Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  CHAPTER 51

  SEARCHING

  When I finally reach the mesa, my legs shudder and give way. Mirko flies down to me as I tumble to the sand, my body a series of jerks and my arms nothing but twitches. “I’m fine,” I rasp to Mirko, now nuzzling my neck.

  A Baltang boy steps out of a latrine stall and cries for help. “Tend to Ratho,” I shout to him. I close my eyes to the coming chaos. Thudding feet pound the ground as I slip away from the horror of Ratho’s loss.

  I wake on my shelf with Mirko asleep at my neck. A moan rises from my throat. The muscles in my back and neck are knotted, and my ankle throbs. It is clear I’ve been drug here and left.

  “Ratho?” I rasp. Mirko opens an eye and blinks at me. I nudge him off, and he curls tightly in his sleeping bowl. I sit up. Our alcove spins despite how I hold my head between my hands. “Ratho?”

  I sway to my feet but find the top shelf is empty. My pack is on the hook beside Ratho’s. A rank, musk scent permeates the air. My own filthy clothes or the desert cat’s heart? Whichever; I will deal with both later.

  I haul a waking Mirko into my arms, grab my pack, stumble into the hall, and search for my friend.

  Outside, the late morning air is a bit warmer. The cold snap must be moving past us. Beyond the empty Common, the Baltang boys drill with bolas.

  How can everything be so normal?

  I set Mirko down and wiggle my weak arms. He flaps his wings free of kinks.

  We plunge faces, hands, and talons into the condor spring. I avoid the eyes of the statue. My blasphemous questions about the Creator Spirit clunk in my mind until I swirl them away like the bloody water swirls down the trough.

  I fling my hair and hands, sending out a spray of water. Mirko drinks deeply. I’ll cleanse completely and change after I’ve found Ratho.

  I scan the area. In the fire circle, the remains of the cat skin and travois smoke. Out of respect for Thae, they must be burning the pelt. At least it gave me a way to move Ratho safely. On a stray wind, the acrid stench reaches me. “Burn to ash,” I hiss.

  I see no sign of my patrol partner nearby.

  “Let’s try the Eating Cavern, Mirko.” My heavy legs plod to the entrance, and Mirko beats his way inside. My eyes adjust to the dimness.

  Cook is slaughtering a boar on the large table against the back wall. Blood follows the gutted channels in the wood, spills into an open clay pipe, and dumps into the rinsing area. My stomach squishes.

  Standing beside me, Mirko rubs his head up into my palm. I brush his warm side. “Well met,” I say to the man’s curved back. He pauses with his butcher knife raised high and turns. “Can you tell me where I can find Patroller Ratho?”

  Cook grunts and tilts his head at the doorway I’ve only ever seen governs go through. He goes back to the boar and hacks a huge piece of muscle from the rump.

  “Thank you,” I mutter and hurry through the entrance. Lichen piles light the hallway, revealing rooms branching off both sides. Most have doors closing off my view, yet a few are open. Comfortable beds and chairs fill the areas. Paintings of the Four-Winged Condor decorate many walls, along with weapons and robes on pegs.

  I stop short. Behind a barely cracked door, Droslump kneels in what must be his private quarters. The room is large, cushioned, filled with tapestries and warmth. He sways and cries before an effigy of the Four-Winged Condor. Does he mourn Thae’s passing? I hear Ratho’s name and realize he’s singing a canticle for my friend’s recovery. I stand dumbfounded at his concern.

  “Patroller!” the Javelin Govern calls from behind me. I turn and step toward him, away from Droslump’s room.

  “I, I was looking for Ratho, Govern.” I stop before him. Mirko raises to his full height.

  The govern crosses his lean arms. “Infirmary was the first door to the left.”

  “Thank you, Govern.” I tap my fist to my chest. He nods acceptance and pushes past me to stride down the hall and around the corner. Why such help from the Madronians?

  I scuttle back to the clinic door. My mind hazes over the changes around me. It’s almost as if I haven’t really returned to the Eastern Mesa! I look over my shoulder, but Droslump isn’t bearing down on me. Madronians do believe an interrupted canticle harms the one sung for. Right now, I’m thankful for their superstitions.

