“No, Curate Mendoza,” Greyson said. “You will do what I tell you to do. We’ve been fighting Sibilants for the last two years – and now you want me to turn every Tonist into one? No. Then we’ll be no better than Goddard. Tonists are supposed to be pacifists – if you believe what you preach, then practice it.”
Then Astrid, although she was shaken by the news, said, “You’ve gone too far, Curate Mendoza. You should beg the Toll for forgiveness.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Greyson said.
But still, Mendoza, bloated by indignation glared at Greyson. “I will not apologize! Our people are about to be slaughtered, and you want to let it happen? You’re no leader; you’re a fool!”
Greyson drew a deep breath. He knew he could not back down from this or avert his gaze. He had to deliver it to Mendoza like a bullet to the brain. “Mr. Mendoza, your service to me and to the Thunderhead is done. You are officially defrocked. You are no longer a curate, you have no further business here, and you have five minutes to leave before I have Morrison throw you out.”
“I can throw him out right now,” said Morrison, ready to advance.
“No,” said Greyson, never breaking eye contact with Mendoza. “Five minutes. But not a second more.”
Mendoza looked shocked, but only for a moment. Then his expression hardened. “You’ve made a terrible mistake, Greyson,” he said. Then he turned and stormed away, Morrison following him to enforce the edict.
In the silence that followed, Jeri was the only one who dared to speak. “Mutinies are nasty business,” Jeri said. “Cutting him down quickly was the right thing to do.”
“Thank you, Jeri,” Greyson said – not realizing how much he needed to hear that until Jeri said it. Greyson felt like crumbling, but he held it together. He had to, for all of their sakes.
“Astrid, put out a warning and let each curate decide for themselves what actions to take. They can hide or defend themselves, but I won’t order them to violence.”
Astrid nodded dutifully. “I’m tied into Mendoza’s network. I’ll do what must be done.” And she left. Jeri put a comforting hand on Greyson’s shoulder and left as well.
Now it was just Greyson and Anastasia. Of all of them, she was the only one who could understand impossible decisions, and how they could tear a person apart.
“All that power, and yet the Thunderhead can’t stop this any more than it could stop the Mile High gleaning,” she said. “All it can do is watch as people are killed.”
“Even so,” said Greyson, “I think the Thunderhead’s found a way to make the best out of a bad situation, a way to use this purge for some greater good.”
“How could there possibly be any good in this?”
Greyson glanced around to make sure they were still alone. “There’s something that I didn’t tell the others, but I need to tell you, because I’m going to need your help more than anyone else’s.”
Anastasia seemed to brace herself, clearly afraid of whatever it was he had to tell her. “Why me?”
“Because of what you’ve seen. Because of what you’ve done. You’re an honorable scythe, in every meaning of the word. I need someone strong enough to handle things that others can’t. Because I don’t think I can handle this alone.”
“What is it we’re supposed to handle?”
Then Greyson leaned in close. “Like I said, the Thunderhead doesn’t want the Tonists to burn their dead … because it has other plans for them…”
With a heavy heart, I say farewell to High Blade Tenkamenin and all those ended by the Tonist scourge.
It is the Tonists who have been inciting violence against scythes throughout the world. They would bring down our entire way of life and lead the world into chaos. I will not allow it. It ends here.
For too long this world has suffered the embarrassment of the twisted, backward behavior of Tonists. They are not the future. They are not even the past. They are merely a footnote to the troubling present, and when they are gone, no one will mourn them.
As Overblade of North Merica, I call for swift retribution from each and every scythedom. As of today, we have a new priority. Scythes under my leadership are to glean Tonists at every turn and every encounter. Go out of your way to seek them out in great numbers, to cut them down. And those you can’t glean, chase from your region, so that they may find no peace wherever they roam.
To you Tonists, it is my profound and enduring hope that your foul, aberrant light be extinguished, now and forevermore.
—From His Exalted Excellency’s,
Robert Goddard, Overblade of North Merica,
eulogy for High Blade Tenkamenin of SubSahara
41
A Higher Octave
There was a huge tuning fork in the center of the monastery’s courtyard, an altar for outdoor worship when the weather was kind. Now, at slightly before eight in the morning, it was struck repeatedly and rapidly until the tone it yielded resonated within the bones of everyone in the compound. It didn’t matter anymore whether it was deemed A-flat or G-sharp. Everyone knew it was an alarm.
Secretly the members of the Tallahassee Tonal Monastic Order had hoped to avoid the wrath of the scythedom. They were not a sibilant sect. They were peaceful and kept to themselves. But Overblade Goddard did not distinguish between the sibilant and the serene.
Scythes broke through the gate, in spite of the fact that it had been reinforced against them, and flooded the grounds. They wasted no time.
“Scythes are not the problem, but the symptom,” their curate had told them in chapel the night before. “What comes cannot be avoided – and if they come for us, we must not cower. In showing our courage, it will reveal their cowardice.”
There was a total of eleven scythes that morning – a number deeply unpleasant to Tonists, for it was one short of a twelve-note chromatic scale. Whether this was intentional or coincidence, they didn’t know, although most Tonists did not believe in coincidence.
The scythes’ robes were flashes of color within the earth tones of the monastery. Blues and greens, bright yellows and vermillion, and each one was speckled with gems that glittered like stars in an alien sky. None of the scythes were celebrated ones, but perhaps they hoped, through this gleaning, to gain renown. Each had their own method of killing, but all were skilled and efficient.
More than 150 Tonists were gleaned in the monastery that morning. And although immunity was promised to their immediate families, scythe policy had changed. When it came to immunity, the North Merican Allied Scythedom had adopted an opt-in paradigm. If you were owed immunity, you had to approach the office of the scythedom and request it.
When the scythes’ business was done, the few Tonists who had not had the conviction to stand in defiance came out of hiding. Fifteen. Another number that was unpleasing to the Tone. Their penance would be to collect the dead, all the while knowing that their bodies should be among them. But as it turned out, the Tone, Toll, and Thunder had a plan for them, too.
Before they could even count their dead, several trucks showed up at their gate.
An elder Tonist stepped out of the monastery to greet them. He was reluctant to be a voice of leadership, but had little choice under the circumstances.