My father and I approach the village square in the sunset’s pink blush. Torches flame along the sandy path, and sandalwood incense curls in the air. On my shoulder, Mirko shifts his weight from one foot to the other, anticipating our Initiation Ceremony. This quarter’s secondary school graduates enjoy a celebration tonight with their families. Boys vow their next day’s departure for Perimeter, and girls pledge their dedication to the temple. All will be able to see Mirko and I have twined. Maybe as Father wishes, others might declare their firstborn girls now.
Jitters run down my own legs as noisy chatter knocks against the sandstone buildings. We come round the corner and see the crowd in their most festive tasseled and striped clothes. I straighten my own zigzagged poncho, and Mirko ruffles his feathers into place.
Father boldly leads us into the party. He smiles at a group of married ladies with little hats cocked on their foreheads. The styles mimic the larger brimmed hats of their husbands. Hesitantly, the ladies nod back.
A couple of children run past in their Weekly Ritual finest, ponchos and bows flouncing. Yet, when they spot Mirko, they zip off like nervous Miniatae.
The acolytes stand apart in green robes trimmed in gold. Nearby, the few Madronian military are rigid in their helmets and vests, crossbows at hand. They remind us of our subjugation, even now.
A better sight is the food! Covering the tables are roasted geese, brown flat breads, and sweetened tubers. Warm oil rings the platters of meat. The desserts are honeyed pastries and edible flowers.
Making our way to an open table, conversations stream past. Parents brag about their daughters’ dainty Miniatae or discuss the wingspan of their sons’ Signicos. I spot a few girls across the courtyard whose rapion preen and flutter about them. The birdlets are adorable, but none seem as perfect as Mirko, I think, and he nuzzles my ear.
A quartet raises a tune on pipes and drums in front of the butcher shop. How is the grieving mother who lives next door? The one whose baby girl was taken?
Finally, we do have to inch past a group of Initiate Males with their beautiful Signicos, and they instantly quiet. Each bird is just a little different than the other. One deeper brown, another more golden. One larger, another bigger beaked. All staring. Is each boy and rapion relieved not to have to serve with me? Even though I’ve known Dwino, Col, Klane, and the others all their lives, and they know me almost as well as Ratho does?
Rippling outward, silence whooshes through the crowd. Even the musicians’ ditty peters. Obviously, Ratho has spread rumors of Mirko. I tighten my muscles to still the trembles.
As we expected, Mirko gathers himself up and belts out a greeting to all the other rapion. Most duck and hide in their bearers’ hair coils, but Father straightens his shoulders, and I try to do the same. We slice through the whispers licking our ears like sidewinder tongues and sit down at an empty table.
“The one who sings!” Sleene darts close. My throat pinches as I lean away from the leering priest whose eyes flit between my amulet and bird. The murderer’s wings graze my face.
When Mirko hunkers and growls a line of deep notes, Sleene gawks; his blue-lined lips move silently in prayer. Does he, too, think of the Featherless Crow? It doesn’t seem so. He looks more enamored, actually. I shiver. Finally, he steps away to an acolyte gesturing for his attention.
Sleene’s lust for a rapion is obvious. In the midst of the commotion and clatter, his eyes linger on Mirko, and occasionally slip to the other birds. The corners of his mouth glisten as he strokes his black wings.
The musicians resume their tune, and the noise in the square climbs again. Benches scrape the stone, and friends call to one another from table to table. The villagers take turns staring at me and Mirko, but he can’t be their only interest. There’s so much to speak of because the harvest has kept them from their regular gossip, and tonight is a celebration. Or could a few R’tan actually respect the memory of the Rapion Singer?
I sit in the whirl of sound while the birds flutter the air around me. Awe overpowers fear, and I absorb the moment, not dwelling on how the priest’s acolytes form a barricade around the seating area.
I grip Mirko’s scaly foot. Humming, he nuzzles my fingers with his smooth beak, and I nestle my nose in his neck feathers. This is our Initiation. Finally! It’s not as if Madronian law makes us serve; R’tan youth have performed this service for centuries. The Madronians just make the conditions harsher, and the soldiers we aid are theirs.
Mirko quiets as Ratho’s father enters the plaza, his heavy ram boots clomping. He knocks back his hat and looks for a table for his family.
