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Humanity is innocent; humanity is guilty, and both states are undeniably true. We must, by law, keep a record.
the universe should have deigned to provide such warnings, but scythes were no more supernatural than tax collectors in the grand scheme of things. They showed up, did their unpleasant business, and were gone.
“Yes, yes of course, come in.” Citra’s mother stepped aside to allow him entry—as if she were the visitor and not the other way around.
A scythe, Citra knew, could choose the color of his or her robe—every color except for black, for it was considered inappropriate for their job. Black was an absence of light, and scythes were the opposite. Luminous and enlightened, they were acknowledged as the very best of humanity—which is why they were chosen for the job.
Hope in the shadow of fear is the world’s most powerful motivator.
The ending of human life used to be in the hands of nature. But we stole it. Now we have a monopoly on death. We are its sole distributor.
The scythe regarded him a little too long, then said, “You stood your ground for a boy you barely knew. You comforted him at the moment of his death, bearing the pain of the jolt. You bore witness, even though no one called you to do so.”
And Rowan already knew what it was like to be a scythe—to be treated separate and apart from the rest of the world. He was living that now, but could he bear to live it forever? Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Scythes got together, didn’t they?
What must life have been like in the Age of Mortality? Full of passions, both good and bad. Fear giving rise to faith. Despair giving meaning to elation. They say even the winters were colder and the summers were warmer in those days.
To live between the prospects of an unknown eternal sky and a dark, enveloping Earth must have been glorious—for how else could it have given rise to such magnificent expression? No one created anything of value anymore—but if, by gleaning, he could bring back a hint of what once was, it might be worth it.
And it occurred to her that being a scythe was like being the living dead. In the world, but apart from it. Just a witness to the comings and goings of others. We are above the law, but that does not mean we live in defiance of it. Our position demands a level of morality beyond the rule of law. We must strive for incorruptibility, and must assess our motives on a daily basis.
nature of life and what it means to be human before you are permanently charged with the taking of life. You will also study all forms of killcraft and become experts.
Over the past two months he had learned that no one had his back anymore. Perhaps no one ever did. His friends had pulled away. He was a footnote in his own family. There was only one person now who shared his plight. That was Citra. If they couldn’t find a way to trust each other, then what did they have beyond a learner’s permit to kill?
The greatest achievement of the human race was not conquering death. It was ending government.
The emperor not only had no clothes—turns out he had no testicles either.
people who forged on and pretended the scythe wasn’t there. It wasn’t just a matter of ignoring him—it was actively, willfully denying his presence. It reminded Citra of the way very small children would play hide-and-seek, covering their own eyes to hide, thinking that if they couldn’t see you, then you couldn’t see them.
“I feel bad for you,” said Citra. “Even when you’re food shopping, death is hiding right behind the milk.” “It never hides,” the scythe told them with a world-weariness that was hard to describe. “Nor does it sleep. You’ll learn that soon enough.” But it wasn’t something either of them was eager to learn.
“Wait,” said Citra. “We’re going to her funeral?” “I thought you said it was best not to linger,” said Rowan. “Lingering and paying respects are two different things. I attend the funerals of all the people I glean.”
What was the collective word for a group of scythes? An “elegy,” wasn’t it? Odd that there’d be a word for something so rare. In his experience, scythes were always solitary, never traveling together.
“I am your completion,” the lead scythe said loudly to the dying. “I am the last word of your lives well lived. Give thanks. And thus farewell.”
The lead scythe pulled out his own blade, but the businessman was ready. The moment the blade was drawn, he thrust himself forward onto it—a final willful act, making death his own choice, rather than the scythe’s. Denying the scythe; if not his method, then his madness.
“A scythe’s journal is traditionally made of lambskin parchment and kid leather.” “I assume you mean ‘kid’ as in ‘goat,’ ” Rowan said, “and not ‘kid’ as in ‘kid.’ ” That finally made the scythe laugh.
