Scyther's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Scyther crouched at the edge of his pumpkin field and watched the tall house on the hill. He was a scarecrow, stitched and straw-stuffed, and he had spent the last month learning that the physician inside that house had killed at least three people who could not fight back. That was the same shape of cruelty he had grown up under. He meant to end it. But he did not yet know when the man ate, when he slept, or which door he used at dusk. A blind strike would kill the wrong person. The manor kept servants. Scyther had watched a girl carry laundry across the yard that morning, no older than fifteen. He would not put a blade through her by accident. He walked back to the small shed beside his patch, where he kept his tools. Pumpkin-carved knives hung on the wall, orange and hard as bone, still fresh after months. He took the shortest one and slid it into his coat. Then he went to the herb bed behind the shed and cut a bundle of rosemary and mint. A delivery boy carrying herbs would draw no eyes at a servants' door. He did not need to go in yet. He needed to watch. He crossed the fields at dusk and settled in the hedgerow across from the manor. He counted windows. He counted lamps. A cook came out to empty a pail at the side step. A stableman locked the gate at the ninth bell. At half past, an upper window lit, and a thin figure in a dark coat passed behind the curtain, then passed again, pacing. Scyther marked the room. Something shifted above him. He looked up. An owl sat on the hedge, its feathers cut from yellow-green crystal, catching what little light was left. It should not have existed. It watched the same lit window he watched. Then it turned its head and looked at him, direct, patient, as if to say: yes, that one. Scyther held still. The bird lifted off without sound and flew a slow circle around the manor. It landed on a stone ledge outside a small door at the rear, tucked behind the kitchen wing. A door Scyther had not seen from the field. Then it flew back to the lit upper window and settled on the sill. A back stair. A private entrance. The pacing man used it, or would. Scyther waited an hour. At the tenth bell, the upper lamp went out. A moment later, the small rear door opened, and the thin figure stepped into the yard, alone, and walked toward the herb garden with a lantern. No servants. No witnesses. Scyther drew the pumpkin knife. He now knew the physician's route, the hour, and the door. The blind strike was no longer blind. He rose from the hedge and moved.