“Thanks,” I manage to say. Everyone silently watches the two rapion dive and roll. They twirl above the sparks. Alone.
Mirko’s joy brims between his notes. His rush of happiness nudges back my anxiety.
The youth grins, showing crossed front teeth, and points. “That’s Els. My name’s Lalo.” He swings his matted hair twists behind his shoulders.
“Tiadone and Mirko,” I answer.
He nods and pages through a roster. “I was notified you were reporting with a Song Rapion. What a specialty for the Carterea division. They are out patrolling, but on return I’m sure they’ll be eager to welcome you.”
My hope uncrinkles. Maybe I will be welcomed to my own division better than these boys seem to receive me. I straighten my poncho and pack.
“Two things about Perimeter, Tiadone. Youth are always coming and going.” Lalo raises his voice. “And the second is the Carterea are always stronger than this lazy Baltang division!”
The boys pretend anger while their rapion flap. Lalo laughs and rolls the roster closed. “Follow me.” He clicks his tongue, and his rapion drops to walk beside him. In height, her head nears his hip.
Mirko glides to my pack, and I sidestep a couple of boys. “Spawn of an acolyte,” a Baltang mutters and leans away.
I grip hold of Mirko’s leg. “Don’t rise to it!” I whisper. It is not worth one boy who matters nothing to us. Mirko gives in to my plea.
Beyond the fire circle, the darkness skims us. I stop beside Lalo. Three curved entries are cut into the Mesa stone. Lalo points to the first. “Eating Pit, Govern Quarters, and Clinic. The second holds the Armory and Briefing Ring, and the final contains Shelves and Steam Pockets.” The holes are lit by glowing lichen strands clustered on the sand.
Lalo notes my stare. “No lanterns or candles at the Mesa; the caves are full of lichen. It’s harvested when these dull.” I nod. “The two other mesas don’t compare to ours. You are lucky to join us.” Els claws the sand and bobs her head. “Shift change is every evening, but initiates receive a day for equipment issue and briefing.”
“That’s good,” I blurt.
“Glad you approve,” he teases and knocks my shoulder. “You’ll bunk in the Ninth Alcove.”
“Yes, patroller,” I reply.
Els leaps into Lalo’s long arms. “Oof.” He pulls the great bird close. “He’s just a big birdlet,” he teases. Els nips at the boy’s poncho. “Mercy,” Lalo says. A nervous snort escapes me, and Mirko bugles.
“Okay, enough.” Lalo grins and pets Els. “We need to finish up.”
I poke Mirko to pay attention. Quickly, he ruffles and settles down.
“Let’s see. Your shelfmate is the other initiate, Ratho.”
I ignore the heat creeping up my face. To sleep so near Ratho before his rejection would have been comforting, even exciting. Now it may only cause him to push me away more. Still, my stomach flutters at the thought of being shelfmates. I fiddle with my amulet.
“The spring is at the edge of the Common; latrines are twenty paces beyond. And what else?” He scratches Els’ head. “I guess only that evening meal’s past. If you head in and get some sleep, you might not miss breakfast.”
“Thanks for your help, patroller.”
Els jumps to the ground as Lalo tucks the roster under his arm and makes the gesture for welcome with both hands. I offer the return.
Lalo lopes back to the fire. “Off you go then,” he calls to me. My legs stiffen. “Check out your bunk!”
With Mirko on my pack, I find I’m ducking through the hole into the great Eastern Mesa before I can think twice.
On the sand path, lichen strands glow and illuminate the tunnel twists and turns. A chilly breeze lunges through the irregularly arched passage, joining Mirko’s warbles. The Mesa’s inside is cool as Father warned, but my hands still sweat. I try to drag them dry along the rough walls.
I am the first declared male to ever step here for patrol! My feet tingle. Father, are you out of your mind? Will the walls collapse for this heresy?
I squat and still my centerself. A full breath in and out clears my eyes. I wait for the rumble. Wait.
Lifting my face, I see the truth. There’s no disaster; the Mesa stands firm around me. “It is well!” I whisper to Mirko, but he is distracted, hissing at the lead figurines in the narrow wall niches. I shrink from the statues of the Four-Winged Condor, stand, and edge forward.