  Mirko and I push open the red infirmary door and enter a large, white room filled with beds. All are empty but the one in the corner. Ratho is on his side facing the wall. We are alone.

  “Ratho!” I rush to him. Mirko lands on the sheets by Ratho’s feet, and I kneel next to his curled form. Ratho’s side is bandaged, as well as his leg, with clean strips instead of winder skins. His blood does not leak from the wraps. A pelvic undercover is his only clothing.

  On impulse, I tug the twisted sheet out from under Mirko and cover Ratho’s immodesty. He has the full body of a man now! Slowly, I pull the sheet to his chin. My friend grumbles and rolls onto his back. His glazed eyes stare into my own.

  “Ratho,” I cry, and stroke his face. He looks at me without sight. Disregarding my filthy clothes, I sit on the bed, work my hands beneath his shoulders, and lift him to me. His head flops against my collarbone as I rock him slowly. The sheet slips away, and I clench him close; my fingers wander over his broad back.

  Lips pressed into his hair, my anxiety and loss rack out of my centerself. Everything I suppressed in order to focus and bring Ratho to safety erupts. My heaving shakes him and must bring pain to his wounds, but his head only flops back, and his stare glances over me. His mouth parts. Shock from his separation?

  “I love you, Ratho,” I whisper and sob with abandon. My truth flows into the empty room.

  I lower him to the bed. With care for his wound, I drape my arms up around his neck, my twists tumbling every which way across him. I gently rest my face against his muscled chest. The beats of our centerselves wing quietly against each other.

  Mirko’s humming soothes my crying. The song massages my contorted face and softens it, while Ratho’s breathing becomes deep and smooth. I take a breath of cinnamon, and a wisp of peace twirls past. I turn my face, and I can’t stop myself from kissing the dip in Ratho’s clavicle.

  Mirko sidles close, and I sit up to see my friend’s eyes clear. “Ratho?” I whisper.

  “The Madronians … took Thae’s body … for a ceremony.”

  My joy drips away. “I supposed they would.”

  Ratho tears up. Mirko, who has never touched another but me, steps onto Ratho’s chest. With talons retracted, he hunkers and opens his wings. His beak brushes the underside of Ratho’s chin. Ratho’s body stiffens, and he stutters, “Mirko?”

  CHAPTER 52

  THAE

  Mirko’s mourning keen for Thae shrieks through my head once more while he rolls his head beneath Ratho’s chin. I reach under Mirko’s wings, grip Ratho’s waist, and look into his fearful face. He holds my gaze but covers his ears until Mirko’s pain slips to a song that begins faintly and builds. Shaking, Ratho reaches down and grips my hands. His eyes focus through me. What does he see?

  Transposed over Ratho’s face, I watch:

  Thae emerge from her egg,

  a small rapion

  wobbling in Ratho’s hands.

  Her first meal, a black-backed beetle.

  Her beak crunches

  the shiny shell.

  She rides within Ratho’s twists

  and flies first

  under the moon’s white roundness.

  Growing, she sleeps

  beneath Ratho’s nightshirt

  as his chest broadens

  and his voice deepens.

  She flies and hunts

  with greater skill and success.

  Thae quakes at Mirko,

  then loves him.

  Together

  they twine patterns of affection

  on the wind

  while Ratho has thoughts and dreams

  of Jenae,

  his body aroused
to hers.

  Thae fears the desert cat

  like nothing before,

  but fights with all her fierceness,

  wingtip to talon.

  Her last sight

  is Ratho’s face

  shifting through her tears.

  Now she fades again and disappears. My hands slip from Ratho while his fall from mine. Has he seen Mirko’s life as I have seen Thae’s? My rapion shoots above us.

  Dazed, Ratho’s hand lifts and caresses my cheek. I turn my head to the warm curve and my lips brush his open palm.

  With a shock, he sits up and grasps my amulet. “You, you love me!” he gasps.

  “As a brother!” I lie.

  “As a female!” he condemns.

  My body freezes. I can’t move. Even my eyeballs are stuck between wide open lids. I know now, without any doubt, that as I saw the vision of Thae’s life, Ratho witnessed Mirko’s. And in that intimacy, he saw my breasts bud, my bloods flow, and my desire bloom.

