toward one of their deaths.
? ? ?
Harvest Conclave took place on a clear but blustery September day. While a storm had kept many spectators away from the last conclave, they gathered in force today on the street before the Fulcrum City Capitol Building. Even more peace officers than before were posted to keep the gawking crowds back. Some scythes—mostly the old-guard ones—arrived on foot, choosing a humble walk from their hotels over a more flashy arrival. Others pulled up in high-end cars, choosing to make the most of their celebrity status. News crews aimed their cameras but mostly kept their distance. This was, after all, not a red carpet. No questions, no interviews—but there was certainly a lot of preening. Scythes waved to the cameras and squared their shoulders, standing tall so they’d look their best on screen.
Scythe Goddard and his crew showed up in a limousine—royal blue studded with mock diamonds, just in case there was any question as to who was inside. As Goddard and his entourage emerged, the crowd oohed and aahed, as if their dazzling appearance rivaled a display of fireworks.
“There he is!”
“It’s him!”
“He’s so handsome!”
“He’s so scary!”
“He’s so well-groomed!”
Goddard took a moment to turn to the crowd and sweep his hand in a royal wave. Then he focused on one girl from the audience, held her gaze, pointed at her, then continued on up the stairs, saying nothing.
“He’s so strange!”
“He’s so mysterious!”
“He’s so charming.”
As for the girl he singled out, she was left impressed and terrified and confused by his momentary attention—which was precisely the intent.
So focused was the crowd on Goddard and his colorful entourage, no one much noticed Rowan bringing up the rear as they climbed the steps to the entrance.
Goddard’s crew weren’t the only scythes up for the show. Scythe Kierkegaard had a crossbow slung over his shoulder. Not that he had any intention of using it today—it was merely a part of the spectacle. Still, he could have aimed at just about anyone in the audience and taken them out. The knowledge of that made the crowd all the more excited. No one had ever been gleaned on the Capitol steps before a conclave, but that didn’t mean that it couldn’t happen.
While most scythes approached down the main avenue, Scythe Curie and Citra made their entrance from a side street, to avoid being the focus of the crowd’s attention for as long as possible. As the stately scythe pushed through the crowd of onlookers, a rumble erupted from the people closest to her as they realized who it was moving among them. People reached out to touch her silky lavender robe. She endured this as a matter of course, but one man actually grabbed the fabric and she had to slap his hand away.
“Careful,” she said, meeting his eye. “I don’t take kindly to the violation of my person.”
“I apologize, Your Honor,” said the man. Then he reached for her hand, intent on touching her ring, but she pulled her hand away from him.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Citra pushed her way in front of Scythe Curie to help clear a path for her. “Maybe we should have taken a limo,” Citra said. “At least that way we wouldn’t have to fight our way through.”
“That’s always been a little too elitist for me,” Curie said.
As they cleared the crowd, a sudden gust came down the wide Capitol steps, catching Scythe Curie’s long silver hair and blowing it back like a bridal train, making her look almost mystical.