The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,120

doors of the palace, the doors fell off their hinges, crushing four BladeGuards beneath them, and Tonists began to flood in.

That’s when Jeri grabbed Anastasia and pulled her behind a column, hidden from everyone’s view.

“I have an idea,” Jeri said, “but you’ll have to trust me.”

viii. Offertorium

The sibilant curate was in his element. This was what he was born for, this was his purpose, and had been his plan for years. Even before the Thunder fell silent he knew this day would come. His extreme brand of Tonism would soon be the dominant one. All those lesser Tonists who believed in tranquility, tolerance, and passive acquiescence would soon die off and burn, just as the High Blade of SubSahara would burn today. The time for words was gone. Had been gone for a long time. If the curate had his way, language itself would be outlawed and replaced by wordless adulation to Tone, Toll, and Thunder. As it was meant to be. And he would be High Curate over it all. Oh what a glorious day that would be! But first this.

A scythe in a turquoise robe raced up a grand staircase, trying to escape. The curate pointed, and half a dozen of his flock raced after the scythe. Before him a woman in a salmon silk robe, whom he recognized as Scythe Makeda, was on the attack, skillfully gleaning the Tonists attacking her. Loyal and true, they were sacrificing themselves for the cause. Then one was able to get around behind Makeda and ran her through. She froze, gasped, then fell like a rag doll, her fight leaving along with her life. Three Tonists grabbed her body and dragged it out toward the growing pyre outside, and its purifying flames.

“You’re no better than Goddard if you burn us!” said one of the servants huddled at the base of the stairs with High Blade Tenkamenin. “If you go through with this, the very thing you worship will never forgive you.”

The High Blade put a firm hand on her shoulder to keep her quiet, but her eyes were still angry and defiant. If the curate could speak, he would tell her that her words – all words – were an abomination to the Tone. And that the only reason the Tone didn’t shatter her skull with furious resonance was because cleansing the world of the unworthy was left to the curate, and people like him. But he couldn’t tell her. And he didn’t have to. His actions spoke much more loudly than words.

But the High Blade was all about words.

“Please…” Tenkamenin begged.

The curate knew what was coming next. This pompous, cowardly scythe – this purveyor of unnatural death – was now going to plead for his life. Let him plead. The curate’s ears were not deaf, like some other sibilant sects’, but they might as well be.

“Please … you can end me, but spare these two,” Tenkamenin said. “You have no gripe against this valet and housekeeper.”

The curate hesitated. It was his desire to end them all, for anyone in service to a scythe deserved a scythe’s fate. Guilt by association. But then the High Blade said, “Show your followers the true meaning of mercy. The way my parents showed me. My mother and father, who are both among you.”

The curate knew this about the High Blade. His parents wordlessly begged not to be part of the attack on the palace. He had obliged by sending them to the firehouse – and they had clearly done their job well. Tenkamenin would not be spared, but out of respect for his Tonist parents, the curate would honor the man’s last words. So he pulled out a pistol, shot Tenkamenin through the heart, and then gestured for the two servants to leave.

It was a humble offering of mercy. Of course, they would most likely be killed out in the gardens and thrown on the pyre, but the ambudrones were making off with quite a few of the deadish, so they’d have a fighting chance.

But just then the housekeeper rose to her feet. The anger in her eyes was beyond anger – beyond fury. And it was focused. Like the eyes of a scythe.

She leaped at the nearest Tonist, took her down with a skilled martial arts kick, grabbed the machete she was holding, and swung at the curate, disarming him. Literally.

He watched, stunned, as his hand flew spinning into the air. Then she grabbed the gun from his severed hand, and swung its