27
Harvest Conclave
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.
“I knew I should have braided it today,” she said.
As she and Citra climbed the white marble steps, someone to their left shouted, “We love you!”
Scythe Curie stopped and turned, unable to find the speaker, so she addressed them all.
“Why?” she demanded, but now, under her cool scrutiny, no one responded. “I could end your existence at any moment; why love me?”
Still no one answered—but the exchange attracted a cameraman who moved forward, getting a little too close. Scythe Curie smacked the camera so hard, it wrenched the man’s whole body around, and he nearly dropped it. “Mind your manners,” said the scythe.
“Yes, Your Honor. Sorry, Your Honor.”
She continued up the steps with Citra behind her. “Hard to imagine that I used to love this attention. Now I’d avoid it entirely if I could.”
“You didn’t seem this tense at the last conclave,” Citra noted.
“That’s because I didn’t have an apprentice being tested. Instead, I was the one testing other scythes’ apprentices.”
A test that Citra had failed spectacularly. But she didn’t feel like bringing that up.
“Do you know what today’s test will be?” Citra asked as they reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the entry vestibule.
“No—but I do know that it’s being administered by Scythe Cervantes, and he tends to be very physically minded. For all I know, he’ll have you tilting at windmills.”
As before, the scythes greeted one another in the grand rotunda, waiting for the assembly room doors to open. Breakfast was set out on tables in the center of the rotunda, featuring a pyramid of Danish that must have taken hours to assemble but seconds to fall as scythes carelessly took the lower Danish without regard to the ones above. The waitstaff scrambled to gather the fallen pastries before they could be ground underfoot. Scythe Curie found it all very amusing. “It was foolhardy of the caterer to think that scythes would leave anything in a state of order.”
Citra spotted Junior Scythe Goodall—the girl who had been ordained at the last conclave. She had her robes made by Claude DeGlasse, one of the world’s preeminent fashion designers. It had been a monumental mistake, because today’s designers were all about shocking people out of their happy place. Scythe Goodall’s orange-and-blue-striped robe made her look more like a circus clown than a scythe.
Citra couldn’t help but notice how Goddard and his junior scythes were the center of even more attention than at the Vernal Conclave. Although there were a number of scythes who turned a cold shoulder, even more crowded them, seeking to ingratiate themselves.
“There are more and more scythes who think like Goddard,” Scythe Curie said quietly to Citra. “They’ve slipped between the cracks like snakes. Infiltrating our ranks. Supplanting the best of us like weeds.”
Citra thought about Faraday, a decent scythe most certainly choked out by the weeds.
“The killers are rising to power,” Scythe Curie said. “And if they do, the days of this world will be very dark indeed. It is left to the truly honorable scythes to stand firm against it. I look forward to the day you join in that fight.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Citra had no problem fighting the good fight if she became a scythe. It was the events that would lead up to it that she couldn’t bear to consider.
Scythe Curie went off to greet several of the old-guard scythes who held true to the founders’ ideals. That’s when Citra finally spotted Rowan. He didn’t bask in the false glow of Goddard. Instead, he was his own little center of attention. He was surrounded by other apprentices, and even a few junior scythes. They chatted, they laughed, and Citra found herself feeling slighted that Rowan hadn’t even sought her out.
• • •
Rowan had, in fact, tried to find her, but by the time Citra entered the rotunda, Rowan had already been set upon by unexpected admirers. Some were envious of his position with Goddard, others were just curious, and others were clearly hoping to attach themselves to his rising star. Political positioning started young in the Scythedom.
“You were there at that office building, weren’t you?” one of the other apprentices said—a “spat,” one of the new ones, at conclave for the first time. “I saw you in the videos!”
“He wasn’t just there,” said another spat. “He had Goddard’s freaking ring, handing out immunity!”
“Wow! Is that even allowed?”
Rowan shrugged. “Goddard said it was, and anyway, it wasn’t like I asked him to give me his ring. He just did it.”
One of the junior scythes sighed wistfully. “Man, he must really like you if he let you do that.”
