The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,133
be revived.”
“Revived,” said Greyson. “That explains why you don’t look a day older than you did three years ago.”
She took a long look at him. He did look different, and it wasn’t just the outfit. His jaw seemed a little harder, his gait more confident, and his gaze so direct as to be invasive. He had learned to play this role well – just as she had learned to play hers.
“The last I heard, you refused the offer of sanctuary I arranged for you in Amazonia. So instead you stayed with the Tonists?”
His gaze became even more intrusive. Not judgmental, but possessing a deeper sight. A bit like the Thunderhead itself.
“Hiding out with the Tonists was your suggestion – or did you forget that?”
“No, I remember,” she told him, “but I never thought you’d stay. I never thought you’d become their prophet.” She looked over his vestments. “I can’t decide whether you look ridiculous or regal.”
“Both,” he told her. “The trick is convincing people that strange clothing makes you something more than ordinary. But you know all about that, don’t you?”
Anastasia had to admit he was right. The world treated you differently – defined you differently – when you wore robes or regalia.
“Just as long as you don’t believe it yourself,” she told him.
“When I take all this off, I’m still Greyson Tolliver,” he said.
“And when I slip out of this robe, I’m still Citra Terranova.”
He smiled broadly at that. “I never knew your given name until now. Citra. I like it.”
Hearing him say her name gave her a sudden wash of nostalgia. A yearning for a time before all this. “There aren’t many people who call me that anymore.”
He looked at her wistfully. “Funny, but it was never easy for me to talk to you before. Now it’s easier than talking with anyone else. I think we’ve become alike in a lot of ways.”
She laughed at that. Not because it was funny, but because it was true. The rest of the world saw them both as symbols. Intangible light to guide them in the darkness. She understood now why ancient peoples turned their heroes into constellations.
“You haven’t told me why you wanted an audience with the Toll.”
“Scythe Possuelo thinks you know a safe place where Goddard won’t find us,” Anastasia said.
“Well, if the Thunderhead knows of a place like that, it hasn’t told me. But then there’s a lot of things it doesn’t tell me.”
“It’s all right,” said Anastasia. “Possuelo just wants to protect me, but I don’t want to hide.”
“What do you want?” Greyson asked.
What did she want? Citra Terranova wanted to shed her robe, seek out her family, and argue with her brother about unimportant things. But Scythe Anastasia wouldn’t have any of that.
“I want to bring down Goddard,” she said. “I’ve been able to place him on Mars at the time of the disaster, but being there doesn’t prove he caused it.”
“He survived Mars, and he survived Endura,” said Greyson. “Suspicious but not incriminating.”
“Exactly, which is why there’s someone else I need to find,” Anastasia said. “Have you ever heard of Scythe Alighieri?”
Possuelo had to leave them that afternoon. He was called back to Amazonia by his High Blade.
“Tarsila gives me lots of leeway – especially when my salvage venture brought forth you,” he told Anastasia, “but when word got out that I had brought our artist friend to SubSahara, she demanded my return, lest we be accused of conspiring with Tonists.” He sighed. “We are a very tolerant region, but after the attack on Tenkamenin’s palace, even the most accepting regions are cooling to Tonists – and our High Blade doesn’t want bad publicity.”
Several Tonists passed in the cavern behind them. They bowed, reverently saying “Your Honors,” some of their voices still a little slurred, as it was the first week with their new tongues. It was hard to believe that these were the same violent, crazed Sibilants who had murdered Tenkamenin. Greyson – the Toll, that is – had turned them and brought them back from that awful edge of their own humanity. Anastasia could not forgive them, but she found an ability to coexist with them.
“People are vessels,” Jeri had said to her. “They hold whatever’s poured into them.”
And apparently Greyson had drained them and refilled them with something far more palatable.
Possuelo said his goodbye at the entrance to the cave. “This place is isolated, and if the Toll truly is under the protection of the Thunderhead, you’ll be safe with him,” he