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 forgotten 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.”