The Blood-Rage (14) "The round one with numbers on it?" The tone of his voice seemed to say, "Give me the secret." "Yes. Study this dial carefully. You'll see it's really five concentric dials mounted one above the other. Each one moves independently, allowing the numbers from zero to nine to align with an index marked on the band. The total number of combinations is 100,000. Each combination is a different channel of information. Do you now see the difficulty in tuning the lok to the subject you wish to learn?" "No," his student replied. "Think, fool. Who can memorize 100,000 numbers and their corresponding subjects?" To Rasp, Darkcian suddenly seemed puzzled, as if wondering why he, Rasp, found that difficult. The young one said, "You can." Rasp smiled. "I know many, perhaps more than anyone else, but not all by any means." He sobered. "The designers of the lok foresaw this problem and made the last number, 99,999, a directory channel. Tune to that channel and a list of all subjects and their corresponding channel numbers will flow into your mind. However, if you are like most people, you won't remember them all when you awaken. For so vast is the directory, its information will become confused and jumbled in your mind. Therefore, you may have to repeat the process many nights in a row with the subject of your interest firmly in mind before you go to sleep. Then, perhaps with time, you will remember that channel's number when you awaken." "I understand. Thank you." "There are short lessons transmitted by the lok on sword fighting and the theory of combat. Learn them. Of course you'll learn a great deal more on that subject from Gravestone and myself, but . . . you need all the help you can get." "Yes, teacher." Darkcian's condescending tone made Rasp angry. It reminded him again of weakness. Suddenly he wanted to kill this . . . this kneeling pile of garbage that asks too many questions. Darkcian quickly rose to his feet, saying, "Until next light." He then turned and trotted away. His uneasiness growing, Rasp stood outside his cupola long after his young student had disappeared into the night. He felt that, somehow, he had missed something important in their exchange. Before next light, Darkcian had changed his lok's channel twenty-five times. Yet to his increased frustration, he didn't discover why Erendria had acted the way she did. Still, he did learn that, except in the highly disciplined act of mind-probing very young children, his fellow Agonians could not project their own thoughts to each other, only feelings and a presence of themselves. They didn't have the true capability of telepathy between themselves. Only with the mu-lynxes did they have complete communication. Why? Why? he wondered. CHAPTER 14 People cannot be truly free if they want something from someone else. So, if a person falls in love, he or she will be enslaved. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- The next six turns were spent on teaching Darkcian the way of the sword or, as Rasp called it, "The one true path." Erendria observed that the lessons were still hard, demanding, and usually painful. More and more, verbal instruction was used, even to the point of some long lectures on fighting tricks and combat theory. But mostly the lessons were taught with pain. Soon my turn will come, she thought. Rasp and her father would position themselves behind Darkcian and, without warning, draw their swords and swing the weapons in an arc that would have taken the young warrior's head off if the blades had connected. However at the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard, Darkcian would, seemingly without thinking, draw his own weapon and whip it around to meet and thus deflect the blows--the unsheathing of his weapon was now faster than either of his two teachers. They would then flail away at each other for a few minutes until one of the older warriors broke off the engagement. The blades were no longer swung with the intent that the flat sides of the weapons were to strike, but with the cutting edges. If each cut had not been parried, the mistake would have been the death of the one who made it. The lesson to Darkcian should have been clear: be alert, be quick . . . or die. With each turn, her amazement increased at the young stranger's progress. It was as if they were not really teaching him but rather opening up compartments within his mind where the knowledge already existed. His increased skill brought their increased respect. She hated that. Even worse--thinking back during one of those days at lunchtime--she had overheard her father remarking to her mother, "Second-love, unfolding before our eyes is a warrior, perhaps a sword-master." Patra had replied, "Sword-masters are rare. He enhances the power of our clan and his worth to Agon. I'd never have suspected upon our first sighting that one day I would regret the fact that we must kill him." "A waste," Gravestone had agreed. "It'll be more than that, much more," Patra had said with strangeness in her voice that had caused Gravestone to look at her more sharply. To Darkcian, all learning boarded on ecstasy; he couldn't get enough of it. The options to the solution of problems and the paths to the analysis of the things around him increased by the hundreds every hour, by the thousands with every turn. It was as if he was sifting sand through his fingers grain after grain until suddenly a diamond stuck in a crack. He would pick out the gem and look into the depths of its brilliance, seeing all the secrets there and making them his. Strange, he thought, once known, all new knowledge seemed so obvious. Except to sometimes watch him fight, he noticed that Erendria shunned him, not even looking or speaking to him. He hated that. He still wondered why it was so exciting to look at her and why it had felt so good to hold her and why . . . why she was so cruel. But with Patra it was somehow different. He