The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,45

Greyson experienced in his sleep, unless he chose to confide them once he awoke. But Greyson was not one to talk much about his dreams, and it would have been too forward of the Thunderhead to ask.

It did enjoy watching Greyson sleep, though, and imagining what strange things he might be experiencing in that deep place that lacked logic and coherence, where humans struggled to find glorious shapes in internal clouds. Even while the Thunderhead was taking care of a million different tasks around the world, it still isolated enough of its consciousness to watch Greyson sleep. To feel the vibrations of his stirring, to hear his gentle breathing and sense how each breath ever so slightly increased the humidity in the room. It gave the Thunderhead peace. It gave it comfort.

It was glad Greyson never ordered the Thunderhead to turn off its cameras in his private suite. He had every right to request privacy – and if asked, the Thunderhead would have to oblige. Of course Greyson knew he was being watched. It was common knowledge that the Thunderhead was, at all times, conscious of everything its sensors were experiencing – including its cameras. But that it devoted such a large portion of its attention to the sensory devices in Greyson’s quarters was a fact it did not flaunt. For if the Thunderhead brought it to Greyson’s attention, he might tell it to stop.

Over the years, the Thunderhead had witnessed millions of people in each other’s arms, embracing as they slept. The Thunderhead had no arms to embrace. Even so, it could feel the beat of Greyson’s heart and the precise temperature of his body as if it were right beside him. To lose that would be a cause of immeasurable sorrow. And so night after night, the Thunderhead silently monitored Greyson in every way it could. Because monitoring was the closest it could come to embracing.

As High Blade of MidMerica, and Overblade of the North Merican continent, I would personally like to thank the Amazonian scythedom for retrieving the lost scythe gems and dividing them among the regions of the world.

While the four other North Merican regions under my jurisdiction have expressed an interest in receiving their share of the diamonds, MidMerica declines. Instead, I would ask that the MidMerican diamonds be shared by those regions who feel unfairly slighted by Amazonia’s unilateral decision to completely ignore regional size when apportioning shares of the diamonds.

May the MidMerican diamonds be my gift to the world, with the hope that they will be graciously received in the spirit of generosity with which they were given.

—His Excellency Robert Goddard,

Overblade of North Merica,

August 5th, Year of the Cobra

14

The Fortress of the Three Wise Men

On his third day of revival, Rowan was visited by a scythe who instructed the guard who came with him to wait in the corridor and to lock the scythe in the room with Rowan, lest he try to escape – which really wasn’t a possibility; he was still feeling far too weak to attempt it.

The man’s robe was forest green. Now Rowan knew he must be in Amazonia, because all the scythes there wore the same green robe.

Rowan didn’t rise from his bed. He stayed on his back, hands behind his head, trying to look unconcerned. “I want you to know that I never ended an Amazonian scythe,” Rowan told him before the man had a chance to speak. “I hope that weighs in my favor.”

“Actually, you ended quite a few,” he said. “On Endura. When you sank it.”

Rowan knew he should have been horrified, but he found the suggestion so absurd, he actually laughed.

“Seriously? Is that what they’re saying? Wow! I must be smarter than I thought. I mean, to do something like that single-handed. I must be magical, too, because it would mean I’d have to be in more than one place at the same time. Hey! Maybe you actually didn’t find me at the bottom of the sea! Maybe I used my mystical mind control to make you think you found me.”

The scythe glowered. “Your insolence doesn’t help your case.”

“I didn’t realize I had a case,” said Rowan. “Sounds like I’ve already been tried and convicted. Isn’t that what they called it in the mortal age? Convicted?”

“Are you quite done?” asked the scythe.

“Sorry,” said Rowan. “It’s just that I haven’t had anyone to talk to in, like, forever!”

The man finally introduced himself as Scythe Possuelo. “I’ll admit I’m not sure what we should do with