The Thunderhead could read all of Greyson’s physiology. It knew when his heart rate was elevated; it knew when he was feeling stress or anxiety or joy; and when he slept, it knew when he was dreaming. It could not access his dreams, though. Even though everyone’s waking memories were uploaded to the backbrain on a minute by minute basis, dreams were not included.
It was discovered early on that when someone needed their brain restored – either a splatter or someone who had suffered brain injury in some other way – dreams became a problem. For when their memories were returned to them, they had trouble differentiating what was real from what was the product of dreams. So now when one’s mind was handed back to them in revival centers, they had every memory, except for the memories of dreams. No one complained, for how could you miss something that you no longer remembered you had?
And so the Thunderhead had no idea what adventures and dramas 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 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.”