The Blood-Rage (17) "Love? What is love?" She shook her head slowly sideways. "Ah, you poor creature. Love has the power to rip out your heart and give you more suffering than physical pain. Therefore I won't tell you what it is; that would be too cruel. In time, Agon will teach you its opposite, hate. And perhaps that's best." He was mystified by her answer and by the feelings he was experiencing because of his lack of knowledge. "My ignorance must be a shame to all of Agon. If you killed me, Agon would rejoice." "Killing you needn't be my concern." She re-sheathed the knife. "The Kalts will make sure you never breed." "You let me live, then, because you are selfish? You choose companionship over the laws of Agon. Both are against the laws of Agon." She was silent momentarily, and then laughed. It was a high, strange sound to him. He liked it. She said, "You have a knack of going to the heart of a thing." She sobered quickly and added, "Selfishness is the norm on Agon. Only between mother-teacher and daughter, father- teacher and son, is there sacrifice. What a pity you cannot remember your father-teacher. He would have taught you about love." Darkcian felt suddenly sad, not for himself, but for her. Her bitterness had to have a source. "Have you known love since your mother and father?" She answered swiftly, "Don't speak to me of love any more! Love is for fools!" Her voice had started to rise again in anger. Quickly, she drew her dagger and put it to his throat. "Tell me again how ugly I am," she snarled. "I don't find a friend ugly." Why does the word "love" make her angry? "I'm not your friend." She cut him then. Darkcian felt the sting at his throat, but he didn't flinch. "I would be yours, nevertheless," he replied sadly. He saw her eyes suddenly open wide. "I have just now noticed! Where is your sword? I saw the male of the triad give you one. No true warrior moves outside his cupola without his weapon. Haven't they taught you this yet?" "I'm admitting to being a fool. I didn't listened well to that lesson." "Idiot," she snarled. "You won't live a week upon this planet of predators." He leaned into the knife, thinking: A lesson of pain is the only kind I treat as important any more. Damn that Rasp. But she took the knife away from his throat and leaned against him, touching her cheek to the shallow wound and murmured, "You cannot be real. No one can act as you do. No one can befriend me. I’ve only know hate from others." "I'm flawed," he whispered into her ear. The smell of her hair was exquisite, like the fragrant wind itself, full of flowers and spices. She stepped back and touched her cheek. She then sucked her fingers, tasting his blood, he guessed. "My need for a friend is great, and I'm foolish to give in to such stupidity." She offered him her dagger. "Here, cut me, too. I accept this insanity. I'll be your friend." "I won't hurt a friend." "But you must. We are not balanced in the amount of pain we have given to each other." "I hit you." "Still . . ." her voice trailed off, and Darkcian saw her smile. Suddenly, he felt another bug start to climb up his leg. He shook it off and said, "Let's move. The night creatures have found us. And from now on, let there be a truce and peace between us. I give you my pledge not to knowingly hurt you again." Without another word, he started back in the direction of the Kalts. She fell in beside him. He felt that her silence was like a strange answer, neither yes nor no but somewhere in between. I've found a friend, he thought excitedly. Even if she kills me, it'll be worth the happiness I feel. They had walked for about an hour before he requested, "Tell me about yourself." "Perhaps I shouldn't. You won't like it." He remained silent. "All right. I never knew my father, and my mother was a healer." The last was rushed, as if afraid to be said. Darkcian raised his eyebrows. "The Kalts have great contempt for the latter. They say that healers are cowards and pain-lovers." "I'm not surprised. Most of Agon thinks the same. They never take the time to inquire into a healer's past to ask 'why'. It's too much effort, so much easier to condemn. I hate this common trait of man. "My mother was driven by the hate of males. When she was fourteen, three swords killed her parents and then beat and raped her. From then on, she spent her life searching for wounded men that she could nurse back to health and then kill at her leisure. This satisfied her desire for revenge. "It's strange, even while she was doing this, she knew it was wrong. Afterwards she would cry long into the night; and the next morning, she would make me swear never to be like her. In other words, she hated what she was doing but couldn't stop. Clearly, she was a tormented woman most of her life. Being addicted to killing will do that to you. "She died when I was only sixteen. But she passed on to me her legacy of hatred. And she taught me the dagger skills so that I would never suffer her fate." Her voice became hard as she added, "And I learned well, very well." "You've been lonely since sixteen?" He was amazed by the thought of how much strength that must have taken. "Yes. It wasn't as difficult as you might think. As I've said, she trained me well." "I think you also learned to love with her. Isn't that so?" She looked away from him and murmured, "She was my mother- teacher . . . after a fashion. One cannot help but love a mother, even though she was a healer." "And are you also a healer?" She walked in silence for a while. "No," she said finally. "It's not my way. I roam upon Agon alone. I don't search for the pain of others. And I kill only when others try to block my way or try to purify Agon according to their views. The latter are a pleasure to destroy." "Why don't you have a desire to destroy me?" She looked at his dark form. "I have a high tolerance for imperfection. Look at me." She turned away from him, shaking her head. "No. Of course it's too dark for that. In that, you're lucky." "You can't be all that bad. Your mother loved you." "My mother was crazy." He looked at her heat-shimmering form, finding interest in its play of thermo-patterns. "All rationals I've met since my awaking have expressed a desire to kill me. Only you are different. Why?" "I can't kill for their reasons. If I did, I'd have to kill myself." "You don't believe in strengthening the genetic quality of us humans then?" She's fascinating, he thought. "I believe more in my own survival, a survival not based on hypocrisy." "As I said earlier, you are selfish." She chuckled, but he was not sure she was amused. He quickly added, "I meant that only as an observation, not as an insult." "I understand. Your naiveté and lack of social skills are almost on par with mine. We're a pair, you and I." A warm glow filled him. "I agree," he said. "By the way, my name is Darkcian. Yours?" "Sulamith." "Sulamith