The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,131

humanity. It did make sense that the Thunderhead would keep one point of connection with humankind, but why a Tonist? Since the Thunderhead did not make mistakes, it must have had a good reason. But for now, she preferred to believe the Toll was a fraud.

Their destination was an inhospitable SubSaharan forest, a dense unrelenting snarl of trees and wicked, thorny undergrowth that snagged Anastasia’s new robe and pricked her through the fabric, leaving her itchy as they made their way to the cave where the Toll was sequestered. As they finally neared the cave, they were accosted by Tonists standing guard.

“Do not resist,” said Possuelo – but letting her guard down was not easy for Anastasia, knowing who these people were.

The Tonists were unarmed, but their grips were firm. Anastasia scanned their faces. Was this the one who had thrown Tenkamenin to the ground? Was that the one who had hurled Scythe Baba onto the pyre? She could swear their faces were familiar, but it could have been her imagination. Possuelo had insisted that they leave their weapons behind. Now she realized it wasn’t just to kept them from being confiscated, but also to stop Anastasia from giving in to her rage. Every part of her wanted to exact retribution, but she fought it. She had to keep reminding herself that true scythes – honorable scythes – never gleaned in anger. But if a single one of them raised a weapon, she would let loose using her most deadly Bokator moves on them, breaking necks and spines without mercy.

“We request an audience with the Toll,” Possuelo said.

Anastasia was about to point out that this sect was tongueless, but to her surprise, one of the Tonists responded.

“The Toll was elevated to a higher octave two years ago,” one of the Tonists responded. “He is with us now only in harmony.”

Possuelo was not deterred. “We have heard otherwise,” he said, then added, “We are not here to glean him; we are here for our mutual benefit.”

The Tonists studied them a few moments longer. Serious faces, dripping distrust. Then the one who first spoke said, “Come with us. He has been expecting you.”

Anastasia found that annoying on too many levels to count. If he was expecting them, then why did the Tonist deny he was here? And was he truly expecting them, or did this lackey just say that to make the Toll seem mysterious and all-knowing? Before even meeting him, she already detested this man behind the curtain.

The Tonists led them forward, and although Anastasia didn’t pull away from their grip, she gave them the opportunity to reconsider it.

“You’d best let go of me if you want to keep your hands.”

The Tonists did not ease their grip in the least. “My hands will grow back like our tongues,” one of them said. “The Toll, in his wisdom, has given us back our nanites.”

“Good for him,” Anastasia said. “At least he’s not a complete imbecile.”

Possuelo gave her a warning glare, and Anastasia decided silence would be the best policy, because nothing out of her mouth right now would benefit the situation.

The procession halted at the entrance to the cave – a gaping triangular maw. It was here where they would be presented to the Toll …

… but even before the Toll arrived, the first person out of the cave made it abundantly clear to Anastasia that this ride was definitely going to be worth the price of admission.

When Scythe Morrison heard that an elegy of scythes was at the cave entrance, he was convinced that the North Merican scythedom had finally come for him. Goddard must have known he was alive, must have known what he’d been up to these past few years, and had sent this team to bring him in. He considered running, but there was only one exit from the cave. Besides, he wasn’t the same man he had been when he first began this service to the Toll. That junior scythe would save himself at the expense of all others. But this Scythe Morrison would face his capture bravely, defending the Toll to the last, as he had promised to do.

He stepped out first, as he always did, to assess the threat level and be generally intimidating, but he stopped short at the cave entrance when he saw a familiar turquoise robe. A robe he thought he’d never lay eyes on again.

Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded.

“You?” she said.

“No,” Morrison blurted, “not me! I mean, yes it’s me, but