The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,66

smile that she found infuriating. “Your naivete is refreshing, Anastasia. But the truth is, power for power’s sake is a consuming addiction. He would devour the world whole, and still be unsatisfied.”

“There’s got to be a way to stop him!”

Possuelo smiled again. This time it wasn’t patronizing; it was conspiratorial. She liked that a whole lot better. “That’s where you come in. The return of Scythe Anastasia from the dead will gain people’s attention,” he said. “It might even breathe life back into the splintered and demoralized old guard. Then maybe we’ll be able to fight him.”

Citra sighed and shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. “Do people—ordinary people—accept the changes Goddard’s brought?”

“For most people, scythe business is a mystery. Their only desire is to stay out of the way and avoid being gleaned.”

“But they’ve got to see what’s happening and what he’s doing…”

“They do… and, among the masses, he is feared, but he is also respected.”

“What about his mass gleanings? I’m sure he’s doing even more of those. Doesn’t that bother people?”

Possuelo deflated at the thought. “He chooses his mass gleanings carefully—only selecting unregistered, unprotected groups that the population at large doesn’t mind seeing gleaned.”

Citra looked down at her uneaten food. She fought the urge to hurl it against the wall, just for the satisfaction of hearing the plates shatter. Targeted gleanings were not something new in history. In the past, however, they were quickly punished by one’s High Blade. But when the highest authority was the perpetrator, who was there to stop it? Rowan was the only one who dealt death to power, and it wasn’t likely that Possuelo would allow him to continue doing so.

Goddard would find more and more vulnerable populations to target, and as long as enough people accepted it, he’d get away with it.

“The news isn’t as dismal as it seems,” Possuelo told her. “If it’s of any consolation to you, we here in Amazonia still hold to the spirit of the Scythe Commandments, as do many other scythedoms. We estimate that half the world, maybe more, is against Goddard’s ideas and methods. Even within regions he controls, there are those who would resist him if they could. If you can believe it, Tonists are proving to be a substantial source of resistance ever since their prophet was gleaned.”

“Prophet?”

“There are those who believe the Thunderhead still spoke to him. But what does it matter now?”

So Goddard had everything in his favor. It was what Marie had feared—what they all had feared. What Scythe Asimov had called “the worst of all possible worlds.” Now Marie was gone, and hope was at a premium.

As she thought of Scythe Curie, she felt emotions erupt in her that she’d kept down until now. Marie’s last act had been to save Citra and Rowan. A truly selfless act worthy of one of the noblest post-mortals who ever lived. And now she was gone. Yes, it was years ago, but for Citra the grief was still raw and bleeding. She turned away from Possuelo to wipe her tears, but found that the moment she did, those tears exploded into sobs that she couldn’t hope to control.

Possuelo came around the table to comfort her. She didn’t want it—didn’t want him to see her this way—but she also knew the pain was not something she had to bear alone.

“It’s all right, meu anjo,” Possuelo said, his voice soothing and paternal. “As you said, hope is merely misplaced, and I believe you are the one to find it.”

“ ‘Meu anjo’?” she said. “Sydney, I’m nobody’s angel.”

“Ah, but you are,” Possuelo said. “Because an angel is what the world needs if we are to ever bring Goddard down.”

Citra let her grief flow; then, when she felt spent, she wrangled her sorrow back in, wiping her tears. She needed this moment. Needed to say her goodbye to Marie. And now that she had, she felt just a little bit different. She felt, for the first time since her revival, less like Citra Terranova and more like Scythe Anastasia.

* * *

Two days later, she was moved from the revival center to a more secure location, which turned out to be an old fortress on the easternmost shore of Amazonia. A place that was desolate, and yet beautiful in its desolation. It was like being in a castle on the face of the moon, if the moon had been blessed with oceans.

Modern amenities juxtaposed with ancient stone bulwarks made the place both comfortable and intimidating at once. Her suite had a