Lalo squeezes Ratho’s shoulder. “Get used to being hungry. On Lookout we get no food from the Madronians, besides wafers.” Ratho pulls away, and Lalo swings his pack to his shoulder. “Sorry I couldn’t warn you more specifically. The Madronians keep our meals lean so we fight, hunt for ourselves, and gain strength.”
“What?” I can’t follow the garbled logic.
He doesn’t answer and instead points to the middle cave. “That’s where you report next. You have time to use the latrine, but I would still hurry.” He pats my shoulder and runs off with Els flying above him. “Your evening meal will arrive before you know,” he calls back.
With Thae clinging to his pack, Ratho races for the line of latrines in the distance as the rest of the boys disperse as well. Once alone, Mirko leaps from my shoulder. He faces the sun sliding above the ground and bugles a welcome.
My stomach gurgles. Creator Spirit, give me patience with this Madronian lunacy!
Mirko dives and snatches a lizard from between two boulders. He waddles over and lifts his catch to me.
“No. You go ahead,” I say and turn to the spring to fully wash the throb from my face.
CHAPTER 17
CLOTHING ISSUE
Rows and rows of wooden shelves stuffed with clothing fill the room behind the plump R’tan woman, the Clothier. She bobs about like a potato in a boiling stew pot. So, there are females serving at the Mesa, simply not as patrollers. She reaches across the counter. From her pudgy hands, I take the rough, sand-colored trousers, leather shoulder guard, tunic, and poncho.
“Change in the far cubicle, birdlet,” she says.
I return the smile sunk in her flushed cheeks, bow, and carry the bundle the few feet to the small, open changing room. Newly dressed, Ratho steps with confidence from the first cubicle. He glances to see if I am looking and then saunters back to the woman. In his uniform, with Thae perched on his shoulder guard, he looks like a true patroller!
A little sigh slips from my lips, and Mirko lets out a soft whistle. I hurriedly duck us behind the canvas. “Mirko!” I hiss, but he just grins back at me.
I overlap the curtain, check to be sure no one can see in, then exchange my clothes for the assigned set. The material is a coarse spin, but the pockets down the legs will be useful. The waist thong pulls the trousers to fit beneath my amulet. I transfer my cupboard key then pull on the tunic, which hangs comfortably loose over my pants but is short enough to still show my pouch. The poncho, too, doesn’t cover it completely. My declaration will remain in view, but otherwise, I’m dressed as a twin to Ratho. I tug my own boots on and strap on the shoulder guard.
I walk from the room with as much swagger as Ratho, but he is gone. Mirko continues to explore the changing cubicle further and nips at a tunnel spider.
“Come here now,” the woman calls, and takes my old clothes. She hands me another set, plus two undergarments, two pairs of socks, and wood goggles with only a slit to peer through. On each clothing piece she has marked through a former number and added 9 L — meaning ninth lower bunk? She dumps my old clothing into a sack.
“When will I get mine back?”
She winks. “You won’t.” She ties the top of the bag and rolls it behind the counter. “You’ll outgrow them before you leave here.”
“Oh, but couldn’t I keep them for now?” To just remember the smell of home? My father bought me that poncho, and Frana wove the shirt herself. I, I want my clothes back. “Please?”
“Sorry,” she says and pouts. “Madronian rules.”
I swallow. “Oh.”
“You’ll return at winter season for warm gear. By then you’ll need new boots as well.”
“All right,” I manage to say, playing the game.
She adds a square head covering cloth to my stack, reads over her list, and squirms between the shelves. “Here we are.” She labors back out with a huff. “One rain slick for the downpour that will visit. Believe me.” The material is wrinkly boar intestine. The woman plops it on top of everything else. “Outside the Steam Pockets is a laundry hole. Drop your dirty clothes in the chute upon return from Perimeter. Your set will be cleaned and returned to your shelf.” She reaches over and pats my hair coils as if I’m a wee babe. “Never seen a declared male before. You’re still a pretty one, aren’t you?”
My pulse quickens, and I hold my breath. I’ve never heard such words! Surely my amulet blocks these kinds of thoughts in others. But why not now?
