Hours later, when the sun was beginning to sink behind the dusty red rocks to the west, Lana heard the dry screech of a hrevech echo in the valley. The women looked at each other and then, silently, began to put away the day's work. The pounded grain they packed in tightly woven baskets and the remaining husks they stored in a small cave in the rock face. Through an evening sun bright enough to make her shade her eyes, Lana saw the wheeling figures of the hrevech settle down on rocky promontories. The women were oddly subdued as they walked back toward the main part of camp. In fact, everything was eerily quiet-all of the tents looked deserted. Even the wolves and horses had fallen silent. She wondered where everyone had gone, but when she tried to ask someone, the woman closest to her made a quiet shushing noise and gestured for Lana to keep walking. They walked until they left the outer edge of the camp and arrived at a range of large rocks a couple of hundred yards away. In dead silence and fading daylight, the women climbed up the worn path in the rocks one by one. The death stayed close by Lana, silent and brooding. It had been like this ever since she came to the wind island, and she was beginning to wonder if such close proximity to the stronghold of another spirit's power made it uncomfortable. If so, she thought, that knowledge might be a potent foundation for a geas. The climbing wasn't very difficult, but small rocks had gotten inside her sandals and cut the bottom of her feet. She had to pause every few minutes to kick them out, much to the annoyance of the women below her. Eventually she saw a large natural amphitheater, separated from the climbing path by a narrow passage that could fit two people abreast. Inside the huge flat space, surrounded on all sides by higher rocks, she saw a massive bonfire and hundreds of men and boys-what looked to be every single male in the tribe. The women, however, barely paused, climbing perhaps thirty feet above the amphitheater before emerging on relatively level ground. Hundreds of other women had already gathered there. Some sat, some stood, but no one spoke. They had a very clear view of the men below. The women let her near the edge of the rocks, and as she got closer, she recognized Yechtak, wearing only a loincloth, standing by the fire with the old shaman. He glanced up at Lana, but another woman clamped down on her hand when she tried to wave. This must be his initiation, Lana realized. She had expected it to be something like her own test when she had become a diver, but all of this felt far more intense. There was no sense of expectant happiness here-only worried anticipation.
Slowly, Lana lowered herself to the rocks and waited for the sun to finish its descent. Like all the other women, she could only wait and see what would happen.
Yechtak saw Iolana's attempt to wave at him and a nearby woman's rush to stop her from breaking the taboo. Of course Iolana had no way of knowing that communication between men and women during an initiation was forbidden, and her innocent gesture helped to ease his nervousness. She was a strange person, he thought, but he liked her. She had a habit of looking into space and quietly speaking-not as though she were talking to herself, but as though she could see someone he couldn't. He recalled Erlun's cryptic remarks about his bringing two guests the night before and wondered what kind of burden this woman carried. Tomorrow they would begin their journey together, and maybe he would be able to find out.
Soon after the last of the women arrived, Erlun raised his hand to signal the beginning of the ceremony. On the opposite side of the fire, Gervach pounded the lead drum into the ensuing silence. Moments later, the other drums began filling in the rhythm, slowly increasing their tempo until the whole amphitheater rang with the sound. In the distance, Yechtak heard the lonely call of a hrevech and the answering sigh of the wind.
Although Erlun, as shaman, was the ultimate leader of the tribe, Gervach's position as war chief made him nearly as powerful. In war councils, Gervach's opinion was tacitly understood to be final, but initiations like these were entirely under the shaman's jurisdiction. And a good thing, too-Gervach knew as well as anyone what this initiation meant, and he had been angling for years to have his son succeed Erlun after his death. Over Gervach's angry pounding, the shaman began chanting, a deep throaty sound that made the hair on Yechtak's arms shiver.
Erlun's two assistants took Yechtak by his shoulders and pushed him gently to the ground. He lay with his bare back on the cold, hard stone, staring up past the bonfire to the sky. The stars shone like hard, scattered bits of light, and the moon itself was barely a sliver. His heart was nearly pounding in time with the drums, but he tried to control his breathing. Erlun lit a torch in the fire and held it a foot from Yechtak's face.
"Who do you serve above all?" Erlun asked. The drums had stopped.
Yechtak watched the hypnotic motion of the torch as Erlun passed its searing heat over his chest and tried to remember his response. "The wild wind," he said, finally.
?" W y.
"To atone," Yechtak said. He wondered if the heat from the torch was burning his skin. "We are the descendants of the ancient guardians. We must honor the wild wind by repenting for its imprisonment."
Erlun nodded and handed the torch to an assistant. Yechtak stifled his sigh of relief. The shaman's blind eyes fixed on his face. "The path to the ruins is the spirit's closest secret," he said softly. "Do you swear to guard it well, my son? For all of our sakes?"
"I swear."