I count the sleeping alcoves we pass. Another hairpin turn and I’ve found mine. A nine is carved into the gritty orange wall. I lean against the steady rock and rub my tired face. Thank the Creator Spirit for his protection!
In the room, Ratho sits on the top shelf. He’s faced away and hunched over Thae. Neither turns to us. I inch farther in. Our quarters are small, rectangular, and Ratho will lie directly above me. Every night.
I slide my javelin next to Ratho’s in the rack opposite the doorway then climb quietly onto the empty lower rock shelf. The cold eats through my trousers as Mirko explores the carved circle inlaid to one side of the head of the ledge. He pecks at it and settles in a heap.
Ratho sniffs. My reflex is to reach out to him. I stop myself in time, pull everything from my pack, and hang it on the hook above Mirko. I hold my kidskin to my nose and inhale the scent from home. Before my tears begin, Mirko tugs it from my grip, curls up on it, and raises his eye ridge.
I smile. His levity brings a glow to my centerself. So far, we’re all right.
Adjusted to the Mesa temperature, I peel off my poncho and place it in the small alcove shelf beside the hook. There’s also a hole carved beneath my bed, perfect for my socks and boots. I flex the aches from my feet.
A key sits in the wooden door at the foot of my ledge. I pull it open and find it is a place to keep things safely. I set aside a hunk of goat cheese and a hard biscuit and stash the rest of my food and Frana’s medicinal bag inside. The key turns easily, and I tie it on my trouser thong.
Bits of biscuit stick in my throat, but I have to eat. Earlier, it was impossible, yet now we are here. The Mesa hasn’t crushed us, and no one stopped me from entering as a declared male. Madronian fear does protect me, as Father said. What’s a bit of name calling? Even the coarsest and most vulgar do me no harm.
Mirko’s song raised suspicion, but we’ll prove ourselves soon enough. Even to Ratho, and I’ll have my friend again. I cling to the thought, take a swig of water, and gulp the biscuit down.
Mirko waddles to my side and begs with big, round eyes. I share a chunk of cheese. “Ratho, do you want some food?” I whisper.
“No.”
At least he answered. I snuggle Mirko to my cheek, but he leans away and rips a hunk from my bread. There’s a shred of normalcy.
CHAPTER 15
STEAM POCKETS
Three boys file past with their rapion and towels. Their shadows shift along the tunnel while their jibes and laughter ping off the walls.
I trace the grooves in my shelf carved long ago by the R’tan. The lines flow through the broad, smooth swaths of color. Seeing this makes it easier to imagine the small villas our people once carved within the top of the Mesas.
A Madronian of some sort whisks past our doorway. I huff and cross my arms. How ironic that this great rock was our ancestors’ protection from enemies and now they are here with us.
Father says when our people forgot the Creator Spirit, they settled in the valley between the monuments and forgot the Mesas’ secrets too. Without habitation and care, tunnels near the surface collapsed. Pocked openings eventually let in the elements. Waters flooded and drained, leaving stagnant pools behind. Our villas clogged and collapsed; our history rotted. Even the Chamber of Verities was lost, and the line of prophets died. More than that, when the Madronians attacked, we couldn’t escape to our Mesas. We lost our freedom.
I stroke the edge of my shelf. At least our people always cared for the corners of the Mesas for patrol. Even the Madronians understood and continued the work.
“Save a pocket for me!” a patroller yells and runs by, kicking up sand. I roll onto my side and scratch Mirko’s head. He licks his beak and closes his eyes.
It’s probably good the Madronians never could map what was left of our villas or find our ancient Chamber of Verities. They claimed the Four-Winged Condor swirled it to oblivion with their conquest.
I sit up. Did the holy Chamber of Verities ever really exist? Did it speak to the prophets? Record our history in image? Pulse and strengthen R’tan boys on patrol? I press my hand to the porous rock.
Nothing.
Since Mirko now snores on my shelf, I grab my threadbare towel and climb out quietly. The sand is gritty under my bare feet. I have no clean clothes until my uniform is issued tomorrow, but it will feel good to be cleansed as I am so grubby. Father said the area was private, but that doesn’t stop my centerself from lurching. Being naked, with only my amulet on, leaves me vulnerable, shamed as my body reflects my former state. I hate it.