The thought that Goddard might actually like him made Rowan uncomfortable—because the things that Goddard liked, Rowan categorically despised.
“So what’s he like?” one girl asked.
“Like . . . no one I’ve ever met,” Rowan told her.
“I wish I was his apprentice,” said one of the spats, then grimaced like he had just bitten into a rancid cheese Danish. “I was taken on by Scythe Mao.”
Scythe Mao, Rowan knew, was another showboater, enjoying the celebrity of his public image. He was notoriously independent and didn’t align himself with the old guard or the new. Rowan didn’t know if he was a man who voted his own conscience or sold his vote to the highest bidder. Faraday would have known. There were so many things Rowan missed about being Faraday’s apprentice. The inside scoop was one of them.
“Goddard and his junior scythes totally owned the Capitol steps when they came up,” said an apprentice Rowan remembered from last conclave—the one who knew his poisons. “They looked so good.”
“Have you decided what color you’ll be? And what jewels you’ll have on your robe?” a girl asked, suddenly hanging on his arm like a fast-growing vine. He didn’t know which would be more awkward, pulling out of her grip or not.
“Invisible,” Rowan said. “I’ll come up the statehouse steps naked.”
“Those’ll be some jewels,” quipped one of the junior scythes, and everyone laughed.
Then Citra pushed her way through, and Rowan felt as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Citra, hi!” he said. It felt so forced, he just wanted to take it back and find another way to say it. He shrugged out of the vine girl’s grip, but it was too late, because Citra had seen it.
“Looks like you’ve made a lot of friends,” Citra said.
“No, not really,” he said, then realized he’d just insulted them all. “I mean, we’re all friends, right? We’re in the same boat.”
“Same boat,” repeated Citra with deadpan dullness but daggers in her eyes as sharp as the ones that used to hang in Faraday’s weapons den. “Good to see you too, Rowan.” Then she strode away.
“Let her go,” said the vine girl. “She’ll be history after the next conclave anyway, right?”
Rowan didn’t even excuse himself as he left them.
He caught up with Citra quickly, which told him she really wasn’t trying all that hard to get away. This was a good sign.
He gently grabbed her arm and she turned to him.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry about back there.”
“No, I get it,” she said. “You’re a big deal now. You have to flaunt it.”
“It’s not like that. Do you think I wanted them fawning all over me like that? C’mon, you know me better.”
Citra hesitated. “It’s been four months,” she said. “Four months can change a person.”
That much was true. But some things hadn’t changed. Rowan knew what she wanted to hear, but that would just be another dance. Another bit of posturing. So he told her the truth.
“It’s good to see you, Citra,” he said. “But it hurts to see you. It hurts a lot, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
He could tell that reached her, because her eyes began to glisten with tears that she blinked away before they could spill. “I know. I hate that it has to be this way.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Rowan. “Let’s not even think about Winter Conclave right now. Let’s be in the here and now, and let Winter Conclave take care of itself.”
Citra nodded. “Agreed.” Then she took a deep breath. “Let’s take a walk. There’s something I have to show you.”
They walked along the outer edge of the rotunda, passing the archways where scythes wheeled and dealed.
Citra pulled out her phone and projected a series of holograms into her palm, cupping it so no one but Rowan could see. “I dug these out of the Thunderhead’s backbrain.”
“How did you do that?”
“Never mind how. What’s important is that I did—and what I found.”
The holograms were of Scythe Faraday on the streets near his home.
“These are from his last day,” Citra said. “I was able to retrace at least some of his steps that day.”
“But why?”
“Just watch.” The hologram showed him being let into someone’s home. “That’s the house of the woman he introduced us to at the market. He spent a few hours there. Then he went to this café.” Citra swiped to another video showing him going into the restaurant. “I think he may have met someone there, but I don’t know who.”
“Okay,” said Rowan. “So he was saying good-bye to people. So far it seems consistent with the things someone would do if it were their last day on Earth.”
Citra swiped again. The next video showed him going up to the stairs to a train station. “This was five minutes before he died,” Citra said. “We know that it happened at that station—but guess what? The camera on that train platform had been vandalized—supposedly by unsavories. It was down for the entire day, so there’s no visual record of what actually happened on that platform!”
