Then she turned and strode out, the long train of her sheer silk robe too weighed down with opals to flow gracefully behind her, as it once did. Now it just dragged on the ground.
Only after Pickford was gone did Possuelo dare relax. Word had come that Anastasia and Captain Soberanis had made it to the port, and the Spence was running dark into the Atlantic, just as it had the night it brought the vault up from the depths. The good captain was resourceful and trustworthy. Possuelo had faith that Jerico would successfully spirit Anastasia across the sea to friends who might keep her safer than he’d been able to.
As for the boy, no doubt Pickford would bring him to Goddard. Possuelo’s feelings were mixed. He wasn’t sure if he believed Anastasia’s claims that Rowan was innocent. Even if he hadn’t sunk Endura, he’d ended more than a dozen scythes – and whether those scythes deserved to be ended was irrelevant. Mortal-age vigilantism had no place in the world. All scythes could agree on that – which meant that, regardless of philosophy, there wasn’t a High Blade in the world who would allow him to live.
It was, Possuelo decided, a mistake to have revived him at all. He should have put the boy back in that vault and returned it to the deep. Because now Rowan Damisch would be toyed with by the Overblade without the slightest bit of mercy.
A Testament of the Toll
In an ancient abbey on the northern edge of the city, the Toll did take sanctuary and sustenance. He shared bread and fellowship with the believer, the magician, and the mauler, for all were of equal timbre to the Toll. Thus, all souls, high and low, came to revere him as he sat in the cradle of the Great Fork in the springtime of his life, imparting wisdom and prophecy. He would never know winter, for the sun cast its countenance more brightly upon him than on anyone. All rejoice!
Commentary of Curate Symphonius
Here is the initial reference to what we call the first chord. Believer, Magician, and Mauler are the three archetypes that constitute humankind. Only the Toll could have united such disparate voices into a coherent sound pleasing to the Tone. This is also the first mention of the Great Fork, which has been determined to be a symbolic reference to the two paths one may choose in life: the path of harmony or the path of discord. And to this day, the Toll still stands where the paths diverge, beckoning us toward everlasting harmony.
Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius
Once again, Symphonius has made broad assumptions that stretch the facts. While it is possible that the notes of the first chord represent archetypes, it is equally possible that they represent three actual individuals. Perhaps the Magician was a court entertainer. Perhaps the Mauler was a knight who took on the fire-breathing beasts that are rumored to have existed at the time. But most egregious, in my opinion, is that Symphonius missed that the Toll sitting “in the cradle of the Great Fork in the springtime of his life” is an obvious fertility reference.
22
Just Desserts
As with most things in Greyson’s life as the Toll, Curate Mendoza had chosen his official residence – or, more accurately, given him a list of preapproved residences for him to choose from at a grand meeting of high-level curates.
“As your reputation and notoriety grow, we need a fortified and defendable location.” Then he presented what appeared to be a multiple choice test. “With our numbers of devotees ever expanding, we have received enough funds to procure any of these four sites for you to choose from,” Mendoza told him. The choices were:
A) a massive stone cathedral,
B) a massive stone railroad station,
C) a massive stone concert hall, or
D) a secluded stone abbey that might have appeared massive under other circumstances, but seemed miniscule compared to the others.
Mendoza had thrown in the last choice to satisfy the curates for whom less was more. And the Toll, with a stagey, beatific gesture meant to mildly mock the entire process, raised his hand and pointed to the only wrong answer on the test: the abbey. Partially because he knew it was the one Mendoza least wanted, and partially because he kind of liked it.
The abbey, set in a park at the city’s narrow northern tip, began life as a museum designed to look like an ancient monastery. Little did the architects know that they’d be so successful, it would actually become one. The Cloisters, it was called. Greyson had no idea why it was plural; there was only one.
The ancient tapestries that once hung on the walls had been sent to some other museum of mortal-age art and replaced by new tapestries made to look old, which depicted scenes of Tonist religious significance. To look on them, one would think that Tonism had been around for thousands of years.
Greyson had been living here for more than a year now, yet coming home never felt like coming home. Perhaps because he was still the Toll, clothed in those itchy, embroidered vestments. Only when he was alone, in his private suite, could he remove them and be Greyson Tolliver once more. At least to himself. To everyone else he was always the Toll, no matter what he wore.
The staff was told repeatedly not to treat him with reverence, only common respect, but that wasn’t happening. They were all loyal Tonists handpicked for the job, and once in the Toll’s service, they treated him like a god. They would bow low when he passed, and when he told them to stop, they would revel in being chastised. It was a no-win situation. But at least they were better than the zealots – who were becoming so extreme, there was a new name for them: Sibilants. A torturous, distorted sound, unpleasant to all.
Greyson’s only respite from reverence was Sister Astrid, who, in spite of her fervent belief that he was a prophet, didn’t treat him like one. She saw it as her mission, though, to engage him in spiritual conversation and open his heartstrings to the truth of Tonism. There was only so much talk of Universal Harmonies and Sacred Arpeggios he could stand. He wanted to bring some non-Tonists into his inner circle, but Mendoza wouldn’t have it.
“You must be careful who you associate with,” Mendoza insisted. “With scythes increasingly targeting Tonists, we don’t know who we can trust.”
“The Thunderhead knows who I can and can’t trust,” Greyson said, which just annoyed him.
Mendoza never stopped moving. As a monastic curate, he had been quiet and reflective, but he had changed. He had reverted to the marketing guru he had been before becoming a Tonist. “The Tone put me where I was needed, when I was needed,” he once said, then added, “All rejoice!” Although Greyson could never be sure whether he was being genuine when he said that. Even when he ran religious services, his “all rejoice” always seemed to come with a wink.
Mendoza would stay in constant communication with curates around the world by secretly piggybacking on scythedom servers. “They’re the most unregulated, least monitored systems in the world.”
There was something both satisfying and troubling to know that they were using the scythedom’s own servers to carry their secret messages to Tonist curates around the world.
Greyson’s private suite was a true sanctuary. It was the only place where the Thunderhead could speak aloud and not just through his earpiece. There was a freedom to that more palpable than removing the stiff garments of the Toll. The earpiece he wore in public made the Thunderhead feel like a voice in his head. It only spoke to him aloud when it knew no one else could hear, and when it did, he felt surrounded by it. He was in it, rather than it in him.