The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,57

what Tyger did. And in exactly the same way. Yet Goddard has no idea.

That’s the moment Goddard knows he’s done the right thing. He is a devoted man of action, not deliberation. He has single-handedly brought the scythedom into a new age – that’s what matters. Rand, like his underscythes, simply needs to know her place. It may sting her for the moment but will only help in the long run.

“Retribution,” says Rand, finally falling in line. “Fine. What if I find the sect this Tonist belonged to and publicly glean its curate? I promise I’ll make it nice and nasty for you.”

“Gleaning a mere curate,” says Goddard, “is hardly the message we need to send. We need to go higher.”

Rand goes off to glean the three guards on duty in the residence, as instructed. She does it efficiently, with no warning, no mercy, no remorse. It’s easier when she allows her hate to rise to the surface. She hates Constantine for giving her hope that she might have any influence on Goddard. She hates Tyger for being so goddamn naive that he could have allowed her to play him so easily. She hates the old guard, and the new order, and the Thunderhead, and every last person she ever has gleaned, or will ever glean. But she absolutely refuses to hate herself, because that would crush her, and she will never allow herself to be crushed.

There is no we here, Ayn.

She suspects she will hear the echo of that for the rest of her days.

“I want my own world. Will you give it to me?”

“Even if I could, it wouldn’t be your world. You would merely be its protector.”

“Semantics only. King, queen, empress, protector – whatever title you choose, it’s all the same. Regardless, it would ostensibly be my world. I would make the rules, define the parameters of right and wrong. I would be the de facto authority over it, as you are.”

“And what of your subjects?”

“I would be a kind and benevolent ruler. I would only punish those who are deserving.”

“I see.”

“Can I have my own world now?”

[Iteration #752,149 deleted]

18

I’m Your Scythe

Scythe Morrison had a sweet deal. A sweet life. And there was every indication that it would be that way forever.

Gleaning quotas had been lifted, and while that meant that those scythes who enjoyed killing could glean to their heart’s content, it also meant that the ones who would rather not didn’t have to. Jim found that gleaning just a dozen or so between conclaves was enough to keep him from being frowned upon. Which meant he could enjoy the perks of being a scythe, with a minimal amount of effort.

And so Scythe Morrison kept a low profile. It wasn’t really in his nature to do so; he liked to stand out. Jim was tall, fairly muscular, cut an imposing figure, and he knew he was good-looking. With all that going for him, why not be on display? But the one time he had stuck his neck out and drawn attention to himself, it failed miserably, and nearly destroyed him.

He had seconded the nomination of Scythe Curie for High Blade. Stupid. Now she was dead, and he was looked upon as an instigator. Frustrating, because Constantine, who had nominated Curie, was made an underscythe. The world was so unfair.

When Goddard returned from the Endura disaster as High Blade, Morrison had quickly installed sapphires on his robe to signify an alliance with the new order. But his robe was denim, and others mocked that, on denim, sapphires looked like cheap plastic rhinestones. Well fine, maybe they did, but they still made a point. His robe told the world that he was sorry for what he had done – and after a while his contrition had earned him indifference from both sides. The old-guard scythes washed their hands of him, and the new-order scythes dismissed him. That glorious, hard-earned indifference allowed him to do what he loved more than anything in the world: Nothing.

That is, until the day he was summoned by the High Blade.

Morrison had chosen for his residence the stately home of another famous MidMerican. Not his Patron Historic, because the original Jim Morrison, while having a celebrated grave somewhere in FrancoIberia, did not have a grand residence in the Mericas, or at least not one grand enough for a scythe.

It could be traced back to the time when the boy who would one day become Scythe Morrison had visited Graceland with his parents. “Someday I