I follow well behind a group of boys ahead, memorizing the turns, as they joke and roughhouse. Their rapion flutters remind me that I should have brought Mirko. But he is so tired from our day’s journey, and if I return for him I might not find my way back. I’ll bring him next time.
Finally, one last bend ends in a dim narrow hall. Each boy and Signico squirms under the layered skins covering individual steam holes.
I move into the empty hall and choose a pocket for myself. “Hello?” I say. With no answer, I lift the heavy goat skins and stumble down three stairs. Crack goes my shin against a shelf. But for a cluster of coals and rocks in the corner, the room is black, and now my bruise will be also. I rub the spot. I am sure the pockets are darkened to support the Madronian obsession with modesty, but wouldn’t a few strands of lichen add a bit of safety? At least I do not have to look at myself, I suppose.
Behind the shelf is a stagnant puddle, smelling of rust. In a moment, I’m out of my tunic, trousers, and underclothes and giving them a good beating to remove the dust and sand, the whole time feeling my amulet tapping my thighs.
Discovering a pair of tongs by the coals, I pluck hot stones off the red heat and drop them into the water. Steam sizzles hot mist against my cool face.
My muscles relax as the moist air presses through the tiny room and sweats my anxieties away. Crouched on my haunches, my long march eases. The steam soothes and assures all is well.
Eventually, the air cools and I stand, toweling off my sweat and grime. After plucking the rocks from the water and dropping them back on the coals, I dress and emerge from the skins into the hallway.
The sounds of rapion and boys relaxing in their pockets float into the hall. I’m sure Mirko will love the steam too.
The way to my shelf comes with only a couple of missed turns in empty passages. Lalo meets me at my alcove with Els behind him. “Tiadone, you’ve found your space?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He grins. “And your skin must be reddened from the Steam Pockets. You found them as well?”
“Yes.”
Lalo’s gaze settles on my amulet, and he immediately blushes. Quickly, he looks away, around, and behind me. “But your rapion? Where is Mirko?”
“Oh.” I rub my towel through my twists to stall. I really should have returned for him! I inch into the alcove. “He’s just there, waiting on my shelf.”
A question hovers on Lalo’s forehead. “That’s odd. I don’t remember seeing him come down the passage.”
I snap my fingers behind my back. Yawning, a sleepy Mirko flaps to my shoulder.
Lalo shakes his head once. “Huh. I must have just missed him. At any rate, rest quickly now, as you’ll be called for morning meal before you like.”
“Certainly. We’ll get to sleep.” To show submission, I pull my first two fingers of my right hand past my forehead.
Lalo shakes his head. “No need, Tiadone. The Madronians don’t give R’tan any authority here.” He lowers his voice. “They keep us equal and fighting.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I hope your beginning’s a little easier than mine was. But then, no matter how tough the start is, the end is worse,” he says. Els rubs her head against his trouser knee as Lalo stretches his back and looks at the ceiling.
Of course! He’ll release his rapion shortly. My throat coats with bile, and I swallow the nastiness back down.
Lalo runs his fingers through Els’s crest. She leans her entire body into him when he pats her side. Sniffling, he wipes his eyes on his shoulder. “Sorry about that.” He smiles weakly.
I nod and Mirko gently clucks. That brings a grin to Lalo. Rubbing his face, which now likely rivals my own in redness, he says, “After six days at the Lookout Tower, I’m ready for sleep. Good night.” He moves down the passage with Els close at his side.
“Night,” I call. Inside our alcove, I crawl onto our shelf.
Ratho leans over and eyes Mirko. “You were unnaturally separated,” he says in that superior tone he knows I hate. I roll my eyes until he pulls from sight. Thae whisks her tail up and away.
Fool, I rebuke myself. I must keep Mirko close. It’s not like I need more to fuel doubt in our abilities.
I climb onto my bed and dust off my feet. “You have to stay at my side, Mirko,” I whisper. He chortles and pads around in a circle before squatting in a lump. We don’t need any more difficulty. Our pack is full!
I curl on my side. Of course Lalo’s right, though. Nothing will be as bad as the end of Perimeter.
