The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,143

Mendoza. You should beg the Toll for forgiveness.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Greyson said.

But still, Mendoza, bloated by indignation glared at Grayson. “I will not apologize! Our people are about to be slaughtered, and you want to let it happen? You’re no leader; you’re a fool!”

Greyson drew a deep breath. He knew he could not back down from this or avert his gaze. He had to deliver it to Mendoza like a bullet to the brain. “Mr. Mendoza, your service to me and to the Thunderhead is done. You are officially defrocked. You are no longer a curate, you have no further business here, and you have five minutes to leave before I have Morrison throw you out.”

“I can throw him out right now,” said Morrison, ready to advance.

“No,” said Grayson, never breaking eye contact with Mendoza. “Five minutes. But not a second more.”

Mendoza looked shocked, but only for a moment. Then his expression hardened. “You’ve made a terrible mistake, Greyson,” he said. Then he turned and stormed away, Morrison following him to enforce the edict.

In the silence that followed, Jeri was the only one who dared to speak. “Mutinies are nasty business,” Jeri said. “Cutting him down quickly was the right thing to do.”

“Thank you, Jeri,” Greyson said—not realizing how much he needed to hear that until Jeri said it. Greyson felt like crumbling, but he held it together. He had to, for all of their sakes.

“Astrid, put out a warning and let each curate decide for themselves what actions to take. They can hide or defend themselves, but I won’t order them to violence.”

Astrid nodded dutifully. “I’m tied into Mendoza’s network. I’ll do what must be done.” And she left. Jeri put a comforting hand on Greyson’s shoulder and left as well.

Now it was just Greyson and Anastasia. Of all of them, she was the only one who could understand impossible decisions, and how they could tear a person apart.

“All that power, and yet the Thunderhead can’t stop this any more than it could stop the Mile High gleaning,” she said. “All it can do is watch as people are killed.”

“Even so,” said Greyson, “I think the Thunderhead’s found a way to make the best out of a bad situation, a way to use this purge for some greater good.”

“How could there possibly be any good in this?”

Greyson glanced around to make sure they were still alone. “There’s something that I didn’t tell the others, but I need to tell you, because I’m going to need your help more than anyone else’s.”

Anastasia seemed to brace herself, clearly afraid of whatever it was he had to tell her. “Why me?”

“Because of what you’ve seen. Because of what you’ve done. You’re an honorable scythe, in every meaning of the word. I need someone strong enough to handle things that others can’t. Because I don’t think I can handle this alone.”

“What is it we’re supposed to handle?”

Then Greyson leaned in close. “Like I said, the Thunderhead doesn’t want the Tonists to burn their dead… because it has other plans for them….”

With a heavy heart, I say farewell to High Blade Tenkamenin and all those ended by the Tonist scourge.

It is the Tonists who have been inciting violence against scythes throughout the world. They would bring down our entire way of life and lead the world into chaos. I will not allow it. It ends here.

For too long this world has suffered the embarrassment of the twisted, backward behavior of Tonists. They are not the future. They are not even the past. They are merely a footnote to the troubling present, and when they are gone, no one will mourn them.

As Overblade of North Merica, I call for swift retribution from each and every scythedom. As of today, we have a new priority. Scythes under my leadership are to glean Tonists at every turn and every encounter. Go out of your way to seek them out in great numbers, to cut them down. And those you can’t glean, chase from your region, so that they may find no peace wherever they roam.

To you Tonists, it is my profound and enduring hope that your foul, aberrant light be extinguished, now and forevermore.

—From His Exalted Excellency’s, Robert Goddard, Overblade of North Merica, eulogy for High Blade Tenkamenin of SubSahara

41 A Higher Octave

There was a huge tuning fork in the center of the monastery’s courtyard, an altar for outdoor worship when the weather was kind. Now, at slightly before eight in the morning, it was struck