thought: Patra smiled at me yesterday, and I don't know why. Was it a smile of pity? Of sadness? Of approval? Please let it be the last. Let me have done something right. But what? No matter, just something. I would welcome a whole day of beatings at Rasp's hand just to know that I pleased Patra in some small way, any way. For her smile was warmer than the suns. It made me feel good deep down inside. Why? Why is that? I could even stand having her do the beating, if afterwards she would smile at me. That noon, while they were all together, Patra saw Erendria's hand brush against Darkcian's accidentally. She watched her daughter tremble for minutes afterwards, whether from anger or desire, it was not clear; but she did know that the incident needed to be explored. Later, when the meal was over and the males had gone back to sword practice, she asked her daughter, "Why do you no longer seek to touch our young guest? Not long ago your hand was always in his." "It's nothing," Erendria mumbled. Her eyes flashed from quiescent to ice cold in one blink. Patra said sharply, "That won't suffice as an answer." Erendria, not speaking, stood with her back to her mother and savagely threw the bones of the meal far down the hill where the scavengers of the coming night would dispose of them. "Daughter," she prodded. Erendria turned slowly, and the pain and hate burning out of her eyes was shocking. Patra kept her own face passive only by the greatest effort. She had never seen her daughter so distraught. Knowing some kind of answer would now come sooner if she did not prod again, she kept the questions now racing through her mind bottled up and waited. "Mother-teacher," Erendria finally said. "He progresses rapidly. How much longer before I can kill him?" "You already know there's no exact answer to that. It will be when we learn the whys of him." "It must be soon. I can't wait much longer. His death or mine . . . soon. I want to look into his eyes after he's dead. I want to see the blank stare that only the dead have, that look that gazes into nothing. I want to see that hot, evil energy that now seems to pore out of his eyes fade into stillness. Or even better, for it to freeze into an eternal memory of pain." Patra stepped up to her daughter and grabbed the young one's left hand--she knew the right hand, the weapon one, is never touched without the risk of a fight, a conditioned reflex of all the warriors of Agon. She asked, "Is this hate for him or yourself?" Erendria drew her knife, and Patra jumped back. Her daughter cut the air around them blindly, swaying slightly. Patra saw that the other's eyes were not seeing; her daughter's mind must be turned inward. Erendria put the dagger's point under her own left breast and closed her eyes, seeming to retreat even further within herself, emotions obviously a whirl. "Both!" the young woman shouted. The word sounded torn from her, as if involuntarily. "I'm weak before him. I'm not fit to be a warrior. I've no discipline. He's taken my strength; he's taken my peace; he's made me desire him. Oh, God! I tried to stop the last from happening." "You have coupled with him?" Patra breathed, her voice just above a whisper. The alarm in her was now like the cold blade of a knife cutting deep and slowly along her spine. Erendria dropped her right hand to her side. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground. Only the lanyard around her wrist still gave her a connection to it. Patra was horrified. No Agonian ever lets go of their weapon. This more than any other event she had ever seen in her daughter's life made the older woman cognizant of the depth of Erendria's emotion. "No," Erendria answered. "I didn't couple with him. He brought me to a climax without penetration." Patra felt weak with relief. She took a deep, cleansing breath and sighed. "Now I understand," she said. "Your father almost did that to me once." Erendria opened her eyes slowly and, as if coming back from a far distant place, focused them on her mother. "You know?" There was wonder in her voice. "Yes, I know. Now think. Clear away the anger and think. Haven't you desired him from the very beginning?" Erendria clenched her eyes shut again and let her head fall backwards. "Yes," she admitted, "I've always wanted him with a heat. It's been like a sickness." "You see. Your anger and shame are unfounded. He didn't conquer you. He's taken nothing. You've merely opened yourself to a basic need that all rationals have. It's all very simple." "Simple?" "Of course. You're twenty-one. The desire for a male at that age is natural. He's just the catalyst that brings it into focus." She sighed again. "Partly this has been my fault for keeping you isolated from males. Yet I did that because of the danger mating can bring." "Danger? What?" Patra approached her daughter. She first put an arm around the younger one's shoulders and then stroked her daughter's head, sliding fingers through the red strands. "The danger from coupling with any male is that it can bind the two together until they pledge their minds to each other. To love and then have that love torn away is worse than tearing off your own right arm. You know that he must die when he reveals how he lost his memory." She felt Erendria shudder. Was it from pleasure or pain, she wondered. "It never leaves my mind," her daughter whispered. Patra broke contact between them and warned, "Don't ever let it leave, or he could break your heart." Erendria did not answer. Patra turned away and scanned the horizon. Instinctively, she suddenly realized that they both needed to occupy their minds with something else. Too much analysis on any problem tended with time to obscure or twist the problem, especially if it was an emotional one. She said, "Pick up your dagger and call for two mu-lynxes. Let's go hunting." That night, to Darkcian's relief, they all ate well. He was not as fatigued as Rasp or Gravestone, even