Greyson shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Tell the Thunderhead to explain itself!”
“It has nothing more to say… But it does wish you all a pleasant afternoon.” Funny, but until that moment, Greyson hadn’t even known the time of day.
“But … but…”
Then the lock on the door disengaged. Not just that one, but every lock in the building, courtesy of the Thunderhead – and in a moment, Tonists flooded the room, grabbing the Nimbus agents and restraining them. Last into the room was Curate Mendoza, the head of the Tonist monastery where Greyson had been harbored.
“Our sect is not a violent one,” Mendoza told the Nimbus agents. “But at times like this, I wish we were!”
Agent Hilliard, her eyes still just as desperate, kept her gaze fixed on Greyson. “But you said the Thunderhead allowed us to take you from them!”
“It did,” Greyson said cheerfully. “But it also wanted me liberated from my liberators.”
“We could have lost you,” said Mendoza, still distraught long after Greyson had been rescued. Now they rode in a caravan of cars, all of which had actual drivers, back to the monastery.
“You didn’t lose me,” said Greyson, tired of watching the man beat himself up over this. “I’m fine.”
“But you might not have been if we hadn’t found you.”
“How did you manage to find me?”
Mendoza hesitated, then said, “We didn’t. We’d been searching for hours, then, out of nowhere a destination appeared on all of our screens.”
“The Thunderhead,” said Greyson.
“Yes, the Thunderhead,” Mendoza admitted. “Although I can’t see why it took so long for it to find you if it has cameras everywhere.”
Greyson chose to keep the truth to himself – that it hadn’t taken the Thunderhead long at all, that it knew where Greyson was at every moment. But it had a reason for taking its time. Just as it had a reason for not alerting him of the kidnapping plot in the first place.
“The event needed to appear authentic to your abductors,” the Thunderhead had told him after the fact. “The only way to ensure that was to allow it to actually be authentic. Rest assured you were never in any real danger.”
As kind and thoughtful as the Thunderhead was, Greyson had noticed it always foisted these sorts of unintentional cruelties on people. The fact that it was not human meant that it could never understand certain things, in spite of its immense empathy and intellect. It couldn’t comprehend, for instance, that the terror of the unknown was just as awful, and just as real, regardless of whether or not there was truly something to fear.
“They weren’t planning to hurt me,” Greyson told Mendoza. “They’re just lost without the Thunderhead.”
“As is everyone,” Mendoza said, “but that doesn’t give them the right to rip you from your bed.” He shook his head in anger – but more at himself than at them. “I should have foreseen it! Nimbus agents have more access to the backbrain than others – and of course they’d be looking for anyone who wasn’t marked unsavory.”
Perhaps it was a bit delusional for Greyson to think he could remain unknown. It had never been in his nature to want to stand out. Now he was very literally one of a kind. He had no idea how such a thing should be played, but he suspected he’d have to learn.
We need to talk, the Thunderhead had said on the day Endura sank, and it hadn’t stopped talking to him since. It told him that he had a pivotal role to play, but not what that role would be. It never liked to commit to answers unless there was some level of certainty, and although it was good at predicting outcomes, it was no oracle. It couldn’t tell the future, only the probabilities of what might occur. A cloudy crystal ball at best.
Curate Mendoza rapped his fingers anxiously on his armrest.
“These blasted Nimbus agents won’t be the only people looking for you,” he said. “We need to get out in front of this.”
Greyson knew where this had to lead. As the sole conduit to the Thunderhead, he could no longer hide; the time had come for his role to start taking shape. He could have asked the Thunderhead for guidance on the matter, but he didn’t want to. The time he spent unsavory, with no input from the Thunderhead, was admittedly terrifying, but it was also freeing. He had grown accustomed to making decisions and having insights of his own. The choice to step out of the shadows would be his alone, without the Thunderhead’s advice or counsel.
“I should go public,” said Greyson. “Let the world know – but do it on my terms.”
Mendoza looked at him and grinned. Greyson could see the man’s cogs turning.
“Yes,” Mendoza said. “We must bring you to market.”
“Market?” said Greyson. “That’s not really what I had in mind – I’m not a piece of meat.”
“No,” agreed the curate, “but the right idea at the right time could be as satisfying as the finest steak.”
This was what Mendoza had been waiting for! Permission to set the stage for Greyson’s arrival upon it. It had to be Greyson’s idea, because Mendoza knew if it was thrust upon him, he would resist. Perhaps this nasty kidnapping had a silver lining – because it opened Greyson’s eyes to the bigger picture. And although Curate Mendoza was a man who secretly doubted his own Tonist beliefs, lately the presence of Greyson made him begin to doubt his doubts.
It was Mendoza who was the first to believe Greyson when he claimed the Thunderhead still spoke to him. He sensed that Greyson fit into a larger plan, and maybe Mendoza fit into that plan, too.
“You’ve come to us for a reason,” he had told Greyson on that day. “This event – the Great Resonance – resonates in more ways than one.”
Now, as they sat in the sedan two months later, discussing greater purposes, Mendoza couldn’t help but feel empowered, emboldened. This unassuming young man was poised to bring the Tonist faith – and Mendoza – to a whole new level.
“The first thing you’re going to need is a name.”
“I already have one,” Greyson said, but Mendoza dismissed the notion.
“It’s ordinary. You need to present yourself to the world as something beyond ordinary. Something … superlative.” The curate looked at him, trying to see him in a finer, more flattering light. “You are a diamond, Greyson. Now we must place you in the proper setting so that you might shine!”
Diamonds.
Four hundred thousand diamonds, sealed in a vault within another vault, lost at the bottom of the sea. A single one was worth a fortune that would have been beyond the comprehension of mortals – because these weren’t ordinary jewels. They were scythe diamonds. There were nearly twelve thousand of them on the hands of living scythes – but that was nothing compared to the gems held within the Vault of Relics and Futures. Enough to serve the gleaning needs of humanity for ages to come. Enough to bejewel every scythe that would be ordained from now until the end of time.
They were perfect. They were identical. No flaw beyond the dark spots in their centers – but that was not a flaw; it was design.
“Our rings are a reminder that we have improved upon the world that nature has provided,” Supreme Blade Prometheus proclaimed in the Year of the Condor, upon establishing the scythedom. “It is our nature … to surpass nature.” And nowhere was that more evident than when one looked into the heart of a scythe ring, for it gave one the illusion that it had depth beyond the space it occupied. A depth beyond nature.