They could punish him, though.
They could make him die a thousand deaths and then lock him away for eternity—and it would truly be eternity, because he would never give them the satisfaction of gleaning himself. Another reason why he would rather be gleaned by Citra. A single death at her capable hands sounded awfully good when compared with the alternative.
The breakfast spread in the rotunda was an elaborate one. Slabs of real smoked salmon, hard-crusted artisan breads, and a waffle station with every conceivable topping. Only the best for the MidMerican scythes.
Rowan ate with rare gluttony that morning, for once allowing himself to fully sate his appetite, and as he ate, he stole a few glances at Citra. Even now, she looked radiant to him. How ridiculous that he’d still be romanticizing her in these final hours. What could have once been love was now the resignation of a heart long broken. Luckily for Rowan, his heart had grown so cold, its fracturing could not hurt him anymore.
? ? ?
Once conclave convened, Citra found herself tuning out most of the morning’s ritual, choosing to fill her mind with memories of the life she was about to leave—because in one way or another, she would be leaving it. She focused on thoughts of her parents, and her brother—who was still in a revival center.
If she was ordained today, the home where she grew up would never be home again. Her biggest consolation would be that Ben and her parents would have immunity from gleaning for as long as Citra lived.
After the tolling of the names and the ritual washing, the entire morning was dedicated to a heated debate about whether or not fire should be banned as a method of gleaning.
Usually High Blade Xenocrates did nothing but mediate and postpone discussions for a later date. The fact that he was advocating for the ban was something everyone in attendance took seriously. Even so, there were strong voices against it.
“I will not have my rights to bear arms trampled upon!” railed one disgruntled scythe. “Every one of us should have the freedom to use flamethrowers, explosives, and any other incendiary device!”
It was met with both boos and applause.
“We need this ban to protect us from tragic accidents in the future,” insisted Xenocrates.
“It was no accident!” someone shouted, and almost half the room voiced their bitter agreement. Citra looked to Rowan, who sat with two empty seats on either side of him, for they were still earmarked for the dead. He made no move to defend himself or to deny the claim.
Scythe Curie leaned closer to Citra. “As terrible as that fire was, there are plenty of scythes happy to see Goddard and his disciples permanently removed from duty. Although they’d never admit it, they’re glad the fire happened, whether it was an accident or not.”
“And there are a lot of others who admired Goddard,” Citra pointed out.
“Indeed. The Scythedom seems evenly split on that matter.”
Regardless, common sense finally prevailed, and fire was banned in MidMerica as a method of gleaning.
At lunch, Citra—who still found she couldn’t eat—watched from a distance as Rowan stuffed himself just as he had at breakfast, as if he had no care in the world.
“He knows it’s his last meal,” a scythe she didn’t know suggested. Although the woman was clearly showing her support for Citra, Citra found herself annoyed.
“I can’t see how it’s any of your business.”
The scythe walked away, confused by Citra’s hostility.
? ? ?
At six that evening, all other conclave business ceased and the day revolved into its final stage.
“Candidates for scythehood, please rise,” commanded the Conclave Clerk.
Citra and Rowan rose to a rumble of whispers in the assembly.
“I thought there were four,” said the High Blade.
“There were, Your Excellency,” said the clerk. “But the other two failed their final test and were dismissed.”
“Very well then,” said Xenocrates, “let’s get on with it.”
The clerk stood up, formally announcing them. “The MidMerican Scythedom calls Rowan Daniel Damisch and Citra Querida Terranova. Please come forward.”
Then, keeping their eyes fixed on Scythe Mandela, who waited for them before the rostrum with a single ring, Citra and Rowan strode to the front of the assembly hall to meet their destiny, one way or another.
* * *
It is with bittersweet joy that I watch the bejeweling of new junior scythes at the end of each conclave. Joy, because they are our hope, and still kindle the idealism of the first scythes in their hearts. But bittersweet because I know that someday they will become so tired and jaded they will take their own lives, as all those first scythes eventually did.
Yet each time the new scythes are bejeweled, I still rejoice, because it allows me, if only for a few glorious moments, to believe that we will all choose to live forever.
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie
* * *
40
The Ordained
“Hello, Citra. It’s good to see you.”
“Hello, Rowan.”
“Will the candidates please refrain from speaking to each other and face the conclave,” said Xenocrates.
The whispers and mumbles from the gathered scythes ceased the moment both Citra and Rowan faced them. Never before had such silence fallen over the assembly hall. Rowan smiled slightly—not out of amusement, but out of satisfaction. The two of them, side by side, commanded an undeniable gravity that could silence three hundred scythes. Whatever else happened today, Rowan would have this moment.
Citra maintained a stoic facade, refusing to let the adrenaline flooding her system reveal itself on her face.
“The bejeweling committee has studied your apprenticeships,” Scythe Mandela announced to them, although it was meant more for the entire conclave. “We have reviewed the performance on all three of your tests—the first two of which you both failed, but with extenuating circumstances both times. Clearly, your instinct has been to protect each other. But the Scythedom must be protected first. At all costs.”
“Here, here!” shouted one of the scythes in the back.
“The committee’s decision was not made lightly,” continued Scythe Mandela. “Know that we gave both of you the fairest consideration we possibly could.” Then he raised his voice even louder. “Candidates for scythehood, will you accept the judgment of the MidMerican bejeweling committee?” he asked—as if it were possible not to accept their decision.
“I do, Your Honor,” said Citra.
“So do I, Your Honor,” said Rowan.
“Then let it be known,” said Scythe Mandela, “that now, and forevermore . . . Citra Terranova shall wear the ring of scythehood, and bear the burden of all the ring entails.”
The room erupted in cheers. Not just from her obvious supporters, but from just about everyone. Even those who were sympathetic to Rowan approved of the committee’s decision—for in the end, what support did Rowan have in the Scythedom? Those who admired Goddard despised Rowan, and any who had given Rowan the benefit of the doubt were already rooting for Citra. Only now did it become clear that Citra was all but ordained the moment Goddard and his disciples perished in the fire.
“Congratulations, Citra,” said Rowan, beneath the roaring approval of the crowd. “I knew you would do it.”
She found she couldn’t even respond to him, couldn’t even look at him.
Scythe Mandela turned to her. “Have you chosen your Patron Historic?”
“I have, Your Honor.”
“Then take this ring I hold out to you, put it on your finger, and announce to the MidMerican Scythedom, and to the world who . . . you . . . now . . . are.”
Citra took the ring, her hands shaking so much she almost dropped it. She slipped it on her finger. A perfect fit. It was heavy on her finger and the gold of the setting was cold, but was quickly warmed by her body heat. She held her hand up, as she had seen other ordained candidates do.