People can read anything, but no one does. All they do is play games and watch cat holograms.”
we must always be vigilant, because power comes infected with the only disease left to us: the virus called human nature.
It never occurred to Citra that people would come out to see scythes arriving at conclave, but then, all celebrity events drew onlookers, so why not a gathering of scythes?
If she became a scythe, she would follow his lead. And if she didn’t become one, it wouldn’t matter because she’d be dead. Perhaps there was some sort of twisted wisdom in the decision to have one of them gleaned by the other. Whoever wins will begin their life as a scythe in abject sorrow, never to forget the cost of that ring.
didn’t have an appetite. Even though the whole world had slid off its axis. Breakfast was breakfast. How dare it be?
Around them people gasped and hurried away, but not so far away that they couldn’t watch the aftermath. Death was unfamiliar to most of them. It needed to exist in its own bubble, as long as they could stay just beyond its outer edge, peering in.
In the Age of Mortality, death would often come with no warning. It is our task to mimic what we’ve stolen from nature—and so that is the face of death I’ve chosen to recreate. My gleanings are always instantaneous and always public, lest people forget what we do, and why we must do it.”
“They had a word for it. ‘Murder.’ ” Citra chuckled at the archaic word. “That’s funny. Like a bunch of crows.”
Nature deemed that to be born was an automatic sentence to death, and then brought about that death with vicious consistency.
“But you’ll get better.” Of course he’d get better. He didn’t have any choice in the matter. In mortal days, one died or recovered. Now there was only one option.
She would watch as the scythe prowled the streets and malls and parks, becoming like a lioness in search of vulnerable prey.
Such was life and death for Citra in the days before the Harvest Conclave.
Chomsky torched a potted shrub with a flamethrower. “Really?” said Rowan, “A flamethrower?” Chomsky shrugged. “No law against it. And anyway, what business is it of yours?”
Goddard ate enough for everyone. He was invigorated by the day’s hunt, like a vampire sucking in the life force of its victims.
“The future comes whether we want it to or not.
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.”
“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.”
“People change,” Volta said. “Especially an apprentice. Being a scythe’s apprentice is all about change. Why do you think we give up our names and never use them again? It’s because by the time we’re ordained, we’re completely different people. Professional gleaners instead of candy-ass kids.
I am apprenticed to a monster. Scythe Faraday was right: Someone who enjoys killing should never be a scythe. It goes against everything the founders wanted. If this is what the Scythedom is turning into, someone has to stop it. But it can’t be me. Because I think I’m becoming a monster, too. Rowan looked at what he wrote and carefully, quietly tore the page out, crumpled it, and tossed it into the flames
As Rowan’s mentor, it was his prerogative to do so. It had taken forever for Rowan to learn how to write his true thoughts, his true feelings. Now he had to learn to hide them again. It was a matter of survival.
Citra tried the soup. It was flavorful and the moon-ball unique and memorable. Comfort food, thought Citra, because somehow it made her feel safe from the inside out. “My grandmother said it could actually heal a cold.” “What’s a cold?” asked Citra. “A deadly illness from the mortal age, I suppose.”
and he realized he never really stood a chance against the Marquesa de la Muerte. There wasn’t much he could do but glare at her in heartfelt disapproval. “Very bad!” he said, wagging a finger. “Very, very bad.”
“I love the way it rains here,” he told her. “It reminds me that some forces of nature can never be entirely subdued. They are eternal, which is a far better thing to be than immortal.”
“It’s what you’ve trained for. You’ll do fine.” Which is what Rowan was worried about. He didn’t want to do “fine.” He wanted to be miserable at it. He wanted to be a failure, because only by failing would he know that he held on to a shred of his humanity.
“We could have been called reapers,” Goddard said, “but our founders saw fit to call us scythes—because we are the weapons in mankind’s immortal hand. You are a fine weapon, Rowan, sharp, and precise. And when you strike, you are glorious to behold.”
Rowan arrived alone in a publicar, with no sponsor and no one to shepherd him in. He was dressed in the one color that scythes shunned—black.