A train pulled out of the station, and a moment later a train pulled in, heading in the other direction. That was the one that killed Faraday. Although Rowan couldn’t see it, he grimaced as if he had.
“You think someone killed him, and made it look like he did it himself?” Rowan looked around to make sure they weren’t being observed, and spoke quietly. “If that’s your only evidence, it’s pretty weak.”
“I know. So I kept digging.” She swiped back and replayed the scene of Faraday walking toward the station.
“There were five witnesses. I couldn’t track them down without digging into the Scythedom’s records, and if I did that, they’d know I was looking. But it only makes sense that those witnesses would have gone up these stairs, too, right? There were eighteen people who went up the stairs around the time that Faraday died. Some of them probably got on this first train.” She pointed to the train leaving the station. “But not all of them. Of those eighteen people, I was able to identify about half of them. And three of them were granted immunity that very day.”
It was enough to take the wind out of Rowan and make him feel lightheaded. “They were bribed to say it was a self-gleaning?”
“If you were just an ordinary citizen and witnessed one scythe killing another, and then were offered immunity to keep your mouth shut, what would you do?”
Rowan wanted to believe he’d seek justice, but he thought back to the days before he became an apprentice, when the appearance of a scythe was the most frightening thing he could imagine. “I’d kiss the ring and keep my mouth shut.”
Across the rotunda, the doors of the conclave chamber opened and the scythes began to file in.
“Who do you think did it?” Rowan asked.
“Who had the most to gain by getting Faraday out of the picture?”
Neither of them needed to say it out loud. They both knew the answer. Rowan knew that Goddard was capable of unthinkable things, but would he kill another scythe?”
Rowan shook his head, not wanting to believe it. “That’s not the only explanation!” he told her. “It might not have even been a scythe at all. Maybe it was the family member of someone he gleaned. Someone who wanted revenge. Anyone could have taken his ring, pushed him into the path of the train, and used the ring to give immunity to the witnesses. They’d have to stay quiet then, or they’d be considered accomplices!”
Citra opened her mouth to refute it, but closed it again. It was possible. Even though using Faraday’s ring would have frozen the killer’s finger, it was possible. “I didn’t think of that,” she said.
“Or what about a Tonist? The tone cults hate scythes.”
The rotunda was quickly emptying. They left the alcove and moved toward the chamber doors. “You don’t have enough facts to accuse anyone of anything.” Rowan said. “You should let it sit for now.”
“Let it sit? You can’t be serious.”
“I said for now! You’ll have full access to the Scythedom’s records once you’re ordained, and you’ll be able to prove exactly what happened.”
Citra stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean once I’m ordained. It could just as easily be you. Or is there something I’m missing?”
Rowan pursed his lips, furious at himself for the slip. “Let’s just get inside before they close the doors.”
• • •
The rituals of conclave were just as they had been before. The tolling of the dead. The washing of hands, grievances, and discipline. Once again an anonymous accusation was leveled against Scythe Goddard—this time accusing him of handing out immunity too freely.
“Who brings this accusation?” Goddard demanded. “Let the accuser stand and identify his or herself!”
Of course no one took credit, which allowed Goddard to retain the floor. “I will admit that his accusation has merit,” Goddard said. “I am a generous man, and have perhaps been too liberal in my doling of immunity. I make no excuses and am unrepentant. I throw myself on the mercy of the High Blade to levy my punishment.”
High Blade Xenocrates waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, just sit down, Goddard. Your penance will be to shut up for a whole five minutes.”
That brought a round of laughter. Goddard bowed to the High Blade and took his seat. And although a few scythes—including Scythe Curie—tried to object, pointing out that historically, scythes who over-used their ring had their power to grant immunity limited to the families of the gleaned, their complaints fell on deaf ears. Xenocrates overruled all objections in the interest of speeding up the day’s proceedings.
“Amazing,” said Scythe Curie quietly to Citra. “Goddard’s becoming untouchable. He can get away with anything. I wish someone would have had the foresight to glean him as a child. The world would be better off.”
