Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(60)

“Probably not,” Citra said. “Tonists aren’t afraid of death.”

But Brother McCloud corrected her. “We’re afraid of it,” he said. “But we just accept our fear and rise above it.”

Marie stood up, impatient. “You Tonists pretend to be wise—but your entire system of belief is fabricated. It’s nothing but convenient bits and pieces of mortal-age religions—and not even the good parts. You’ve taken it all and have stitched it together skillessly into a clashing, motley quilt. You make sense to no one but yourselves.”

“Marie! I’ve already broken his arm, we don’t need to insult him, too.”

But she was too deep into her rant to stop now. “Did you know, Anastasia, that there are at least a hundred different tone cults, each with their own rules? They argue bitterly whether their divine tone is G-sharp or A-flat—and can’t even agree whether to call this imaginary deity of theirs ‘the Great Vibration’ or ‘the Great Resonance.’ Tonists cut out their tongues, Anastasia! They blind themselves!”

“Those are the extremists,” said Brother McCloud. “Most aren’t like that. My order isn’t. We’re of the Locrian order; removing our nanites is the most extreme thing that Locrians do.”

“Can we at least call an ambudrone to take you to a healing center?” asked Citra.

Again, he shook his head. “We have a doctor at the monastery. He’ll take care of it. He’ll put my arm in a cast.”

“A what?”

“Voodoo!” said Marie. “An ancient healing ritual. They wrap the arm in plaster and leave it that way for months.” ?Then she went to the closet, pulled out a wooden hanger, and snapped it in half. “Here, I’ll make a splint for you.” She turned to Citra, anticipating her question. “More voodoo.”

She tore a pillowcase into strips and tied half of the broken hanger to his arm to keep it from moving, then tied on another strip of cloth to hold the ice in place.

Brother McCloud got up to go. He opened his mouth to speak, but Marie cut him off.

“If you say, ‘May the Fork be with you,’ I’ll smash you with the other half of this hanger.”

He sighed, shifted his arm with a grimace, and said, “Tonists don’t actually say that. We say ‘Resonate well and true.’?” He made a point to look both of them in the eye as he said it. Marie swung the door closed the second he was across the threshold.

Citra looked at her as if for the first time. “I’ve never seen you act like that toward anyone!” she said. “Why were you so awful to him?”

She looked away, perhaps a bit ashamed of herself. “I don’t care for Tonists.”

“Neither did Scythe Goddard.”

Marie snapped her eyes to Citra sharply. Citra thought she might actually yell at her, but she didn’t. “That may be the only subject on which he and I were in agreement,” she said. “But the difference is, I respect their right to exist, no matter how much I dislike them.”

Which Citra judged as true, since, in all their time together, she had never witnessed Marie glean a Tonist—unlike Scythe Goddard, who had tried to take out an entire monastery before Rowan ended him.

There was another knock at the door that made them both jump—but this time it was the room service they were expecting. As they sat down for the meal, Marie glanced at the pamphlet the Tonist had left behind, and sneered at it

“?‘Open to the resonance,’?” she mocked. “There’s only one place that this resonates,” she said, and she dropped it in the trash can.

“Are you done?” Citra asked. “Can’t we eat in peace?”

Marie sighed, looked at her food, then gave up on it. “When I was a few years younger than you, my brother joined a tone cult.” She moved her plate to the side, and took a moment before she spoke again. “Whenever we saw him, which was very rarely, he would spout nonsense at us. Then he disappeared. We found out that he had fallen and hit his head—but with no healing nanites, and no medical attention, he died. And they burned his body before an ambudrone could take him to be revived. Because that’s what Tonists do.”

“I’m so sorry, Marie.”

“It was a very, very long time ago.”

Citra remained silent, giving Marie all the time she needed. She knew the greatest gift she could give her mentor was to listen.

“No one knows who started the first tone cult, or why,” Marie continued. “Maybe people missed the mortal-age faiths and wanted to find that feeling again. Or maybe it was all someone’s idea of a joke.” She spent another moment lost in her own thoughts, then shrugged it off. “Anyway, when Faraday offered me the opportunity to become a scythe, I jumped at it. I wanted a way to protect the rest of my family from such terrible things—even if it meant having to do terrible things myself. I became Little Miss Murder, and as I wizened, the Granddame of Death.” Marie studied her plate, and began eating again, her appetite returning with the freeing of her demons.

“I know the things the Tonists believe are ridiculous,” Citra said, “but I suppose to some people, there’s something compelling about them.”

“That’s what turkeys think about the rain,” Marie pointed out. “They raise their eyes heavenward, open up their beaks, and drown.”