“Well, go along to the next room, birdlet.”
Mirko bounces on my pack still resting on the ground. Ignoring my centerself flummoxing, I bend down and cram everything inside my bag.
“Hurry then,” calls the woman, using her apron to fan her dewy face.
Mirko and I duck through the opening. Does something still linger, some outward reflection of femininity that she sensed? The Madronians will be furious, if so. It’s certainly not what I want. Creator Spirit, make my amulet effective. Bear out my malehood!
Across the curved armory, Ratho is just leaving through the opposite arch. Javelins and bolas crowd the red and orange walls, rising to a high-domed ceiling. A sweating R’tan Armorer with an eye patch hardens a javelin point in a wall oven while a gangly R’tan apprentice equips me with a bola, a ball of twine, and two water sacks. Both men have trouble pulling their eyes from my amulet, as well as Mirko, who quietly chitters in this new place. Neither speaks ill of us though.
“You’ve come with a javelin?” the apprentice asks.
“Yes, it’s back at my shelf.”
The Armorer flings a knife into the thick, wood table between us. I jump backward. “That should do then.” He grins.
I chuckle to hide my embarrassment, step forward, and pry the obsidian blade free. It slips into the leather sheath the apprentice holds out to me in his long fingers. I gather the two fire rocks he offers and drop them into my pack. The men nod me on, but I pause to scan the walls a last time. There is none of the equipment I’ve seen Madronian soldiers carry. No crossbows, helmets, or vests. No accolade whips even.
At least R’tan patrollers are not called to soldier here. We only stand to raise alarm. Of course when we return to the village, any of us could be assigned to enter the ranks of the Madronian army, a possible future that chills my centerself whenever I think of it. But for now, I will work as my ancestors did, patrolling, and I’ll do it well. By the Chamber of Verities, I swear I will!
I push back my shoulders, and Mirko flaps to gain his balance. As both men whisper, I walk through the arch.
CHAPTER 18
BRIEFING
Ratho and I, the only initiates present, have sat in the tiered Briefing Cavern so long my backside sleeps on this stone ledge. There wasn’t even a midmeal break! My anger at Droslump’s earlier slap is what keeps me alert. He won’t catch me off guard again. Mirko and Thae squat at our feet, still giving their full attention too.
Govern Droslump drones on about schedules and regulations. We have nothing to write with or on but are expected to remember it all. He fingers his braid then scrapes a pointy fingernail across his sharp chin. A pale white line lingers.
“Patrol lasts one night and day.” Droslump paces, making the stitched condors swish and slide past each other. “At the multiple outposts, shifts are taken, and the Perimeter is walked. This being the very edge of our kingdom, all are forbidden to go beyond into the wasteland.” He stops before us and leers. “It is from there, the Triumvirate, your nightmares rise: sandstorms, foreign invaders, and desert cats. For these dangers, raise alert.”
Ratho shifts on the stone. “Could you explain the alert, Sir?”
Droslump releases an impatient breath. “Rapion fly torches into the sky and swirl patterns to communicate danger. Observe.” He takes several steps back then itemizes the calls. His hand sweeps through the shapes as if he begins a sacred dance to the Four-Winged Condor. Mirko and Thae mimic and memorize each progression by moving only a talon over the stone. I have already f
orgotten the first pattern.
Droslump finishes, and with his fluted sleeve dabs the sweat above his taut lips. “Rapion signals are received by the Madronian Lookout in his tower atop the Mesa. The lookout sends another fire message to the Receiving Posts throughout the villages. Patrollers and rapion are the first and weakest in our line of defense.”
Mirko hisses, and Thae sits upright. Ratho and I place a restraining hand on our birds. In response, Droslump smooths the hair leading into his braid as if he hasn’t noticed he’s given offense. His open prejudice is as ugly as an infected boil on the backside of a rutting ram.
“Plus, declared males have not been tested in the Eastern Mesa,” he adds.
I jump to my feet. “I will perform as any other initiate!” Mirko swoops the cavern and returns to my shoulder while Ratho and Thae inch away from us.