Citra avoided Rowan at lunch, afraid that being seen together more than they already had been might raise suspicion. She stood by Scythe Curie for lunch, and the scythe introduced Citra to several of the greatest living scythes: Scythe Meir, who had once been a delegate to the Global Conclave in Geneva; Scythe Mandela, who was in charge of the bejeweling committee; and Scythe Hideyoshi, the only scythe known to have mastered the skill of gleaning through hypnosis.
Citra tried not to be too starstruck. Meeting them almost gave her hope that the old guard, could triumph against the likes of Goddard. She kept glancing over at Rowan, who, once more, couldn’t seem to get away from the other apprentices, although she didn’t know how hard he tried.
“It’s a bad sign,” said Scythe Hideyoshi, “when our young hopefuls gravitate so openly to the enemy.”
“Rowan’s not the enemy,” Citra blurted, but Scythe Curie put a hand on her shoulder to quiet her.
“He represents the enemy,” Scythe Curie said. “At least he does to those other apprentices.”
Scythe Mandela sighed. “There shouldn’t be enemies in the Scythedom. We should all be on the same side. The side of humanity.”
It was generally agreed among the old guard that these were troubling times, but aside from raising objections that were repeatedly dismissed, no one took action.
Citra found herself getting increasingly anxious after lunch, as the weapons manufacturers touted their wares and various motions were hotly debated. Things like whether a scythe’s ring should be worn on the left or right hand, and whether or not a scythe should be allowed to endorse a commercial product, like running shoes or a breakfast cereal. It all seemed insignificant to Citra. Why should any of that matter when the hallowed act of gleaning was slowly devolving into mortal age murder?
Then at last it came time for the apprentice trials. As before, the candidates for Scythedom went first, having been tested the night before. Of the four candidates who made it through their final test, only two were ordained. The other two had to suffer the walk of shame, as they exited the chamber and went back to their old lives. Citra took guilty pleasure at the fact that the girl who had been sucking up to Rowan was one of those ejected.
Once the new scythes were given their rings and took their new names, the remaining apprentices were called down front.
“Today’s test,” announced Scythe Cervantes, “will be a competition in the martial art of Bokator. The candidates will be paired and judged on their performance.”
A mat was brought in and rolled out in the semicircular space in front of the rostrum. Citra took a deep breath. She had this. Bokator was a balance among strength, agility, and focus, and she had found her perfect balance. And then they stuck a blade right in the heart of her confidence.
“Citra Terranova will spar against Rowan Damisch.”
A murmur from the crowd. Citra realized this was no random draw. They were paired intentionally, doomed to be adversaries. How could it be any other way? Her eyes met Rowan’s, but his expression gave away nothing.
The other matches went first. Each apprentice gave their best, but Bokator was a bruising discipline and not everyone’s strength. Some victories were close, others were routs. And then it came time for Citra and Rowan’s match.
Still, Rowan’s expression gave her neither camaraderie nor sympathy, nor misery at having to be set against each other. “Okay, let’s do this,” is all he said, and they began to circle each other.
• • •
Rowan knew that today was his first true test, but not the one they had devised for him. Rowan’s test was to look convincing but still throw the match. Goddard, Xenocrates, Cervantes—and for that matter, all the scythes assembled—needed to believe he was doing his best, but that his best just wasn’t good enough.
It began with the ritualistic rhythmic circling. Then posturing and physical taunting. Rowan launched himself at Citra, threw a kick that he telegraphed with his body language, and missed her by a fraction of an inch. He lost his footing and fell down on one knee. A very good start. He turned quickly, rising, remained off balance, and she lunged toward him. He thought she would take him down with an elbow strike, but instead she grabbed him, pulling him forward even as she appeared to push him back. It brought him to balance and made it appear as if her move had failed—that she didn’t have the leverage to do the job. Rowan backed away and caught her gaze. She was grinning at him, her eyes intensely on his. It was part of the taunting that Bokator was known for, but this was so much more. He could read her just as clearly as if she were speaking aloud.
