“Give her time,” said Scythe Mandela sternly.
The fifth scythe, a short man with an odd frown about him, stood and read from a sheet of parchment that could have been hundreds of years old. “You may not be coerced into doing this. You may take all the time you need. You must use the weapon assigned. When you are done, you will leave the subject and approach the committee to be assessed on your performance. Is all of this clear to you?”
Citra nodded.
“A verbal response, please.”
“Yes, it’s clear.”
He sat back down, and she unfolded the slip of paper. On it was a single word.
Knife.
She dropped the paper to the floor. I can’t do this, she told herself, I can’t. But Scythe Curie’s voice came gently to her. Yes, Citra, you can.
It was then it occurred to her that every scythe, since the Scythedom began, had to take this test. Every single one of them was forced to take the life of someone they loved. Yes, that person would be revived, but it didn’t change the cold-blooded act. A person’s subconscious mind can’t differentiate between permanent and temporary killings. Even after he’s revived, how could she bear to face her brother again? Because if she kills Ben, she will always have killed him.
“Why?” she asked. “Why must I do this?”
The irritable scythe gestured to the door. “There’s the exit. If it’s too much for you, then leave.”
“I think she means it as a legitimate question,” said Scythe Meir.
The irritable scythe scoffed, the short one shrugged. The PanAsian one tapped her foot, and Scythe Mandela leaned forward.
“You must do this so that you can move forward as a scythe,” Scythe Mandela said, “knowing in your heart that the most difficult thing you’ll ever have to do . . . has already been done.”
“If you can do this,” added Scythe Meir, “then you have the inner strength needed to be a scythe.”
Even though a big part of Citra wanted to bolt through the door and run from this, she squared her shoulders, stood tall, reached down, and took the bowie knife. Concealing it in her waist, she approached her brother. Only when she was close to him did she pull it out.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. She knelt down and used the knife to cut the bonds on his legs, then the ones that held his wrists to the chair. She tried to untie his gag, but couldn’t, so she cut that as well.
“Can I go home now?” asked Ben with a helpless voice that was more than enough to break her heart.
“Not yet,” she told him, still kneeling beside him. “Soon, though.”
“Are you going to hurt me, Citra?”
Citra couldn’t control her tears, and didn’t even try. What was the point? “Yes, Ben. I’m sorry.”
“Are you going to glean me?” He could barely get the words out.
“No,” she told him. “They’ll take you to a revival center. You’ll be good as new.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He seemed the tiniest bit relieved. She didn’t explain to him why she had to do this, and he didn’t ask. He trusted her. Trusted that whatever reason she had, it was a good one.
“Will it hurt?” he asked.
Again, she found she couldn’t lie to him about it. “Yes, it will. But not for long.”
He took a moment to think about that. Process it. Accept it. Then he said, “Can I see it?”
For a moment she wasn’t sure what he was talking about, until he pointed to the knife. She carefully put it into his hands.
“It’s heavy,” he said.
“Did you know that Texan scythes only glean with bowie knives?”
“Is that where you’ll be going when you’re a scythe? Texas?”
“No, Ben. I’ll be right here.”
He turned the knife in his hand, both of them watching as light glinted off the shiny blade. Then he gave it back to her.
“I’m so scared, Citra,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“I know. So am I. Scared is okay.”
“Will I get ice cream?” he asked. “I hear they give you ice cream at revival centers.”
Citra nodded, and wiped a tear from his cheek. “Close your eyes, Ben. Think of the ice cream you want. Then tell me.”
Ben did as he was told. “I want a hot fudge sundae, three scoops, with chocolate chip—”
Before he could finish, she pulled him close and thrust the blade just as she had seen Scythe Curie do it. She wanted to wail in agony, but wouldn’t let herself.
Ben opened his eyes. He looked at her, and in a second it was done. Ben was gone. Citra hurled the blade away and cradled her brother. Then laid him gently on the floor. From a door behind them that she hadn’t even seen, two revival medics hurried in, put her deadish brother on a gurney, and went out the way they came.
Lights came up on the scythes. They seemed so much farther away than before. It seemed like an impossibly long walk to cross the room to them, and they began a bruising barrage of comments.
“Sloppy.”
“Not at all; there’s barely any blood.”
“She put the weapon in his hand. Do you know how risky that was?”
“And all that unnecessary banter.”
“She was preparing him—making sure he was ready.”
“Why should that matter?”
“She showed courage, but more importantly, she was compassionate. Isn’t that what we’re called upon to be?”
“We’re called upon to be efficient.”
“Efficiency must be in service to compassion!”
“That’s a matter of opinion!”
Then the scythes fell silent, apparently agreeing to disagree. She suspected that Scythes Mandela and Meir were on her side, and that the irritable one was not. As for the other two, she had no idea where they stood.
“Thank you, Miss Terranova,” said Scythe Meir. “You may go now. The results will be announced at conclave tomorrow.”
Scythe Curie was waiting for her in the hall. Citra found herself furious at the woman. “You should have told me!”
“It would only have made it worse. And if they sensed that you knew before you went in that room, you would have been disqualified.” She looked at Citra’s hands. “Come, you need to wash up. There’s a bathroom just this way.”
“How did it go with the other candidates?” Citra asked.
“From what I heard, one young woman flatly refused and left the room. One boy began, but broke down and couldn’t complete what he started.”
“What about Rowan?” Citra asked.
Scythe Curie wouldn’t look at her. “He drew the pistol as his weapon.”
“And?”
Still Scythe Curie hesitated.
“Tell me!”
“He pulled the trigger even before they finished reading him the instructions.”
Citra grimaced at the thought. Scythe Curie was right—he didn’t sound like the same Rowan she used to know. What had he been through to turn him so cold? She didn’t dare imagine.
* * *
I am the blade that is swung by your hand,
Slicing a rainbow’s arc,
I am the clapper, but you are the bell,
Tolling the gathering dark.
If you are the singer, then I am the song,
A threnody, requiem, dirge.
You’ve made me the answer for all the world’s need,
Humanity’s undying urge.
—“Threnody,”
from the collected works of H.S. Socrates
* * *
39
Winter Conclave
At midnight, immunity for Citra Terranova and Rowan Damisch expired. Either one could now be gleaned, and if the edict was followed—and the Scythedom would make certain that it was—one would glean the other.