of what clan?" "No claim of clan. I’m just Sulamith. I refused to identify myself by Agon's conventions. I'm an outcast. Piss on Agon." Her voice was hard and cold. Somehow that made him feel cold. Gods, he thought, emotions are so directional. They pull the heart up and down. Why? Why? Aloud he asked, "Sulamith, what's life about? What's its meaning? And why, when I ask this question, have others given me a feeling of disapproval? What is wrong with the question?" She turned toward him, and he could tell that she was puzzled by the questions. She answered, "I don't disapprove. People have been asking that question since humankind began; it's a normal conundrum. But there are many answers to it. Perhaps that signifies the deep puzzle most have in trying to come to grips with it. For me, the purpose of life is to create, to create in a way that improves upon what was created before, be it that of a child or of an invention or of a poem or a life lived. For example, if we can't grow beyond the level of our parents, we have held back humankind, perhaps even held back the flow life itself. Life as a collective thing is meant to grow, to progress, and to climb to the stars, if you will. Thus, life is not easy, was never meant to be. It was meant to be a struggle on purpose. And only those who have improved in some way over their predecessors will survive; those who haven't will not. If you haven't realized it yet, know that the universe is ruled by entropy and is, therefore, a hostile place. It’s out to kill you." Darkcian asked, "Then do you think that life is good, collectively, that is?" "Yes. When you put it that way, I believe it is." Darkcian jumped on that. "Then death is evil, for it thwarts the flow." "Only the death of those who have improved. The others should die. It's the rule of Agon." Suddenly a flash of purple-white light lanced through the sky behind Sulamith. They both gasped, he in surprise. "What was that?" he asked, as he watched her scramble for a small pouch strapped to her weapons-belt. He continued watching as she opened the pouch and took out something--it was too dark to see. And whatever it was gave off no infrared radiation; hence it looked black to him. She then draped this something over her body and suddenly disappeared from his sight. "What did you do? I can't see you any more," he declared in alarm. "I've donned my diode-cloth," she replied. "That flash in the sky was lightning. If it had occurred in back of you, instead of me, it would have illuminated my body and face." Her voice sounded strange as she added, "I wouldn't have wanted to put you through that." "That wouldn't have bothered me. We're friends. I would never think of you as being ugly." "I can't be sure of that," she snapped. "What do you know of horror . . . or beauty, for that matter?" "It doesn't seem to be something one has to learn. It either is or is not. My first view of the suns setting told me that." It disturbed him that he couldn't see her with his night-vision any longer. Where was she? From his left came her reply, "A human is not a suns-set. We are judged on more subjective terms, terms that are learned, sometimes shoved down our throats by a thousand years of prejudice." He turned to the left. "I have no prejudices. I was born ten days ago." She was silent for a long time. Darkcian began to suspect that she had left when another flash of light illuminated the night. She still stood before him, now clad from head to toe in a dead-black cloth. The only part of her not covered was her eyes, and they had reflected a blue flash for only a second. "What is lightning?" he asked, hoping it would happen again. He liked that blue color. "Electrical discharge from clouds that have built up a high voltage relative to the ground. Listen to the lok." "I liked the blue of your eyes," he admitted. She backed away from him. "No! Don't like anything that you see of me. I don't want that!" "Want it or not, I liked it." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I was wrong earlier. It does matter what you say." She turned then and ran from him, quickly fading into the night. Why do women run from me? he wondered. The sky flashed again in the distance. He glimpsed her once more, a black shape, small and distant. CHAPTER 17 Humans are strange. They think it's not enough to just die. Rather, they believe one must die well. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- Darkcian reached the cupolas as a gray, dim glow was starting spinward. The new-day's light allowed him to see that a thick bank of clouds obscured the sky. He stood and watched the movements of the changing weather, enthralled by the swift dynamics of it. He sensed her before she spoke. "You're up early this morning," Patra said as she strapped on her dagger and moved to stand beside him. "The sleep must have done you good. You look rested and strong." Darkcian turned to her and bowed. "But I became restless and rose early," he said, then added, "May your enemies fear you this day, teacher." Patra smiled. "You learn quickly." She looked up at the sky and wiggled her nose. "That ability will put you in good stead, for today there will be much more to learn than just sword fighting. Do you sense a difference in the suns-rise?" Darkcian looked spinward and with the increased light saw large gray-white clouds beginning to form. As they billowed upward at the top, the bottoms of their structures became darker, and now and then that strange light would flash within. He started to answer but Gravestone interrupted from behind, "Storm coming. Smell the air." He walked up to them, strapping on his sword. Rasp and Erendria joined him immediately. "Storm?" Darkcian asked. "He starts and ends all days with questions," Rasp snarled as he flexed his muscles. Erendria stifled a yawn and said, "He's the biggest of all questions." A gust of wind brought a shiver from Patra. She said, "Enough. Call some mu-lynxes. It's time we gave this campsite back to Agon. A long journey is shortened by early starts." They rode poleward, the wind at their right. From beside Darkcian, Patra spoke, "Do you feel the chill of the wind now, student? Soon water will fall from the sky, and you'll know what rain is. At the rate the clouds are building, it will be a hard rain and perhaps last into the night. Violent storms like the one coming are caused by rapid change in temperature. They occur throughout all of the seasons of Agon. For example, the temperature falls to sub-zero in Friosan's-Time and climbs to one hundred sixty degrees in The-Long-Day-Before- Summer, a change of some two hundred degrees in about four months. This causes storms of unparalleled strength. Probably as many people die from these storms as they do from the predators. Stay close to us so you don't lose your way."
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