The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,116

impulsive and flip, when, in fact, everything about his life was planned and organized. Even the chaos of his Lunar Jubilees was a controlled chaos.

He suspected that time was of the essence after that urgent warning call from his father, but it was impossible for him to fight his own instincts. He had quickly retreated to his humble residence, where he struggled with his valet to figure out what he needed to take with him for a hasty escape. A second robe, of course. But should it be one for cold weather or warm? Who should be notified that they were leaving? High Blades couldn’t just vanish. He found himself confounded by it all.

“Your Excellency,” said the valet, “didn’t you say that we were in a hurry?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

And there were things of sentimental value that absolutely had to come with him. The engraved obsidian revolver given to him by Grandslayer Nzinga the day he took her place as High Blade. The silver dagger he’d used for his first gleaning. If this place was about to be overrun, who knew if he’d ever see his prized possessions again. He absolutely had to take them.

For ten minutes he obsessed over what he should and should not take and was only stopped by the first distant explosions.

iv. Lacrimosa

“If we’re leaving, we should leave now!”

Anastasia paced the grand hall beneath the palace’s central dome with Jeri, waiting for everyone else to show. “Where the hell are Tenkamenin and the others?”

“Maybe you’re overreacting,” said Jeri. “I’ve had dealings with many Tonists, and never once have I known them to be violent. Annoying and strident, maybe, but never violent.”

“You didn’t see these Tonists!” Anastasia said. “And if Tenkamenin thinks they’re up to something, I believe him.”

“Then let’s leave without him,” Jeri offered. “Let him and the others catch up with us.”

“I’m not about to leave him,” Anastasia said. Just then a series of far-off explosions echoed through the grand atrium. They both stopped to listen. More explosions filled the air, like distant thunder.

“Wherever it is,” said Jeri, “it’s not here in the palace.”

“No, but it’s going to be.” Anastasia knew that whatever those explosions were, it was an omen of worse to come. An angry promise that this day would most certainly end in tears.

v. Sanctus

The young Tonist was a loyal follower. She did what her curate told her to do, because he was a true man of the Tone. Holy and sanctified. Their curate had not spoken for many years, and on the day of the Great Resonance—the day the Thunderhead went silent—he was the first to surrender his tongue. Words lied. Words connived, they dissembled with impunity, they slandered, and, above all, they offended the purity of the Tone.

One by one all the Tonists in their order made their vow a permanent one, as their curate had. Not a vow of silence, but a vow of vowels. A complete surrendering of the harsh, unnatural clicks, hisses, and pops that consonants brought. Language was the enemy of the Tonist. This is what their sect believed. Of course, there were many other Tonists who did not. But they would soon see the light. Even the ones who had blinded themselves.

While one team took out the firehouse, and another the peace officers’ precinct, their curate led the largest team to the palace. They all had weapons—the kind that common citizens weren’t supposed to have. They had been given them by an unknown benefactor. A secret supporter of their cause. The Tonists were not trained in these weapons, but what did that matter? Swing the blade, pull the trigger, hurl the grenade, and press the detonator. With so many of them armed, they didn’t need to be all that skilled to achieve their goal.

And they also had kerosene. Jugs and jugs of it.

The Tonist made sure she was part of the first wave. She was frightened, but also joyous for her part in this. Now was their time! In the wake of the Mile High gleaning, when ire against scythes was at a full boil, people would finally see the Tonist way! They would cheer for what would be done here today, and the SubSaharan region would be a klaxon calling out to the rest of the world, waking them into the glory of the Tone, Toll, and Thunder. All rejoice!

She opened her mouth to intone as she neared the palace, and others joined her. It was so satisfying to be the one who started them