You’re not going to throw this match, her eyes said. Fight badly—I dare you—because no matter how poorly you try to fight, I will find a way to make you look good.
Frustrated, Rowan launched himself at her again, an open palm strike at her shoulder, intentionally two inches off from the perfect leverage point—but she actually moved into it. His palm connected, she spun back with the force of his strike, and went down.
Damn you, Citra. Damn you!
She could beat him at everything. Even at losing.
• • •
Citra knew from the moment Rowan made his first kick what he was up to, and it infuriated her. How dare he think he had to fight badly for her to win this match? Had he grown so arrogant under Scythe Goddard that he actually thought this wouldn’t be a fair fight? Sure, he had been training, but so had she. So what if he had grown stronger—that also meant he was bulkier and moved slower. A fair fight was the only way to keep their consciences clean. Didn’t Rowan realize that by sacrificing himself, he’d be dooming her as well? She would sooner glean herself as her first act as a scythe than accept his sacrifice.
Rowan glared at her now, furious, and it only made her laugh. “Is that the best you can do?” she asked.
He threw out a low kick, just slow enough for her to anticipate, and without any force behind it. All she needed to do was lower her stance and the kick would have no effect. Instead she responded by raising her center of gravity just enough for the kick to knock her feet out from under her. She fell to the mat, but righted herself quickly, so it wouldn’t look as if she had done it on purpose. Then she threw her shoulder against him and hooked her right leg around his, applying force, but not enough to make his knee buckle. He grabbed her, twisted, flipped them both down to the mat, landing with her in the dominant position over him. She countered by forcing him to roll over and pin her. He tried to release her, but she held his arms in place so he couldn’t.
“What’s the matter, Rowan?” she whispered. “Don’t know what to do when you’re on top of a girl?”
He finally pulled away and she got up. They faced each other one more time, circling in the familiar battle dance while Cervantes circled them in the other direction, like a satellite, completely missing what was really going on between them.
• • •
Rowan knew the match was almost over. He was about to win, and by winning he would lose. He must have been crazy thinking Citra would allow him to willingly throw the match. They both cared too much about each other. That was the problem. Citra would never willingly accept the scythe’s ring as long as her feelings for him got in the way.
And all at once Rowan knew exactly what he had to do.
• • •
With only ten seconds left to the match, all Citra had to do was keep up the dance. Rowan was clearly the victor. Ten more seconds of guarded circling and Cervantes would blow the whistle.
But then Rowan did something Citra hadn’t anticipated at all. He threw himself forward with lightning speed. Not clumsy, not feigning false incompetence, but with perfect, practiced skill. In an instant he had put her in a headlock, squeezing her neck tight—tight enough for her pain nanites to kick in. And then he leaned close and snarled into her ear.
“You fell right into my trap,” he said. “Now you get what you deserve.” Then he flung her body into the air, twisting her head the other way. Her neck broke with a loud and horrible snap, and darkness came over Citra like a landslide.
• • •
Rowan dropped Citra to the ground as the crowd drew a collective gasp. Cervantes blew his whistle violently. “Illegal move! Illegal move!” Cervantes shouted, just as Rowan knew he would. “Disqualification!”
The gathering of scythes began to roar. Some were furious at Cervantes, others were spouting vitriol at Rowan for what he had done. Rowan stood stoic, letting no emotions show. He forced himself to look down at Citra’s body. Her head was twisted practically backward. Her eyes were open, but no longer seeing. She was deadish as deadish could be. He bit down on his tongue until it began to bleed.
The chamber door swung open and guards raced in, hurrying toward the deadish girl in the middle of the room.
The High Blade came up to Rowan. “Go back to your scythe,” he said, not even trying to hide his disgust. “I’m sure he’ll discipline you accordingly.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Disqualification. None of them realized that, to Rowan, it was the perfect victory.
He watched as the guards picked Citra up and carried her, limp as a sack of potatoes, outside where, no doubt, an ambu-drone was already waiting to take her to the nearest revival center.
You’ll be fine, Citra. You’ll be back with Scythe Curie in no time—but you won’t forget what happened today. And I hope you never forgive me.