The drums began again, faster than before. His hands guided by an assistant, Erlun took up the special hrevech-bone tattoo quill and heavy wooden hammer. He began his chant again, an ancient hymn of honor to the wind spirit, as he dipped the quill in the deep black ink made with charred nuts. A man's hands held Yechtak's shoulders firmly, but he struggled not to squirm or wince when Erlun's hands came down with surprising sureness on his chest. The needles pierced his skin and the ink bled into the wounds as Erlun hammered on the sharp quills. Though Erlun had not been able to see the pattern on his chest for decades, he still knew its shape intimately, and no one else was permitted to transmit such a sacred design. The pain was horrible. Yechtak bit his tongue and stared into the fire, willing himself to be strong. After long minutes had passed, he found himself getting light-headed with the pain. The drums and Erlun's chants wavered in his ears and he turned abruptly away from the fire. He had to find something else to focus on. Looking up at the silent, shadowy figures of the women, he saw Iolana sitting with her legs over the ledge, staring down at him. He felt stronger looking at her, and the pain of the quills relentlessly pounding into his chest didn't seem so unbearable anymore. After half an hour, it was over. Someone put a wet cloth over his chest to soak up the blood and excess ink. Erlun, looking exhausted and far feebler than Yechtak had ever seen him, leaned forward when the drums fell silent. Beads of sweat dripped from his nose onto Yechtak's face.
"I wonder," he said, his voice low and raspy. "If I should have done this. I have changed your life forever ... just for that one Binder. I sense it ... a new path stretches ahead of you, and it is painful. Will you hate me for it later?"
"Never," Yechtak said in a strangled whisper. "I could never..."
Erlun smiled softly and patted his shoulder. "Of course, we all have choice. If you turn away now, I won't blame you. And yet..." He turned his face briefly away from Yechtak's and looked up to where some of the women still watched. Iolana was staring down at them, the light of the bonfire making the frizzy edges of her long, dark hair look like a bright halo around her head. Erlun looked back at him. "I somehow think you will stick to the path, no matter the dangers. She is dangerous, my son. She knows nothing of our ways, our language, and yet the wind spirit wishes to see her. That alone says enough, but I sense it. It's not just the burden she carries. She has more power than she realizes, and that is dangerous. Do your duty, but no more. Do not let her trap you."
Yechtak looked into Erlun's earnest, sad face and shuddered. "I won't. I promise."
Another man put a hand on the shaman's shoulder and helped him stand. Conversation burst like an air bubble, a loud and unintelligible stream of noise that Yechtak simply let wash over him. What was
it about that girl that could scare Erlun so much? Even though Yechtak barely knew anything about her, it was his duty to lead her safely to the ruins. Tomorrow, his real initiation would begin.
They walked on foot, leading a stubborn burro that carried all of their supplies and water. For the first few days of their journey, Lana had wished almost continuously for a straw rain hat that could at least keep the worst of the sun from her face. Now, two weeks after setting out, she was beginning to get used to the pounding sun. They generally avoided walking in the grueling hour or two of high noon, spending it in the shade of rocks, if they could find them, or huddled beside the stoically uncomfortable burro if they couldn't. Yechtak was a nice companion, and his command of her language improved drastically over the days. He had learned it originally from his father, he said, who had spent some time on other islands when he was younger.
He fell unusually silent after mentioning his father, and Lana didn't press him. Instead, she diverted her attention by marveling at the subtle changes in landscape that she had been noticing over the past few days. While the land where Yechtak's tribe was camped had been virtually devoid of all plant life except for the occasional stunted scrub bush, the ground here was far moister, sprinkled with brightly colored wildflowers and an occasional tree. These trees had white bark with high, leafy branches that spread out like a paper umbrella. Up a hill in the distance grazed a herd of animals that looked something like deer, only larger and with fur of mottled blue and yellow patches. Several yards beyond them a similar creature nearly twice their size watched the herd protectively, occasionally waving his dangerously sharp tusks at the few other tusked creatures who tried to get within striking distance of the others.
"What are those?" she asked, pointing to the strange animals.
Yechtak seemed to snap out of whatever dream had been holding him. "Oh, the dveri. They are Ofek's this year, so I cannot touch them. Besides, there are only two of us, and wasting any part of a dveri is a crime. It would bring another war on our tribe."
Lana's stomach felt queasy at just the thought of eating such beautiful creatures, but she didn't comment, instead latching onto the implications of what Yechtak had just said. "Another war? With the other wind tribes? You fight each other?"
"Of course. How else could we decide who gets the dveri herds and the maize fields and the camps closest to the river? Do your people not war on each other?"
Lana spied a bright blue flower at her feet and knelt to pick it. "Not really," she said, braiding it into her hair. "There hasn't been a major war since the wind spirit broke free. Some of the islands have disputes with the others, but nothing ever gets very violent ... I guess we don't think it's really worth it."
Yechtak looked amazed, but after a moment he nodded. "Yes, of course, your people are Binders. Though it is evil, binding does create ease among humans. It makes them ... dependent on each other. Binders don't like war. For people like us, the true people, there is no ease, no other way besides war."