CHAPTER 16
FIRST DAY
A drum sounds, mimicking the beat for Weekly Ritual. I open my eyes to dimness and stone. Mirko scratches his tiny ear hole beneath his feathers with a talon while I groan and sit up. Patrol! I inhale. My centerself beats double time to the drum.
I leap from bed, toss my poncho over my head, then cram on my gritty socks and boots. Ratho jumps down with Thae as Mirko swings to my shoulder. We grab our packs and hustle into the empty passage, my stomach grumbling loudest. “Did you miss evening meal also, Ratho?” My question flies free before I can censure it.
“Yes,” he answers, maybe out of habit only, but it is good to hear his voice first thing this morning.
We run headlong into the misty dawn. Before us, the scrub desert stretches out to the dunes that roll to the horizon. The other boys are going through their packs at the edge of the Common, beside a shimmering spring bubbling from a Four-Winged Condor statue. The water spills out of the curved creature’s mouth and splashes into a runnel down its tail.
I don’t spot Lalo to ask for direction. “If I’m remembering, the far entrance is for meals,” I say, pointing. Ratho barges past, and I run after. Our rapion cling tightly.
We bend and enter but come to a halt. In the immense room, fire pits glow behind an empty, sunken eating area. The Madronian cook’s gnarled black beard rests on his stained apron. Into a great pot, he pares a tuber while a lanky R’tan sweeps the eating ring. His bald head sprouts a little tuft from the crown, the mark of apprenticeship.
“Excuse me,” I say. The two look over at us, my amulet stopping them in place. “We are the initiates, and we were told this is where we’d find our morning meal.”
The bearded cook recovers and smacks the side of his knife on the cutting board. The apprentice laughs outright.
“Where might we find food?” Ratho asks.
“There is none until tonight,” the cook says, licking a bit of something pulpy from the back of his hairy hand.
“But the drum just sounded,” I say. “We came quickly.” Mirko adds a low grumble that leaves the cook and apprentice gaping.
A towering Madronian ducks into the cave from an opening to the right. “So here are the initiates.” His long braid is fed by a full head of slick brown hair. First, he flips the tight coil round his neck and over his shoulder, then he crosses his thin arms. “I am Govern Droslump.”
Ratho and I make a gesture of respect. What will this man do for us? His
delicate eyebrows point down to his long, thin nose. As he saunters closer, his floor-length tan cloak drags about his feet, making the embroidered condors along the edge dart and withdraw. The cook and apprentice sidestep from the room.
“You’ve missed the meal generously offered,” Drosump murmurs. I lift my chin, but my stomach groans its hunger loudly.
Ratho bows his head. “We came at the drum, Govern.”
The Madronian narrows his eyes. “And that means you are tardy.” He stops in front of us, flicks my amulet with a long fingernail, and then slaps Ratho’s face. My fists curl, though I don’t even have a second more to react before the govern strikes my cheek next.
Ratho and I jerk our heads straight. Mirko growls, and Thae writhes. This man is a brute! A Madronian no better than Sleene. Play the game flits to my mind — Father’s reminder.
“So this is the Singer,” he grumbles.
“Mirko,” I say, and refuse to take a step backward.
“Interesting.” He clicks the tips of his nails together. Pulling his gaze from my rapion, he says, “The meal is over, and you are bound to be late for your briefing. Report for clothing issue before I administer serious correction. This is a poor beginning, initiates.”
We salute the govern and back out of the cave. His stare remains on us until we turn into the open air.
I curse. “How unfair was that?” I ask Ratho, who rubs his cheek.
“Completely,” he mutters.
Across the Common, Lalo washes his face at the spring. A few boys fill their water sacks along the curved tail while others scrub their teeth with tooth sticks.
“Tiadone and Ratho.” Lalo waves while Els preens at his feet. We jog to him. “So you’ve found meals are early and correction quick?” The other boys at the spring huff.
“Who cares about early? The food is tasteless,” a weed of a boy adds.
“True,” another partroller agrees, one much stockier.
“But I’m starving,” Ratho tells Lalo.
He grasps Ratho’s chin and examines his cheek. The redness is now a welt. What does my face look like? I dip my hand in the water and draw it to the sting.
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