The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,130
on too many levels to count. If he was expecting them, then why did the Tonist deny he was here? And was he truly expecting them, or did this lackey just say that to make the Toll seem mysterious and all-knowing? Before even meeting him, she already detested this man behind the curtain.
The Tonists led them forward, and although Anastasia didn’t pull away from their grip, she gave them the opportunity to reconsider it.
“You’d best let go of me if you want to keep your hands.”
The Tonists did not ease their grip in the least. “My hands will grow back like our tongues,” one of them said. “The Toll, in his wisdom, has given us back our nanites.”
“Good for him,” Anastasia said. “At least he’s not a complete imbecile.”
Possuelo gave her a warning glare, and Anastasia decided silence would be the best policy, because nothing out of her mouth right now would benefit the situation.
The procession halted at the entrance to the cave—a gaping triangular maw. It was here where they would be presented to the Toll…
… but even before the Toll arrived, the first person out of the cave made it abundantly clear to Anastasia that this ride was definitely going to be worth the price of admission.
* * *
When Scythe Morrison heard that an elegy of scythes was at the cave entrance, he was convinced that the North Merican scythedom had finally come for him. Goddard must have known he was alive, must have known what he’d been up to these past few years, and had sent this team to bring him in. He considered running, but there was only one exit from the cave. Besides, he wasn’t the same man he had been when he first began this service to the Toll. That junior scythe would save himself at the expense of all others. But this Scythe Morrison would face his capture bravely, defending the Toll to the last, as he had promised to do.
He stepped out first, as he always did, to assess the threat level and be generally intimidating, but he stopped short at the cave entrance when he saw a familiar turquoise robe. A robe he thought he’d never lay eyes on again.
Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded.
“You?” she said.
“No,” Morrison blurted, “not me! I mean, yes it’s me, but I’m not the Toll, I mean.” Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Anastasia.
“What are you even doing here?” she asked.
He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one.
The other scythe in her entourage—Amazonian by the look of his robe—chimed in, several beats behind the curve. “You mean to say you two know each other?”
But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder.
“As usual, you’re in the way, Morrison,” he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation.
Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them.
He stopped short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should.
“Okay,” said Scythe Anastasia. “Now I know I’ve lost my mind.”
* * *
Greyson knew that the Thunderhead must have been enjoying this moment immensely—he could see its cameras whirring on the nearby trees, taking in everyone’s expressions, swiveling back and forth to see this absurd little tableau from every angle. It could have given him at least an inkling that he’d be seeing not only someone he knew, but the very individual who, in a way, was responsible for the strange path his life had taken. It couldn’t have told him directly, of course, but it could have given him hints and let him deduce it for himself. But then, even with a thousand clues, he would have marched into this encounter clueless.
He resolved not to give the Thunderhead the satisfaction of seeing him bug-eyed and slack-jawed. So when Anastasia suggested that she may have just lost her mind, he said, as nonchalantly as he could, “Endura rises! All rejoice!”