She thought about what he said the rest of that day, even as they set up camp on a small hill from which she had her first view of the swift-flowing river. Perhaps Yechtak was right-in a land with as few natural resources as this, perhaps war among humans was inevitable. But was it truly impossible for people to cooperate without the looming threat of a millennia-enslaved spirit breaking its bonds and wreaking revenge? Would the world really collapse if they all broke free?
The death sat near her by the fire. In its robes, she saw hundreds of men slaughtering each other for the sake of a field of maize.
A week later, most of it spent walking down-river while avoiding contact with the other wind tribes, they arrived at the entrance to the maze. Yechtak called it something else, a name that was unpronounceable even by the standards of his tongue, but it was quite simply a maze. The way through it had apparently been inscribed on his chest the night of his initiation. Even though it was relatively close to the river, the huge rocky outcropping looked nearly as barren as the place where Yechtak's tribe had been forced to camp. It stretched on for miles, and the peaks surrounding it were so high and jagged that the only way inside was through the tiny passage at its base near the river. Yechtak took the burro's lead and Lana followed behind, making her careful way through the labyrinth of crumbling stone and blocked passages. It was hot, dirty work, punctuated by long pauses in which Yechtak checked the tattoo on his chest before choosing the best path. They had to stop earlier than they usually did, because the high rocks on either side of them cast long shadows that made it impossible to navigate the treacherous footing.
Yechtak said that they didn't have to worry about either dangerous predators or the other wind tribes here, so they set up camp virtually where they stopped walking. The wind began howling after night fell, but the surrounding rocks protected them from the brunt of it. Lana shivered and pulled her blanket closer around her shoulders. The burro snorted and shuffled its feet nervously, looking around as though trying to discover the source of the unearthly moans. Yechtak said something softly in his own language and then began tracing the dark pattern on his chest without actually looking at it.
"How much longer till we reach the ruins?" Lana asked, pitching her voice so she could be heard over the screaming wind.
"Two days, I think," he said. "We have finished the most difficult part." He reached into the fire with a long stick and rolled out one large, soot-covered brown egg. They had been eating hrevech eggs ever since Yechtak found an unattended nest three days before. Even though Yechtak complained loudly about the lack of meat, Lana was secretly grateful for their plain fare. The eggs, in fact, were a surprising treat, because she hadn't expected to like them. Back on her island, they had never eaten anything other than fish eggs, and even after she left, she had only eaten eggs from sparrows and the occasional chicken. Yechtak took the egg, cracked it open against a nearby stone, and gave the larger half to Lana. Even though it had been sitting in the fire for nearly half an hour, the yolk was still a little soupy. She dipped the end of a stale piece of bread inside it and began eating silently, wishing that the wind would sound a little less threatening. Above her she heard the dull clack of falling rocks dislodged by the wind.
She yawned and looked up, surprised to see that Yechtak was staring at her intently.
"What is it?" she asked, tossing the empty half-shell further down the path.
He shook his head. "It is nothing. You should sleep ... tomorrow will as well be hard."
She thought of pressing him-his eyes seemed so distant and troubled-but instead she nodded and lay down a few feet from the fire. She had almost drifted off when Yechtak's quiet voice startled her awake again.
"Do you remember how I told you before ... about our wars?"
"I remember," Lana said, her voice a scratchy whisper.
"I ... did not tell you everything. The wars are not just for life ... for water and maize. They are for manhood. Boys wish to be men, to be brave, so they fight wars. My mother says ... she says they are games. Deadly games. My father died in those games, then my brother. Now I'm all she has left. I am seventeen-most fight before this age, but my mother begged me not to. And I stayed a boy, to be with her. Erlun is wise, he must have known why I stayed in my mother's tent, so he sent me with you, so I can be a man without the games. The Binding is evil and yet ... without war I would still have my father. My brother..."
His voice trailed off into silence. Lana sat frozen, wondering if she should say something, or if she even had the right. She had spent the past few months so wrapped up in desperation and selfpity that she had barely given a thought to all the things she still did have. Unlike Yechtak, she still had both of her parents. In the end, she didn't say anything. Yechtak remained silent, and her own thoughts lulled her back into a dreamless sleep.
Something had fallen on top of her.
She opened her eyes abruptly and bit back a curse of frustration when she realized that she could hardly see anything: it was sti
ll dark and the fire had dwindled to a few glowing coals.
The thing on top of her moved and she realized it was Yechtak. His face was close to hers now, and she could feel his heavy, wet breath on her cheek.
"I am sorry," he said softly, incomprehensibly. "But I want ... I mean, I would like very much..." His words were slurred and confused, as though he had just woken.
"Would you kiss me, Iolana?"
Lana tried to hide her shock. "Yechtak, why-"
He closed his mouth over hers. She felt his rough tongue and tasted the sour tang of his saliva. For a moment, she stopped struggling in her shock. Unbidden, an image came to her mind of her mother, back when they were in Okika, with bruises on her arms and face from the men she slept with. She thought of that horrible sailor in the rain who had dislocated her jaw. Was Yechtak no better than those leering, violent men? What was he doing to her?
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