  But he would have guessed a declared male’s body would mature a female form. Wouldn’t he?

  Oh, but he felt my longing for him, maybe even my lust for Shiz. He certainly saw my dream, as I saw his. I knew he was attracted to that Jenae!

  Spittle collects in the corners of Ratho’s mouth. “Tia.” He hisses the feminine form of my name and shoves me hard. I break apart and crash off the bed. He clenches his side and groans, until curses fling from his mouth. I crouch lower.

  Mirko’s flapping wings still Ratho to silence. The vehemence flees from Ratho’s face and fright overtakes his brow. Mirko lands in my lap, grimaces at Ratho, and clicks his beak.

  I shrug Mirko off and bow my face to the floor. “Why, Mirko?” I groan. “Why did you tell my weakness, when I have the new cat heart? None of that will matter soon!” But I already know. Sharing our bond right now will heal Ratho from his separation. Mirko hops down by my side.

  I grovel, knowing my rapion’s generous gift may be my end. I will beg Ratho for my life. My outstretched hands quake. “Ratho, have mercy,” I whisper. “I am — declared male. I strive to live so. I took the desert cat’s heart to add to my amulet. It’s right here in my bag. Please.”

  Silence beats my eardrums. Mirko’s tail feathers sweep the floor.

  The sheets rustle. Mutterings flash from Ratho, half sentences of disgust and fear that burst and die. “Who cares what you are going to do? Already you have … and we played together for … we trained … our rapion … we have slept … the danger you have opened us to …”

  A long silence follows, in which my neck cramps. I look up feebly from the floor. My friend is hunched over his wounded side, weeping silently. I lay my hand on his trembling knee. When he doesn’t throw me off, I look into his sobbing face. “I have lost Thae,” he sobs, “and now my childhood friend, Tiadone.”

  I scurry onto his bed. “No, I’m here, Ratho!” But he passes out. I catch him and lay him down on his uninjured side.

  My sleeve is rough against my wet face. I check Ratho’s bandages. They are undisturbed, and his breath is even and slow. His skin does not burn with fever. It is only exhaustion now. I pat away his tears.

  “What if he tells?” I whisper to Mirko in a panic. “Does he forgive me?” I reach out to Mirko. “Will he tell?”

  My rapion blinks calmness and blows a whisper of air over my face. I nod slowly.

  All right. I will wait and try not to lose my mind with worry. Aside from getting the heart into my amulet, there’s nothing else to do. Nothing.

  I lay myself carefully next to Ratho, cupping him close for the moment I can, and he can’t resist. My friend finally knows my heart. He knows my love as I truly do.

  I rest my face in his clean, soft hair twists. There’s a strange weightlessness in my centerself. An open space for me to draw breath deeply. Despite what Ratho might choose to say when he wakes, someone knows my secrets now.

  Mirko flaps onto the bed and assumes a pose as if he is on a cairn at Perimeter. He will watch for anyone approaching.

  My anger over Mirko touching Ratho is gone. It is worth my friend’s healing to take this risk. Exhaustion sweeps through me. I fall asleep holding Ratho, holding and hoping, feeling my love fully before I staunch it completely with the cat’s heart.

  CHAPTER 53

  KINDNESS

  Mirko whistles. I lurch off the bed in time to see a tall Madronian woman, who must be the Nursing Govern, sway into the cavern. Her tan robes only reach her ankles, allowing me a view of her long pointed boots as she pads across the stone. Why is her face so familiar?

  She winks at me in passing, then checks Ratho: poking, prodding, and peering. He doesn’t wake. She straightens his sheet and turns to us. “So, we finally meet.” Her quiet voice tips like her gait. Her eyes glide over my amulet. “The cat slayer and his mighty Singer!”

  I blush and Mirko hums. Praise from a Madronian is absolutely bizarre.

  She steps close and clicks her tongue in admiration of Mirko. He lifts his head high. “A beauty.” She turns to me. “I am Healing Govern Madgea. You are Tiadone and Mirko?”

  An actual introduction? “Yes. But, Govern, is my partner going to be okay?” I blurt.

