The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,42

“But you may want to clarify it for yourself.”

Greyson laughed. “Okay, then. The curates see themselves as my handlers, you see me as your mouthpiece in the world—”

“I see you as much more than that, Greyson.”

“Do you? Because if you did, you’d allow me to have an opinion. You’d allow me to contribute. And the advice I gave today was my way of contributing.”

“I see.”

“Have I clarified that for myself sufficiently?”

“Indeed, you have.”

“And was my suggestion to him a good one?”

The Thunderhead paused. “I will concede that giving him freedom and artistic license outside of structured boundaries may help him find fulfillment. So, yes, your suggestion was a good one.”

“So there you go! Maybe you’ll start allowing me to contribute a little bit more.”

“Greyson…,” said the Thunderhead.

He sighed, certain that the Thunderhead was going to give him some sort of patient, long-suffering lecture for daring to have opinions. But instead, what the Thunderhead said surprised him.

“I know this hasn’t been easy. I marvel at how you’ve grown into this position you’ve been thrust into. I marvel at how you’ve grown, period. Choosing you could not have been a more correct choice.”

Greyson found himself moved. “Thank you, Thunderhead.”

“I’m not sure you realize the significance of what you’ve accomplished, Greyson. You have taken a cult that despised technology and have caused them to embrace it. To embrace me.”

“The Tonists never hated you,” Greyson pointed out. “They hate scythes. They were on the fence about you—but now you fit within their dogma. ‘The Tone, the Toll, and the Thunder.’ ”

“Yes, the Tonists do so love alliteration.”

“Be careful,” Greyson warned, “or they’ll start building temples to you and cutting out hearts in your name.” Greyson almost laughed imagining it. How frustrating it would be to make human sacrifices, only to have your sacrifices return the next day with brand-new hearts.

“There is power to their beliefs,” the Thunderhead said. “Yes, those beliefs could be dangerous if not properly directed and shaped—and so we shall shape them. We shall mold the Tonists into a force that can benefit humanity.”

“Are you sure that can be done?” Greyson asked.

“I can say with 72.4% certainty that we can wield the Tonists toward a positive end.”

“And what about the rest?”

“There is a 19% chance that the Tonists will do nothing of any value,” the Thunderhead told him, “and an 8.6% chance that they will damage the world in an unpredictable way.”

* * *

The Toll’s next audience was not a pleasant one. At first there were just a few extremist zealots coming to him for an audience, but now it seemed to be a daily occurrence. They found ways of twisting Tonist teachings, as well as misinterpreting every little thing Greyson said or did.

The Toll rising early did not mean people should be punished for sleeping late.

His eating eggs did not imply a fertility rite was called for.

And a day of quiet brooding did not mean a permanent vow of silence was required.

Tonists wanted so desperately to believe in something that the things they chose to believe were sometimes absurd, other times naive, and, when it came to zealots, downright terrifying.

Today’s extreme believer was emaciated, as if he had been on a hunger strike, and had a crazed look in his eyes. He spoke about ridding the world of almonds—and all because Greyson once mentioned in passing that he didn’t care for them. Apparently the wrong ears heard and spread the word. It turns out that wasn’t the only scheme the man had.

“We must strike terror into the cold hearts of scythes, so they submit to you,” the zealot said. “With your blessing, I will burn them one by one, just as their rebel, Scythe Lucifer, did.”

“No! Absolutely not!” The last thing Greyson wanted to do was antagonize scythes. As long as he didn’t get in their way, they didn’t bother him, and it needed to stay that way. Greyson rose from his chair and stared the man down. “There won’t be any killing in my name!”

“But there must be! The Tone sings to my heart and tells me so!”

“Get out of here!” Greyson demanded. “You don’t serve the Tone, or the Thunder, and you definitely don’t serve me!”

The man’s shock turned to contrition. He folded as if under some heavy weight. “I’m sorry if I have offended you, Your Sonority. What can I do to earn your favor?”

“Nothing,” Greyson said. “Do nothing. That will make me happy.”

The zealot retreated, bowing as he walked backward. As far as Greyson was concerned, he