Killashandra (19 page)

“Mind you, Comgail did not intend to be a martyr. But he didn’t draw back when the moment was on him. So the Government was forced to apply to the Heptite Guild for a complete and very expensive new crystal manual. And this is where Comgail’s sacrifice becomes relevant; he was also the only technician on Optheria capable of installing the replacement. They’d have to have the services of—at the very least—a highly skilled technician or ideally a crystal singer to make the repair. Once the crystal singer was on Optheria, we’d make sure there’d be an opportunity to present our desparate situation and ask that it be submitted to the FSP Council. A singer has access to the Council, you know.”

“Go on, Lars …” A nasty suspicion began to form in Killashandra’s mind, recalling Ampris’s snide remarks about islanders.

He inhaled, closing his eyes briefly against unpleasant memories. “The crystal singer arrived on the
Athena
the day after my audition. Only the Elders weren’t sure of her identity.”

“That sort of i.d. cannot be forged, Lars.”

He gave a contemptuous snort. “I know it, you know it, but you must also know how paranoid our Elders are.
And Torkes is now in Communications.” Again his words elicited a nodded reaction from her. “Oh, the urgency behind this slight favor was subtly presented to me. A crystal singer is known to have great recuperative powers. A minor scratch would be no inconvenience to a crystal singer but would unconditionally reveal an imposter. Since islanders are known,” his voice dripped with sarcasm, “to live primitive and violent lives, accustomed to handling dangerous weapons, it was thought that I was admirably suited to perform this small favor for the Masters, in return for their reevaluation of my composition.”

“And did they promise you immunity from reprisal as well?”

“I’m not quite that naive, Carrigana. They did not require a frontal assault. So, I picked a window on the upper storey where I’d have a good view of the arrival. I’ve been winning competitions with the star-blades since my father first allowed me one. A simple flick and the blade angles at the right trajectory. It caught her on the arm. I think a little higher than I’d planned for she moved just as I had completed the throw.” His was expression was chagrined and he gave Killashandra a quick defensive glance. “Oh, she was all right, Carrigana. I scooted round to the infirmary the back way and she was walking out of the surgery without so much as a bandage showing.” He smoothed her arm reassuringly. “Crystal singers really do heal with unbelievable speed. She seemed more annoyed with her escort than the incident.

“The next morning, of course, I was told that on due reconsideration, the Masters had to abide by their original decision. The omnipotent, omniscient Masters, speaking from their immense and encyclopedic knowledge of all forms of music and their total understanding of the universe and Man’s sublimal relationship with the
Natural World, do not believe that this facet of Optherian life needs to be celebrated at any point in the year, certainly not during the Summer Festival when off-worlders might possibly hear something evoking a valid Optherian subculture and more original than variations on the usual pre-predigested pap that ‘accredited’ composers churn out.”

“Stupid, insensitive, unimaginative, flatulent fardlings!” Killashandra’s derision was slightly colored by hearing the details of the ‘outrageous’ attack, and by the realization that her instinct about Ampris’s specious assurance was quite valid. “They’re so old they’ve lost the energy enthusiasm requires; they couldn’t possibly recognize imagination.”

Lars smiled at her vehemence. “So, despite all their promises and assurances, I was given a ticket back to Angel as a reward for my unmentionable service, and told to be out of the City on the evening oceanjet. Guardians were there to be sure I boarded, which I did. After a stroke of incredibly good luck.”

He turned his face fully to her then, his lips lightly compressed as if controlling amusement, and the sparkling of his eyes indicated that he had considered confiding in her. As much as she hoped that he might, she wished fervently that he would not. For his honesty would require the similar courtesy from her.

“Lars, I don’t mean to be a spoil-sport, but something occurred to me. A star-knife is an island blade, isn’t it?”

“Yes …” He regarded her, suddenly alert.

“And if an island blade was responsible for wounding the crystal singer—even if it healed rapidly—would that not prejudice her against listening to your problem?”

“A good point. The Elders don’t miss many tricks, but that ploy would not have worked. Nahia and Brassner were going to speak for us.”

“
Were
going?”

“Yes, I did say that I had a stroke of good luck,” and he clasped her hand with a firm grip, his clear blue gaze fixed on the thick bushes. “Nahia and Brassner will now have an even better chance to present our situation.” He sounded so confident that Killashandra would have given much to be privy to his plans. “You’ll see.”

“Since I’m being candid, let me tell you that you’ve been rather indiscreet confiding in me, Lars. You don’t know me—”

“Don’t
know
you?” Lars threw back his head and guffawed. He clasped her to him, rocking her in his arms, roaring with laughter. “If I don’t, young woman, no one ever will.”

“You know what I mean. Who were you talking to last night on the beach? He’s not an islander.”