Ratho’s little sister, Tleana, grasps their mother’s checkered skirts. Hanging from the girl’s neck, a red Miniata egg nests in a tiny crocheted pouch. She peeks at me and hides her face before she sees my greeting gesture.
Ratho pulls his eyes from mine, and my hope that his opinion of Mirko has changed drops with a thump. The family scans the square. Only our table has space for them.
“Greetings,” Ratho’s father finally says to mine after approaching. Father offers an open palm welcome.
They join us, but Ratho chooses a seat at the opposite end of the table. His damp hair drapes around Thae, who is settled on his shoulder. His hair is always so curly and soft right after he washes it. He catches me staring and a regretful look passes over his face. He misses me too.
With amazing forgiveness, Mirko sings a greeting to Thae, but Ratho and his Signico turn their backs.
I cover my pain and anger for Mirko’s sake. “They will come to know your worth,” I whisper to him. “We can wait out their foolery.” He chortles agreement and waddles. I wish I could believe myself and forgive as quickly.
Father’s friend Frana bustles over and slides in next to me. Her fleshy arm squeezes my waist. Mirko leans forward to see her and chitters. “Congratulations, Tiadone!” she exclaims. “Oh, he is the beauty among them all!”
I hold my hands in a cup shape to receive her shocking praise. “Thank you, Mistress.” Her enthusiastic nod bounces her short hair coils all over her head.
Sleene climbs the winding stairs to the podium clinging to the Monast above the great locked doors. The square quiets again except for Mirko’s simple song. A few people nearby turn and glare or steal another peek at him.
Sleene clinks his garment bells and bones, then leads a collective prayer to the Four-Winged Condor. “Let these initiates serve the country well, alerting all of danger. Let the females have visions and the males identify threat of the Triumverate. By your power, Four-Winged Condor.”
As if their god empowers R’tan youth! I restrain from spitting over my shoulder as Sleene’s acolytes return the responses many R’tan only mutter softly.
Finally, the prayers conclude, and we feast! I cram every worry and irritation aside. We are in public with Mirko. None have been rude, aside from staring. There have been no threats against us or seeming rejection. Soon, maybe even Mirko will seem as normal as the other rapion, like tonight, how a declared male is counted among the male initiates.
I eat my fill of roasted roots and mashed nuts over sidewinder. Mirko munches in my trencher, making his tail sweep happily in my lap. Father and Frana talk, occasionally including me, as all our bellies round with food.
When Frana turns and speaks with Ratho’s mother, Father reminds me, “There will be nothing like this spread at Perimeter.”
“For certain.” I wipe my mouth on my linen napkin. With that thought and just a bit of time left, I notice that no one is at the dessert table but one Initiate Female. I excuse myself and Mirko for seconds of currant pudding.
“Hello,” says the blond girl hovering by the sweets. Her gauzy pink dress floats just above her ankle boots. A newly hatched Miniata sits atop her head. The birdlet is as small as a sour cherry! I blush at the girl’s boldness. “I am Jenae.” When her brown eyes flit over my amulet, she doesn’t shrink back. She does glance about to see no one is nearby. “This is Zoae.” The birdlet bobs and swings down into one of Jenae’s elaborate hair loops.
“I am Tiadone,” I whisper. Mirko nips my ear. “And this is Mirko.” He twitters.
Jenae giggles and rocks on her heels. “He is amazing. Even more so with his song.” Mirko grins and chortles.
“Zoae is beautiful also,” I add.
“Thank you!” She hands me a bowl of pudding. “I envy you going to Perimeter!” she whispers in a rush, her breath damp with vanilla. “Be extra careful.” Jenae winks and hurries away from the approaching acolyte.
The priest’s guard stops before me. “Ready yourself for Initiation,” he says with a thick Madronian accent.
I bow and weave my way back through the tables. The villagers look when I pass, but I’d rather think on Jenae’s voice, so kind, like Frana’s. And she liked Mirko. See, Ratho! My rapion is worthy to serve. Others believe it. Can’t you? And she envies me going to Perimeter! Imagine!
I give up my pudding to Father. He and Frana wish me well, and I join the line of initiates. The families cheer while Sleene dabs his lips with his draping sleeve and leads us from the square.