“Yes, well, we’ll see.” Droslump continues. “Patrollers return to the Mesa for a day of drilling with javelins and bolas before hiking to Perimeter again. The cycle turns without stop.”
Now Ratho stands. “But what of the Seventh Day, to worship the Four-Winged Condor?”
“There is no time for full genuflections at Perimeter,” says Droslump. Ratho lowers his head and hands in submission. He’s always embraced Madronian worship unswervingly. There’s no straighter cactus spine than Ratho, Father used to say. I just thought the quality made him a faithful and true friend.
To me, it’s a blessing not to spend a day in their worship. I can honor the Creator Spirit silently during patrol.
“You will learn by doing,” the govern concludes. “You face the desert tomorrow.” I keep my face passive. “Questions?”
Ratho asks immediately, “Who will we each be teamed with?”
The govern raises a brow. “Each other, of course.”
CHAPTER 19
EVENING MEAL
Lalo was wrong. Our division, the Carterea, return toward the end of the day and avoid me the minute Mirko bugles a welcome beside the spring. These boys are no different than the Baltang. They are just as dirty, shaggy, and prejudiced as ever, even though a few are from our village.
“What is that abomination, Jilbon?” a blond boy with thin twists asks his partner, who’s washing his hands in the trough.
“No telling,” Jilbon answers. Dirt covers his face, except for around his eyes where his goggles have been. He squints at me and flings the water from his hands.
I look to Ratho and Thae lingering by the Sleeping Cavern entrance, but they turn away. Not a speck of support from my own partners.
“No telling,” Jilbon repeats, drying his hands on the back of his enormous rapion, who stands beside him. “But it is perfect for a declared male weakling. Both worthless bits.” All the boys laugh. “Condor, protect us as these patrol.”
Mirko shoots into the air, flaps above the spray slipping from the condor’s mouth, and screeches his anger. My hands curl closed, but there’s nothing to be done.
“Come, Mirko!” I call, but he disregards me.
Jilbon’s rapion flies upward and hovers before Mirko.
“Attack the scraun,” Jilbon shouts, and everyone cheers.
What? That is insane! “No, Mirko!”
The two birds beat the air, circling each other, their talons wide, but it’s Mirko who flings forward and draws blood from the other rapion’s breast first.
“Enough!” I shout. I raise my hand, and Mirko retreats to my shoulder. He puffs his feathers and caws his victory.
Jilbon reaches up and draws his rapion into his arms, despite the huge bird’s flapping wings and its writhing head trying to keep an eye on Mirko.
“You barbarian,” Jilbon hisses, kicking sand at me. “Rapion don’t turn on each other.”
“You are the one who called attack! What were you thinking?” I yell back.
He curses me and heads to the infirmary, his palm over the shallow swipes on his bird’s breast. If it was worse, the bird would be weaker for certain. His nervous partner and rapion quickly follow.
The division skirts like a skittish dog into the Eating Cavern. Even Ratho runs.
I pick up a rock and heave it out onto the empty scrub desert. “He asked for it, Mirko. Calling me weak and you scraun. Bird offal.” I spit.
Mirko hisses and cleans the blood from his talons with his tongue. “You showed them. Showed them all. You were magnificent. And we’ll do it again if we have to.” Mirko bobs his head. “So, there’s been no rapion conflict before. Well, there’s been no Singer and declared male, either.”
Mirko leans forward and grins at me.
“At least none mentioned the stupid Featherless Crow!” Mirko chirps his agreement.
Since no govern appears to correct me for the conflict, I cross the Commons and enter the Eating Cavern, taking a seat on the lower ledge of the circle by Ratho. Everyone else and their rapion shift away from us. Pretending they don’t bother me at all, I pet Mirko.
If the governs hear what happened, it may please them. Or maybe the boys are tight-lipped about such things because they’ve learned better. Perhaps even Jilbon invented a tale for his rapion’s wounds.
The cook and apprentice clatter pots along the back wall. Glowing fires make their caldrons spit. I’m so hungry I could eat anything they might serve!
With Thae on his shoulder, Ratho keeps his back to me. I scratch Mirko’s neck. You’d think Ratho would support us, be proud since we are partners. He should have felt the slight as much as me and my rapion. And then taken pride in Mirko’s win. Why can’t we be united?
