As far as Goddard was concerned, this day was just as important as the day he revealed himself at conclave and accepted his nomination for High Blade – even more important because of the reach. The event would stream out to billions, not just a gathering of scythes in conclave. The reverberations of tonight would be felt for a long, long time. And the scythedoms that had yet to align with him would have little choice but to do so.
Support was growing in leaps and bounds now that he focused most gleaning on the margins of society. Ordinary citizens had no great love of the fringe anyway, and as long as one wasn’t part of that frayed edge that needed trimming, one needn’t worry about gleaning in Goddard’s world. Of course, with the population ever growing, there was no shortage of people to push to the margins.
It was, he had come to realize, a matter of evolution. Not natural selection, because nature had become weak and toothless. Intelligent selection was more like it, with Goddard and his acolytes at the helm of the intelligentsia.
As the hour neared seven, and the sky became dark, Goddard cracked his knuckles repeatedly and bounced his knees, his body expressing a youthful impatience that didn’t show on his face.
Ayn put a hand on his knee to stop the motion. Goddard resented it, but obliged. Then the lights in the stands dimmed and brightened on the field, as the pyre began to roll out from the bull pen.
The anticipation of the crowd was palpable. Not so much cheers and whoops as gasps and a building rumble. Even unlit, the pyre was a sight to behold – the way its branches caught the light, a dead forest woven for an artist’s eye. A lit torch waited at a safe distance, ready to be touched to the corner of the pyre by Goddard at the proper moment.
As the other speeches began, Goddard ran his own speech through his mind. He had studied the greatest addresses in history: those of Roosevelt, King, Demosthenes, Churchill. His would be short and sweet, but full of quotable moments. The kind that would be engraved in stone. The kind that would become iconic and timeless, like those he had studied. He would then take the torch, light the fire, and, as the flames grew, he would recite Scythe Socrates’s poem “Ode to the Ageless,” a world anthem if ever there was one.
Hammerstein’s speech began. He was perfectly mournful and lugubrious. Pickford was regal and eloquent; Tizoc, direct and incisive; and MacPhail’s gratitude for those who made this day possible felt honest and real.
Goddard rose and approached the pyre. He wondered if Rowan knew the honor that Goddard was bestowing on him today. Cementing his place in history. From now until the end of all things, the world would know his name. He’d be studied by schoolchildren everywhere. Today he would die, yet in a very real sense, he would also become immortal, belonging to the ages in a way that few are.
Goddard touched the button, and the lift raised Rowan from within the pyre to its peak. The rumble of the crowd grew. People stood. Hands pointed. Goddard began.
“Honorable scythes and respected citizens, today we commit humanity’s last criminal to the cleansing fire of history. Rowan Damisch, who called himself Scythe Lucifer, stole the light of so many. But today we take that light back, and use it as a clear and ever-present beacon of our future—”
There was a tap on his shoulder. He almost didn’t feel it.
“A new age where scythes, with measured joy, shape our great society, gleaning those who have no place in our glorious tomorrow—”
Again, a tap at his shoulder, more insistent this time. Could it be that someone was interrupting his address? Who would dare do such a thing? He turned to see Constantine behind him, upstaging him with that eye-assaulting crimson robe, even more gaudy now that it bore rubies.
“Your Excellency,” he whispered. “There appears to be a problem…”
“A problem? In the middle of my speech, Constantine?”
“You should look for yourself.” Then Constantine drew his attention to the pyre.
Rowan squirmed and strained against his bonds. He tried to scream through the gag, but the screams would not be fully realized until the gag burned off. And then Goddard realized…
The figure atop the unlit pyre was not Rowan.
The face was familiar, but it wasn’t until Goddard looked to the giant screens placed around the stadium, which showed the man’s anguished expression close up, that he realized who this was.
It was the technician. The one in charge of preparing Rowan for his execution.
Ten minutes earlier, before the pyre was rolled out, Rowan tried to relish the moments remaining in his life. Then a trio of scythes approached him, weaving through the forest of branches. None of their robes were familiar. Nor were their faces.
This visit was not on the program – and, all things considered, Rowan was relieved to see them. Because if they were here to exact personal revenge on him, unwilling to wait for him to burn, it would be an easier end. Sure enough, one of them pulled out a knife and swung it toward him. He braced for the sharp pain and the quick extinguishing of consciousness, but it didn’t come.
And it was only after the blade cut the bonds on his hands that he realized it was a bowie knife.
31
Damisch Control
Goddard felt his body’s reaction before his mind could truly grasp what he was seeing. It came as a tingling in his extremities, a churning in his gut, and an aching tightness in the small of his back. Fury surged upward with volcanic intensity until his head began to throb.
Everyone in the stadium already knew what he had only now just seen, that the prisoner at the peak of the pyre was not Scythe Lucifer – for over the past three years the world had come to know Rowan Damisch’s face. Yet this was the face being broadcast and streamed. It filled the expansive screens all around Goddard as if to mock him.
His grand moment was not just robbed from him – it was subverted. Twisted upon itself like something obscene. The rumbles from the audience sounded different than they had only a second ago. Was that laughter he heard? Were they laughing at him? Whether they were, or not, was of little consequence. All that mattered was what he heard. What he felt. And he felt the derision of thirty thousand souls. It could not stand. This monstrous moment could not be suffered to live.
Constantine whispered in his ear. “I’ve ordered the gates locked, and the entire BladeGuard has been alerted. We’ll find him.”
But that didn’t matter. It was ruined. They could drag Rowan back and hurl him onto the pyre, but it would make no difference. Goddard’s shining moment would be the greatest casualty of the day. Unless. Unless…
Ayn knew things were heading to a very bad place the moment she saw that imbecile atop the pyre.
Goddard would have to be handled.
For when his anger took control, all bets were off. It was bad enough before, but ever since acquiring Tyger’s body, those youthful impulses – the sudden endocrine surges – gave Goddard a terrible new dimension. Adrenaline and testosterone might have been charming when managed by a harmless blank slate like Tyger Salazar; they were merely winds beneath a kite. But under Goddard, those same winds were a tornado. Which meant he would have to be handled. Like a beast that had broken out of its cage.
She let Constantine be the one to run out to him and deliver the bad news – because Goddard loved to blame the messenger, so better Constantine than her. Only after Goddard had turned to look at the hapless tech did Ayn go to him.