Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(81)

“There are pictures of the Arch in the backbrain,” Marie told her, “if you ever feel like mourning what was lost.”

“Do you?” Citra asked her. “Do you ever mourn what was lost?”

“On some days, yes, on others, no,” Scythe Curie said. “Today I am determined to rejoice in what we’ve gained, rather than what was lost. Both in the world, and personally.” Then she turned to Citra and smiled. “You and I remain alive and unharmed, in spite of two attempts to end us. That is worth celebrating.”

Citra returned Marie’s smile, then gazed once more at the rusting pylons, and the park in which they sat. It reminded Citra of the Mortality Memorial in the park where she had secretly met Rowan. The thought of Rowan made her heart sink. Word had reached her of the fiery end of Scythe Renoir. Although she wouldn’t admit it out loud, and barely could admit it to herself, she longed for news of more dead scythes—because another gleaning by Scythe Lucifer would mean that Rowan had not been caught.

Renoir had been ended nearly a month ago. She couldn’t guess where Rowan was now, or who he was planning to end next. He wasn’t limiting himself to MidMerican scythes, which meant he could be anywhere. Anywhere but here.

“Your mind wanders,” Scythe Curie observed. “This place can do that to you.”

Citra tried not to linger on those wanderings. “Are you ready for conclave next week?” she asked.

Marie shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“They’ll all be talking about us,” Citra said. “I mean, after the attempts on our lives.”

“I’ve been the center of attention at conclave before,” Marie said dismissively. “And so have you, dear. It’s neither negative nor positive in itself—it’s what you do with the attention that matters.”

From the other side of the north pylon came a group of people. They were Tonists. Twelve of them. When they weren’t traveling alone, Tonists always traveled in groups of either seven or twelve, representing the seven notes of the diatonic scale and the twelve notes of the chromatic scale. They were ridiculously slavish to the mathematics of music. Tonists could often be found sniffing around architectural ruins, searching for the so-called Great Fork, which was supposed to be hidden within some mortal-age bit of engineering.

While other people slipped away when they saw scythes in the park, the Tonists stood their ground. Some even glared. Citra began to walk toward them.

“Anastasia, what are you doing?” asked Marie. “Just let them be.”

But Scythe Anastasia wouldn’t stop a thing once she had committed herself to it. Neither, for that matter, would Citra Terranova.

“What order are you?” she asked the one who looked like he might be their leader.

“We are Dorian Tonists,” he said. “But I can’t see why that’s any of your business.”

“If I wanted you to get a message to someone in a Locrian monastery, would you be able to?”

He stiffened. “We Dorians do not associate with Locrians,” he said. “They are far too lax in their interpretation of doctrine.”

Citra sighed. She didn’t know what message she’d want to pass on to Greyson. Perhaps just gratitude for saving her life. She had been so upset that he hadn’t been Rowan, that she had treated him poorly, and had never even thanked him for what he had done. Well, it didn’t matter now, because clearly no message would be getting to him.

“You should go,” the lead Tonist said to her, his face cold and judgmental. “Your stench offends us.”

Citra actually laughed at him, and her laughter made him redden. She’d come across Tonists who were kind and accepting, others who were all about selling their particular brand of crazy. She made a mental note that Dorian Tonists were assholes.

Scythe Curie came up beside her then. “Don’t waste your time, Anastasia,” she said. “They have nothing to offer you but hostility and harangues.”

“I know who you are,” said their leader with a caustic enmity even greater than that he’d shown to Citra. “Your early deeds have not been forgotten or forgiven. Someday, your score will be settled.”

Marie reddened with fury. “Are you threatening me?”

“No,” he said. “We leave justice to the universe. And what rings out always echoes back.” Which Citra figured was the Tonist version of ?“What goes around comes around.”

“Come, Anastasia,” Marie said. “These zealots aren’t worth another second of our time.”

Citra could have just walked away, but the man’s attitude begged for her to play with them a little. So she held out her ring.

“Kiss it,” she said to him.

Scythe Curie turned to her, shocked. “Anastasia, why on earth would you—”

But she cut Marie off. “I said kiss it!” She knew he wouldn’t, but she also suspected that some of the others in the group might be tempted. “I’ll grant a year of immunity to any of you who steps forward to kiss my ring.”

Their leader paled, terrified that this turquoise harbinger of unnatural death might steal his entire flock away.

“Intone!” he shouted to them. “Drive them away!”

And they all began a bizarre open-mouthed humming—each of them droning a different note, until they sounded like a swarm of bees.