Mirko hums and nibbles a talon. His tail warms my back.
I scan the now quiet group. There’s the boy whose father teaches at the elemental school, and I definitely recognize the other with scars along his jaw from his brush with a desert cat. His father and eldest brother killed the beast before this boy was dragged off. It may even be that feline’s heart in my own amulet. I adjust my pouch so it’s in full sight.
The apprentice strolls over with a stack of clay bowls. He clatters one before each patroller.
From a great pot clenched at his side, the bearded cook ladles gray slop into each bowl. He leaves one empty — and a fight erupts. “Give me yours!” a boy with a deep voice says to the surprised patroller on his right.
“No!” The boy covers his food with his arms moments before the first throws a punch. While his victim is doubled over, he spoons the boy’s food into his own mouth. Rapion flap in the chaos. Mirko and I quickly eat our own tasteless paste.
The cook sneezes into his beard then heaves three loaves of bread into the circle. It is shredded and eaten by boys and rapion before I can turn and grab a mouthful. Govern Droslump walks through the cave without a glance at the wildness in the Eating Pit. He departs through the right arch.
So this is the Madronian way to make us hate, fight, and grow stronger? Obviously, we’ll have to forage with the food so lean. But aren’t there better ways to learn?
The circle clears and Ratho remains, staring into his bowl. Is he the one who emptied it?
CHAPTER 20
THEFT
I guess I shouldn’t be amazed I’m still hungry after evening meal. Why expect more? After using the latrine, I head to my bunk. Mirko swoops above, gathering tunnel spiders from the crevices as we turn into our alcove. “Ratho’s not here,” I mutter. “Maybe he’s out scrounging for more food already.”
Mirko flaps along the wall as I dump my pack, fold my change of clothes, and repack my gear. I can’t believe how the governs rule this place! Does Father know how crazy their game really is?
My rapion flies down to our shelf and peers at me. “You have a spider’s leg hanging out of your beak,” I say as his tongue curls it in. “Oh, you turn my stomach.” I shudder. “How about food from home?”
He bounces on his toes. I slide my key into the lock, and the door opens on an empty cubby. “Someone stole everything!” I seethe.
Mirko hisses and rakes his talons on the s
tone. I shove my hand into the vacant space. Frana’s bag, my food, and the few sweets I brought are gone. “Unbelievable!” Mirko struts back and forth.
I rip the key off the thong of my pants and fling it onto the shelf. “I know I left it locked,” I say. “Ratho would never steal from me, right? No. It is against Madronian law.” I shake my head at my doubts. Already this place is affecting my mind.
“Wait! Was it Jilbon, while we were eating?” He never appeared at mealtime. “Let’s find Lalo, and he can tell me how to report it.”
Not wanting to lose anything else, I shrug on my pack, and Mirko jumps to my shoulder. I stomp into the hall past a couple boys. “Gruntlothian,” one utters, insulting me with the name of a distant hill tribe rumored to intermarry. Does everyone have to be so hostile? My rapion drew the first blood in conflict. Doesn’t that mean anything to them? I glare while Mirko grumbles, but the boys have already disappeared down a side passage.
Outside in the dusk, Lalo is by the fire working over his bola. Maybe retying a rock into a pouch? Els circles on a draft above like a reoccurring thought. This appears to be the only way other rapion separate from their bearers. So Mirko has a horizontal advantage as well. It’s ridiculous we have to hide it; it could be an asset someday.
I glance at the few patrollers sitting around the firepit. Jilbon and his partner are there with their birds. All four look away from me, although Jilbon’s mouth quirks in a sly smile. It’s the only proof I need.
“Lalo,” I call from the cave opening as Mirko jumps to the ground and bugles. My friend looks up. Setting his weapon aside, we meet halfway. Els drifts with him in the evening’s blue glow.
“Tiadone, I heard about your conflict.” He tips his head at the boys and frowns. “That was risky.”
I blush and Mirko cleans his beak beneath his wing. “I tried …” I stop my defense. It likely looks worse that I can’t control my own rapion.
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