though the other two had only fought half as long as he. With increased skill, he was able to expend less energy, to be more efficient. He didn't need to suck energy from the elements again. And that was a relief because the inner voices made him feel guilty when he did. As the meal ended, he listened as Rasp spoke, "We've stayed at this camp site too long, six turns. Already the grass lays flat upon the ground from our treading. If we stay much longer, some of it will die; and we'll thus violate the Fourth Law of Agon. It's time we moved on. We can bury all of your earlier spoils of victory, the swords and cupolas, for use at a later date." "I agree," Gravestone said. "Agon mustn't show the signs of our presence. Let the grass live and flourish. Better that we should die instead." They all nodded at the reciting of the old adage, even Darkcian. "Tomorrow," said the old warrior, "let's ride into the suns-rise and seek the ones who will kill us." They all nodded again except Darkcian. He did not under- stand this searching for death. It was a great puzzle. But to the others he knew better than to voice such a thought and instead raised his left fist and said, "To the perfect death." "To the perfect death," they all echoed with fists held high. Although he had mouthed the words, Darkcian did not believe in them. I'm different, he thought, Why . . . why? CHAPTER 15 In the ranking of all things noble in humans, courage is probably the first . . . and the most foolish. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- There was a slight breeze this morning, warm and fragrant. And, except for high-scattered clouds, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. The riders, on their mu-lynxes, were headed poleward, away from the equator; and Darkcian was listening to Rasp complain about it. "To hell with the safety of our direction," the old warrior growled. "I want to fight a desert-spider come The-Long-Day, one of the eight-foot-high big ones that are only found in the Desert-of-Grief." Patra scolded him with, "It's not prudent to put Darkcian in danger just because you have a death-wish. You know the heat will be less severe the further we are away from the equator. Has his rapid progress made you forget that he has much yet to learn about Agon and is, unfortunately, still vulnerable?" The old warrior looked across at Darkcian who was returning his gaze. As if caught doing something wrong, Rasp looked away quickly and snapped, "The young one will learn the dangers of The-Long-Day in time, I'll wager. He'll know its ways quickly, as he now knows the ways of the sword." Darkcian was studying Rasp when, suddenly, the old warrior's right hand became a blur as he drew his sword in an upward movement and a fraction of a second later struck downward. The blow hit the tiger-fanged boar in the face, killing it instantly. So intent had Darkcian been in listening to the banter between Patra and the old man, he had missed the lightning-fast approach and attack of the beast. So quick! he thought, turning to face the scene fully. He surmised that the animal must have been racing at them from an oblique rear angle. I must tune my senses to the fainter sounds and sights of Agon, he thought, or I'll not long survive those things that want to eat me. Apparently it's fatal to focus one's attention on just one thing so strongly that other senses are ignored. Survival, like all things, appears to be a complex array of sensory inputs and analysis. They all stopped to cook and eat the animal, ripping and cutting the almost raw meat from the carcass and shoving the hot pieces into their mouths. To Darkcian, the meat did not taste as good as herbivorous animals, but it was still satisfying. On their way again, Rasp spoke to him. "Never relax your vigilance, student. For example, look closely at these flowers we are riding beside. Although purple like that field over there," he pointed back the way they had come, "these have a broader petal and--look below the petals--four thorns equally spaced around the stem. The thorns are poisonous, not fatal to the mu-lynxes or us but very painful. Usually the mu-lynxes recognize the danger and skirt around such fields. So, you should never try to force your cat through a field of the poisonous thorns. The beasts would obey and be gravely injured." "I understand," he replied. Hidden dangers everywhere! "Good. It will take time, but we'll re-establish your memories yet." "Exclude me from your 'we'," Erendria said. "I want nothing to do with him." Rasp turned his attention toward Gravestone and said, "Is your daughter a member of your clan or not?" "A good question, old friend," Gravestone answered carefully. "I think she's setting herself up to go-lonely soon." Erendria bit out, "Very soon. Maybe before The-Long-Day if I have to put up with this old fart much longer." "Taunt me now while you may, pretty one," Rasp said. "Soon my time will come." He then ignored her, his anger like a flame in his eyes, burning . . . always burning. He looked to Darkcian as if he would explode if he heard another question from anyone. "What is The-Long-Day?" Darkcian asked, testing the fury he saw in Rasp's eyes. His boldness made his heart beat faster. Rasp hissed and his powerful legs squeezed his mu-lynx so hard that it leaped sideways. He then guided the beast ahead of the group and began to ride alone. Gravestone looked after the older warrior. He had a worried frown on his own face. Shortly he shrugged and said, "The question needs answering. There are eight seasons. They are caused by Agon orbiting our two suns in a figure-eight pattern. The rotational axis of Agon is always at a right angle to the plane of its orbit. This means that in any season a constant band around the center of the planet, called the equator, will be the hottest area of the planet and the poles the coldest.
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