The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,46
you. My High Blade thinks we should leave you here indefinitely and tell no one. Others think we should announce your capture to the world, and let each regional scythedom punish you in its own way.”
“What do you think?”
The scythe took his time answering. “After speaking with Scythe Anastasia this morning, I think it’s best not to make hasty decisions.”
So they did have her! The mention of Citra made him long to see her all the more. Rowan finally sat up. “How is she?” he asked.
“Scythe Anastasia is not your concern.”
“She’s my only concern.”
Possuelo considered that, then said, “She is in a revival center, not far from here, regaining her strength.”
Rowan took a moment to let the relief wash over him. If nothing else good came of this, at least there was that.
“And where is ‘here’?”
“Fortaleza dos Reis Magos,” Possuelo said. “Fortress of the Three Wise Men, at the easternmost reach of Amazonia. It’s where we house individuals who we’re not sure what to do with.”
“Really? So who are my neighbors?”
“You have none. It’s only you,” said Possuelo. “It’s been a very long time since we’ve had someone with whom we did not know what to do.”
Rowan smiled. “A whole fortress to myself! Too bad I can’t enjoy the rest of it.”
Possuelo ignored him. “I wish to discuss Scythe Anastasia. I find it hard to believe that she was an accomplice in your crime. If you truly do care for her, perhaps you could shed some light as to why she was with you.”
Rowan could, of course, tell him the truth, but he was sure that Citra already had. Maybe Possuelo wanted to see if their stories matched. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the world had their villain. Someone to blame, even if that blame was misplaced.
“Here’s your story,” Rowan said. “After I somehow rigged the island to sink, I was chased by a mob of angry scythes through the flooding streets, so I grabbed Scythe Anastasia as a human shield. I held her hostage, and they chased us into the vault.”
“And you expect people to believe that?”
“If they believe I sank Endura, they’ll believe anything.”
Possuelo huffed. Rowan wasn’t sure if it was out of frustration, or if he was squelching a laugh.
“Our story,” Possuelo said, “is that Scythe Anastasia was found in the vault alone. As far as anyone knows, Scythe Lucifer disappeared after the sinking of Endura, and either died there or is still at large.”
“Well,” said Rowan, “if I’m still at large, you should let me go. Then I really would be at large, and you won’t be lying about it.”
“Or maybe we should put you back in the vault and return you to the bottom of the sea.”
To that, Rowan shrugged and said, “Works for me.”
Three years. In the grand scheme of things, three years was barely a microsecond. Even by the standard measures of post-mortal experience, it wasn’t very long, for the post-mortal world remained the same year after year.
Except when it didn’t.
More had changed in these three years than in the past hundred. It was a time of unprecedented turmoil. So as far as Anastasia was concerned, it might as well have been a century.
They told her nothing else, though. Not Possuelo, nor the nurses who attended her.
“You have all the time in the world now, Your Honor,” the nurses would say when she tried to press them for information. “Rest now. Trouble yourself later.”
Trouble herself. Was the world so troubled now that a small dose of it might render her deadish again?
All she knew for sure was that it was the Year of the Cobra. Which meant nothing without context to judge it – but Possuelo clearly regretted telling her what he already had, feeling that it slowed her recovery.
“Your revivals were not easy ones,” he told her. “It took five full days until your hearts could even be started. I don’t want to expose you to undue stress until you’re ready.”
“And when will that be?”
He thought about it and said, “When you’re strong enough to knock me off balance.”
So she tried. There on her bed, she thrust the heel of her hand forward and into his shoulder. But it didn’t yield. In fact, it felt like stone – and her hand bruised as if her flesh was nothing more than tissue paper.
It burned her that he was right. She wasn’t ready for much of anything yet.
And then there was Rowan. She had died in his arms but at some