  “Ratho is unconscious, but he is stable.” She touches my arm. “You need to know his body is protecting his centerself from the separation. There is too much to grieve at once.” With two long fingers, she lifts my chin. “But how are you, young R’tan?”

  I swallow hard to keep my sorrow from bubbling up to her kindness.

  “You?” she repeats.

  “I am with health.” I sit on a neighboring bed, and Mirko perches at my feet.

  She intakes a quick breath. “You are not well!” She points at my torn boot.

  “It is only a small wound, and I bound it.”

  She tsks. “I told Govern Stuncier I wanted to inspect you, but he said you only required rest. You were deposited straightway in the Sleeping Cavern, and now I see you are wounded!” She mutters while she gathers a wash basin, cloths, salves, and supplies. Which is Govern Stuncier?

  She glides to my side and carefully draws off my boot. Fresh blood seeps up past the winder skins. Govern Madgea works at unraveling the clotted mess.

  I stiffen against the pain. Mirko presses my other leg and chitters. Once the wound is finally uncovered, the govern grimaces at the slash and tenderly bathes my leg. Gently, she pats it dry. An ointment slows the seepage.

  “There. Now a bit of you is clean,” she smiles. “And the wound is clean as well.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Next, she slathers numbing salve on the curved cut. Mirko and I watch her thread a needle.

  “Are you certain stitching is necessary?”

  She gives no answer, only knots the thread. I grip the mattress and look away. Sharp tugs and a bit of heat remind me the govern is stitching me like a grandmum darns socks. Even Mirko’s song can’t distract me, though the govern smiles at his notes.

  “There,” she says, pleased. “Twenty-two clean stitches.”

  “Thank you.”

  The hatched line curves along my ankle bone. I shiver at the thought of the cat.

  She grasps my knee. “You are safe.”

  I muster a weak smile. She dresses the wound. “Replace this after you cleanse, and keep the wrapping dry. I will give you plenty.”

  “Yes, Govern.”

  “I want you to return if you see infection. Otherwise, your silk plant stitches will dissolve and be absorbed. Your ankle should heal well.”

  I pick up my torn boot.

  “Stop at the Clothiers, when you can.”

  “All right. We’ll be back in sandals after the cold snap passes anyway.”

  “True.” She nods.

  I carefully pull on my boot and then look up at the govern. “Do you know what will become of us?” I whisper.

  She stands and tucks a loose strand of gray hair back into her leather tie. “Your friend will return to the village
and begin his apprentice work. Of course, the stigma held to his rapion’s death will cause him to be ostracized, most likely.”

  “Yes,” I agree. The govern washes her hands in a basin, then stacks her supplies and disinfects the needle. “Rapion death at Patrol where the twined survives happens so rarely. Generations pass without seeing an event like Ratho’s.”

  “But how would you know R’tan history as a Madronian?” I ask.

  She chuckles. “As you’ve seen, the governs are slow to allow any boys in the infirmary. I have much time to sit and read books from the Monast Temple.” She sees the question on my face before I ask it. “My brother, High Priest Sleene, allows me access to any work he isn’t currently using.”

  My eyes open wide. There is the familiarity in her face. “You are Sleene’s sister?”

  “Yes, High Priest Sleene.”

  “I’m sorry. Oblation for my disrespect.” I bow, and she waves away my gesture.

  “So, anyway, there are plenty of books my brother never touches, or intends to. I love to delve into other cultures. So many stories. So many possibilities.” She laughs at me. “What? Is my interest so odd, or is it that you think Madronians are kinless?”

  “No, I — ” There are still books in R’tania that weren’t destroyed? That aren’t merely Madronian drivel?

  She pulls me to my feet and hands me the package with supplies for my ankle. “I’m only teasing. Now for you. Apart from your ankle, you are truly well?” She turns me about, looking for other wounds.

  “I am fine. Not wounded elsewhere. Really.” She holds my gaze. “Only filthy,” I say and roll my lips inward.

  “I’ve never met a declared male before,” she says.

  I shrug, avoiding her eyes, and fiddle with my amulet.

  “Is there anything you might need — ”

  “No, I’m fine. I have … supplies.”

  “Good. If you have any questions, though, feel free to come to me.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and rush on, “Govern, what’s to become of me now without my partner?” Assuming Ratho keeps my secret.