“The first World Supreme Blade?”
“Oh, it wasn’t just a regional scandal—it had worldwide implications. We were brought before the Global Conclave. We thought we might be the first scythes to actually be stripped of our rings and hurled out of the Scythedom—perhaps even gleaned—but we had such stellar reputations, Supreme Blade Prometheus saw fit to give us a less severe punishment. We were sentenced to seven deaths—one for each year of our relationship. Then he forbade us to have contact with each other for the next seventy years.”
“I’m sorry,” said Citra.
“Don’t be. We deserved it—and we understood. We needed to be made an example for other scythes who now might think twice before allowing love to interfere with their duty. Seven deaths, and seventy years later, many things had changed. We remained old friends after that, but nothing more.”
Scythe Curie seemed a mix of many emotions, but she folded them all away, like clothes that no longer fit, and closed the drawer. Citra suspected she never spoke of this to anyone else, and would probably never speak of it again.
“I should have known he’d never throw that page away,” Scythe Curie said. “They must have found it when they cleaned out his things.”
“And Xenocrates thought he was writing about me!”
Scythe Curie considered that. “Perhaps, but probably not. Xenocrates is not a stupid man. He may have suspected the true nature of that page, but truth didn’t matter. He saw it as a means to an end. A way to discredit you in front of respected scythes like Scythe Mandela—who heads the bejeweling committee—and thereby ensure that Scythe Goddard’s apprentice would get the ring instead of you.”
Citra wanted to be angry at Rowan for this, but she knew, whatever else was going on in that head of his, this was not his doing.
“Why would Xenocrates even care? He’s not one of Goddard’s miserable crew of scythes. He doesn’t even seem to like Goddard—and clearly couldn’t care less about me and Rowan.”
“There are more cards in play than can be read at the moment,” Scythe Curie said. “All we know for sure is that you must stay out of sight until we can clear you of even the suggestion of wrongdoing.”
Just then, someone came to the door, startling Citra. She hadn’t known anyone else was in the cabin. It was another scythe, by the look of her—probably the one who owned the cabin. She was shorter than Scythe Curie. Her robe had an intricate pattern in many colors: red, black, and turquoise. It seemed less of a fabric and more of a tapestry, intricately woven. Citra wondered if all Chilargentine scythes wore robes that seemed not just handmade, but lovingly made.
The woman spoke in Spanic and Scythe Curie responded in kind.
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanic,” said Citra after the Chilargentine scythe had left.
“I speak twelve languages fluently,” said Scythe Curie, a bit of pride in her voice.
“Twelve?”
Scythe Curie offered up a mischievous grin. “See if you don’t know as many languages when you’re two hundred nineteen.” She took the tray from Citra’s lap and set it on a nightstand. “I thought we’d have more time, but the local scythe authority is on their way. I doubt they know you’re here, but they’re sending scouts to every scythe’s home with DNA sweepers, figuring we must have some local help.”
“So we’re on the move again?” Citra swung her feet off the bed and planted them on the ground. Her ankles ached, but only slightly. It was a good kind of ache. “I can walk myself this time.”
“Good, because you’ll be doing a lot of that.” Scythe Curie glanced out of the window. No one was coming yet, but there was a tension in her voice that wasn’t there before. “I’m afraid I won’t be coming with you, Citra. If I am to clear your name, I need to go back home and rally as many scythes as I can.”
“But the local Chilargentine Scythedom . . .”
“What can they do to me? I’m breaking no commandment. All they can do is wag the ‘naughty’ finger at me, and refuse to wave good-bye as I drive to the airport.”
“So . . . when you get home, you’ll have to tell everyone the truth about that journal entry?”
“I don’t see what other choice I have. Of course Xenocrates will claim that I’m lying to protect you, but most will take my word over his. Hopefully, that will embarrass him enough to withdraw the claim.”
“So where can I go?” asked Citra.
“I have an idea about that.” Then Scythe Curie reached into a drawer and pulled out the rough-woven burlap frock of a Tonist.
“You want me to pretend to be part of a tone cult?”
“A lone pilgrim. They’re very common in this part of the world. You’ll be a nameless, faceless wanderer.”
It wasn’t the most glamorous of disguises, but Citra knew it was practical. No one would look her in the eye for fear of getting an earful of Tonist twaddle. She would hide in plain sight and come home just before Winter Conclave. If Scythe Curie hadn’t cleared her name by then, it wouldn’t matter anyway. She wasn’t about to spend her whole life in hiding.
Then the Chilargentine scythe burst in again, this time much more agitated than before.
“They’re here,” Scythe Curie said. She reached into her robe and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper, pressing it into Citra’s palm. “There’s somewhere I want you to go. Someone you need to see—the address is on that paper. Consider it the final part of your training.” Citra grabbed the frock, and while Scythe Curie hurried Citra out of the room and to the back door, the Chilargentinian scythe went to a weapons wardrobe and quickly filled a sack with concealable blades and firearms for Citra, the way a worried mother might fill her child’s bag with snacks.
“There’s a publicar in a shed at the bottom of the hill. Take it, and head north,” Scythe Curie said.
Citra opened the back door and stepped out. It was cold, but bearable.
“Listen to me carefully,” said Scythe Curie. “It’s a long trip, and you’re going to need your wits about you to get where you’re going.”
Then Scythe Curie went on to give Citra the instructions she’d need to make a journey of many thousands of miles—but she was cut short by the sound of a car pulling up in front of the house.
“Go! As long as you keep moving, you’ll be safe.”
“And what do I do when I get there?”
Scythe Curie met her eye with a hard gaze that revealed nothing but added importance to her words. A Tonist might call it “resonance.”
“When you get there, you’ll know what to do.”
Then there came that all too familiar pounding on the front door.
Citra bounded down the snowy hillside, careening off of pines in her way. The aches in her joints reminding her that she was still a few hours shy of a complete healing. She found the shed, and the publicar was there just as Scythe Curie had promised. It powered up for her as she got in, and it asked for a destination. She wasn’t foolish enough to give it one. “North,” she told it. “Just north.”
As she sped off, she heard an explosion, and then another. She looked back but all she could see was black smoke just beginning to rise above the treetops. Dread began to fill her. A man wearing a robe similar to the one Scythe Curie’s friend wore burst from the trees and into the road behind her. She saw him only for an instant, then the road took a sharp turn and he was gone from sight.
Only after the publicar had wound its way down the mountain pass and was on a main road did she look at the paper that Scythe Curie had given her. For a moment it felt as if her bones had spontaneously reshattered, but the feeling passed and settled into jaded resolve. She understood now.
When you get there, you’ll know what to do.
Yes, she most certainly would. She stared at the piece of paper for a moment more. She needed only to memorize the address, because she already knew the name.