The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,101
sleep.”
“What?”
“It’s how they say all mortals wanted to go. In their sleep, peacefully, without ever knowing. I guess it makes sense.”
Rowan supposed he said too much, because Rand put the gag on and tightened it.
“Once the flames reach you, try to breathe them in,” she told him. “It will go faster for you if you do.”
Then she left without looking back.
Ayn could not get the image of Rowan Damisch out of her head. She’d seen him incapacitated before – tied up, tied down, shackled, and restrained any number of ways. But this time it was different. He wasn’t plucky or defiant; he was resigned. He didn’t look like the shrewd killing machine Goddard had turned him into. He looked like exactly what he was: a frightened boy who got in over his head.
Well, it serves him right, Ayn thought, trying to shake it off. What goes around comes around, isn’t that what mortals used to say?
As she walked out onto the field, a wind swooped through the bowl of the stadium, fluttering her robe. The stands were just about full now. More than one thousand scythes and thirty thousand citizens. A capacity crowd.
Rand sat beside Goddard and his underscythes. Constantine would not miss the gleaning of Rowan Damisch, but he didn’t seem any more pleased by this than Ayn did.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Constantine?” Goddard asked, clearly to goad him.
“I recognize the importance of an event around which to rally the public and present a unified North Merica,” Constantine said. “It’s a strong strategy and one that is likely to mark a turning point in scythe affairs.”
It was complimentary but didn’t answer the question. A perfectly diplomatic response. Goddard read through it, though, as Ayn knew he would, picking up on Constantine’s disapproval.
“You are nothing, if not consistent,” Goddard told him. “Constantine the Consistent. I do believe that is how history will come to know you.”
“There are worse attributes,” Constantine told him.
“Did you at least extend a personal invitation to our ‘friends’ in Texas to attend?” Goddard asked.
“I did. They didn’t respond.”
“No, I expect they wouldn’t. Shame – I would have much liked them to see the family they’ve chosen to exclude themselves from.”
The agenda for the evening had the four other North Merican High Blades giving speeches – each one carefully written to hit a certain point that Goddard wanted hit.
High Blade Hammerstein of EastMerica would lament the many souls lost on Endura, and the other unlucky scythes so brutally ended by Scythe Lucifer.
High Blade Pickford of WestMerica would talk about North Merican unity and how the alliance of five out of the six North Merican scythedoms made life better for everyone.
High Blade Tizoc of Mexiteca would invoke the mortal age, point out how far the world had come, and leave the audience with a veiled warning to other scythedoms that not aligning with Goddard could bring back the bad old days.
High Blade MacPhail of NorthernReach would give credit to all those involved in putting this event together. She would also highlight members of the audience, scythes and ordinary people as well, whose favor it was worth currying.
And then finally Goddard would deliver an address that would wrap it all up in a nice bow before he set the pyre ablaze.
“This will not just be the gleaning of a public enemy,” he had told Ayn and his underscythes. “It’s a bottle of champagne smashed upon a ship. This shall mark the christening of a new time for the human race.” It was as if Goddard looked upon it religiously. A burnt offering to purify the path and appease the gods.
As far as Goddard was concerned, this day was just as important as the day he revealed himself at conclave and accepted his nomination for High Blade – even more important because of the reach. The event would stream out to billions, not just a gathering of scythes in conclave. The reverberations of tonight would be felt for a long, long time. And the scythedoms that had yet to align with him would have little choice but to do so.
Support was growing in leaps and bounds now that he focused most gleaning on the margins of society. Ordinary citizens had no great love of the fringe anyway, and as long as one wasn’t part of that frayed edge that needed trimming, one needn’t worry about gleaning in Goddard’s world. Of course, with the population ever growing, there was no shortage of people to push to the margins.