The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,51

indeed for the world. It had taken nearly ninety years of life to bring him to this fine place! It made him wonder how anyone in the mortal age could accomplish anything in the short life-span they were given.

Ninety years, yes, but he liked to maintain himself in his prime, always between thirty and forty physical years of age. Yet he was now the embodiment of a paradox, because regardless of how old his mind was, his body below the neck was barely twenty, and that’s the age he felt.

This was different from anything he had experienced in his adult life – because even when one turned a corner and set back to a younger self, one’s body retained the memory of having been older. Not just muscle memory, but life memory. Now, each morning when he awoke, he had to remind himself he wasn’t a youth careening recklessly through his early life. It felt good to be Robert Goddard wielding the body of … what was his name? Tyger something or other? It didn’t matter, because now that body was his.

So how old was he, if seven-eighths of him was someone else? The answer was: It didn’t matter. Robert Goddard was eternal, which meant that temporal concerns and the monotonous numbering of days were beneath him. He simply was, and would always be. And so many things could be accomplished in an eternity!

It was just over a year since the sinking of Endura. April, Year of the Ibex. The anniversary of the disaster had been memorialized all over the world by an hour of silence – an hour during which scythes strolled in their respective regions, gleaning anyone who dared to speak.

Of course, the old-guard scythes couldn’t get into the spirit of things.

“We will not honor the dead by inflicting more death in their name,” they lamented.

Fine, let them bluster. Their voices were fading. Soon they’d be as silent as the Thunderhead.

Once a week, on Monday mornings, Goddard held court in a glass conference room with his three underscythes, and anyone else he cared to honor with his company. Today it was just Underscythes Nietzsche, Franklin, and Constantine. Rand was supposed to be in attendance, but as usual, she was late.

The first order of business was North Merican relations. As MidMerica was the central region of the continent, Goddard had made unifying the continent a priority.

“Things are moving smoothly with East- and WestMerica – they’re falling nicely in line,” Underscythe Nietzsche said. “Still things to iron out, of course, but they’re willing to follow your lead on all the major issues – including the abolition of the gleaning quota.”

“Excellent!” Ever since Goddard had assumed the High Bladeship of MidMerica and announced an end to the quota, more and more regions were doing the same.

“NorthernReach and Mexiteca aren’t quite as far along,” said Underscythe Franklin, “but they can see which way the wind is blowing. There’ll be good news from them soon,” she assured him.

Underscythe Constantine was the last to speak. He seemed reluctant.

“My visits to the LoneStar region have not been fruitful,” he told Goddard. “While a few individual scythes might like to see a united continent, the leadership is not interested. High Blade Jordan still won’t even acknowledge you as the High Blade of MidMerica.”

“May they all fall upon their own bowie knives,” Goddard said with a dismissive wave. “They’re dead to me.”

“They know, and they don’t care.”

Goddard took a moment to study Constantine. He was an intimidating figure, which is why he had been assigned to troublesome Texas, but proper intimidation required a certain zeal for the job.

“I wonder, Constantine, if your heart is in your diplomacy.”

“My heart has nothing to do with it, Your Excellency,” the crimson scythe said. “I’ve been honored with this position as third underscythe, and all that it entails. I intend to continue doing my job to the best of my ability.”

Goddard never let Constantine forget that he had nominated Scythe Curie for High Blade. Goddard understood why, of course. It was a shrewd maneuver, actually. Someone was clearly going to nominate her – but by choosing to do it himself, Constantine put himself in the perfect position. If Curie won, he would be seen as a hero to the old guard. And if she lost, Constantine would be a favorable choice for one of Goddard’s underscythes – because Goddard would then appear to be bringing an old-guard scythe into his administration without actually doing so. That was because the crimson scythe