Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(74)

“I’m here for sanctuary,” Greyson told him. “I was told to ask for Brother McCloud.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, as if this were something he addressed on a regular basis. He then escorted Greyson into one of the buildings of the compound, and to a bedroom.

There was a lit candle on a nightstand. The first thing the curate did was snuff it out with a douser.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll let Brother McCloud know you’re waiting for him.”

Then the curate closed the door but didn’t lock it, leaving Greyson with his own thoughts, and a way out, if he wanted one.

The room was austere. No creature comforts beyond what was necessary. ?There was a bed, a chair, and the nightstand. There were no decorations on the walls, except for an iron tuning fork above the headboard, its prongs pointing upward. A bident, they called it. The symbol of their faith. In the nightstand drawer was a sackcloth outfit, and a pair of sandals was on the floor. Beside the doused candle was a leather hymnal with the bident embossed on the cover.

It was peaceful. It was calming. It was unbearable.

He had gone from the uneventful world of Greyson Tolliver to the tumultuous extremes of Slayd Bridger—and now he was cast into the belly of blandness, doomed to be digested by boredom.

Well, at least I’m still alive, he thought. Although he wasn’t entirely sure that was a benefit. Purity had been gleaned. Not supplanted, not relocated, but gleaned. She was no more, and in spite of the horror she had attempted, he ached for her. He longed to hear her defiant voice. He had become addicted to her chaos. He would have to adjust to a life without her, as well as a life without himself, for who was he now?

He lay down on the bed, which, at least, was comfortable, and waited for perhaps half an hour. He wondered if Tonists, like the Office of Unsavory Affairs, made everyone wait as a matter of policy. Finally, he heard the creak of the door. It was late afternoon now, and the light from the small window lit the room just enough for him to see that the man before him wasn’t much older than he. He also had some sort of hard casing on one of his arms.

“I’m Brother McCloud,” he said. “The curate has accepted your request for sanctuary. I understand you asked for me personally.”

“A friend of mine told me to.”

“May I ask who?”

“No, you may not.”

He seemed a bit annoyed, but let it go. “May I at least see your ID?” And when Greyson hesitated, Brother McCloud said, “Don’t worry, no matter who you are or what you’ve done, we won’t turn you over to the Authority Interface.”

“I’m sure it already knows I’m here.”

“Yes,” agreed Brother McCloud, “but your presence here is a matter of religious freedom. The Thunderhead will not interfere.”

Greyson reached into his pocket, and handed him his electronic card, still flashing with the bright red U.

“Unsavory!” he said. “We get more and more unsavories these days. Well, Slayd, that won’t matter here.”

“That’s not my name. . . .”

Brother McCloud gave him a questioning look. “Is that something else you won’t talk about?”

“No, it’s just . . . not worth the effort.”

“Then what do we call you?”

“Greyson. Greyson Tolliver.”

“All right, then; Brother Tolliver it is!”

Greyson supposed he’d have to live with being called Brother Tolliver now. ?“What’s that thing on your arm?”

“It’s called a cast.”

“So, am I going to have to wear one?”

Brother McCloud laughed. “Not unless you break your arm.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s to help aid the natural healing process. We shun nanites, and unfortunately my arm was broken by a scythe.”

“Really . . .” Greyson actually grinned, wondering if it was Scythe Anastasia.

Brother McCloud didn’t appreciate Greyson’s grin. His demeanor cooled slightly.

“We have afternoon intoning in ten minutes. There are clothes for you in the drawer. I’ll wait outside while you change.”

“Do I have to go?” Greyson asked; intoning didn’t sound like something he really wanted to be a part of.

“Yes,” said Brother McCloud. “That which comes can’t be avoided.”

? ? ?

Intoning took place in a chapel that, after the candlelight was doused, had barely enough light to allow Greyson to see, in spite of the high stained-glass windows.

“Do you do everything in the dark?” Greyson asked.

“Eyes can be deceiving. We appreciate the other senses more.”

There was the sweet smell of incense covering something foul that Greyson soon learned was a basin of filthy water. “Primordial ooze,” Brother McCloud called it. “It’s filled with all the diseases that we’ve become immune to.”

Intoning consisted of the curate striking the huge steel tuning fork in the center, twelve times in succession with a mallet. The congregation, which seemed to number about fifty, matched the tone. With each strike of the fork, the vibration built, and resonated to the point of being not quite painful, but disorienting and dizzying. Greyson did not open his mouth to vocalize the tone.