“Oh, him? Corish von Mittell-something. No, he’s not an islander. In fact, he could be very useful …” Lars paused a moment in thought, and then shrugged it off. “He’s looking for an uncle. Father asked me to help him, take him on my next swing through the islands. Frankly I don’t think the uncle came this far out: doesn’t sound like a man who’d want this sort of life style.”

“Are you sure this Corish is who he says he is?”

Lars eyed her with some interest. “Father’s sent for an i.d. verification. We’re not so haphazard as all that in these islands, you know. There’ve been snoopers before. Father’s got a sixth sense about the breed and that Corish tilted it. Oh, he says he came in on the
Athena
, and he sounded as if he’d made the trip on her.” Then he added in another tone altogether, “I’m glad you worry about my safety.”

He smoothed back her sun-bleached hair, fingering the strands before he patted them in place, his whole face softening as once more he fell in her thrall. Then he relaxed, lying back again, hands under his head, his eyes intent on her face, a very tender smile playing at
the corner of his lips. “Anyway, everyone on Angel dislikes federal interference as much as we do. I studied under a master of heresy. My father. The duly appointed harbor master of the Angel Island archipelago and federal representative. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.”

“Your father’s the harbor master?”

Surprise registered blankly on Lar’s face. “Of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that?”

“I do. I didn’t.”

“So, if you really insist on going back to the City, you’ll have to be very nice to me.” He was smiling as he gently reached for her arms to bring her down to him.

“Oh?”

“
Very
nice to me.”

“Are you able for it?”

He settled her into the curve of his arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his cheek against her hair.

“When you are, beloved.” Then he yawned and, apparently, between one breath and the next, fell asleep. For another long moment, Killashandra heard the singing in her blood and for once did not regret its murmur. She repositioned her arm on his chest, placidly noting that the fine hairs across Lars’s pectoral muscles stirred upright. Well, they had more energy than he or she did. She closed her eyes and was also claimed by sleep.

Shouts startled them awake: the cheerful calls and laughter of people fishing on the beach. Killashandra couldn’t hear what was so exciting, but Lars smiled.

“A yellowback school has been forced into the cove.” He embraced her enthusiastically. “Once they’ve caught what’s needed, we’ll get our”—he looked about for the angle of sunlight—“our dinner. Hungry yet?”

“Hungry enough to go right out there bold-faced …”
She made as if to rise, for her belly was almost painfully empty.

He pulled her back flat beside him, kissing her half-formed protest into silence. His eyes were unsmiling as he then gently stroked her cheek.

“My dear girl, with those bruises on you, I’d be hauled up in front of the Island Court and charged with rape.”

“What about the marks on you?”

“You resisted my improper advances—”

“And you made enough of those—”

“Precisely what the bruises say. So, since I have a reputation to maintain in this community, we will remain secluded.” He emphasized this decision with a gentle kiss. Then he stroked her hair back from her forehead, his fingers lingering in the soft gold-streaked mass. “I don’t wish to share you yet, share even the sight of you with anyone. If I believed the ancient tales of witchcraft, sorcery, and enchantment, I’d name you ‘witch,’ so I would. But you’re not … though I am completely spellbound …” His fingers became insistent, and his expression was an urgent appeal. “D’you think you could possibly bear me … if I’m very careful …”

She chuckled and linked hands behind his head to bring his lips to hers.

The fishers were long gone before they finally got around to fishing. Together they waded out through the gentle tide.

“Stay here, Carrigana,” Lars directed, “and make a basin of your skirt.”

She did, first wringing water from the voluminous folds. Lars was thigh deep in the water when he suddenly bent down and scooping with both hands sent water, and fish, flying at her. She missed the first lot, laughing at her ineptitude, but neatly caught two fish in the second. After three more catches, she had to hold
up her skirt lest the active yellowbacks flip out. Lars splashed back to inspect her catch, grinning at his success and her bemusement.

“This one’s too small.” He released it. “Two, four, six, seven. How many can you eat? Shall I get more?”

Before she could answer, he dove back toward his vantage point, and peered down into the clear water. With one last mighty heave, three big yellowbacks were sent flying in her direction. She cheered when she caught them in her skirt, closing the makeshift net and running awkwardly through the wavelets to the shore before any of the squirming fish could escape.

Helping her secure the bundle, Lars laughingly escorted her back to the bushes surrounding their secluded clearing.

“You clean ’em and I’ll get firing, and see what else I can scrounge,” he said as he held the bushes back for her to enter.

Gutting fish was not one of Killashandra’s favorite chores, but she had finished half the catch before she realized it, washing them clean in the little brook. Lars was back as she slit the last one. In one crooked arm, he held twisted polly fronds that provided a quick hot fire, and another basket swung from his right hand. He found rocks by the stream to enclose their fire, hauled a frying sheet from the basket, and set out oil, seasonings, bread, fruit, and another pot of the soft island cheese.

The quick tropical night had settled upon the island, enclosing them more securely in their clearing as they finished their supper, licking the last of the juices from their fingers.

“Going to be nice to me?” Lars asked, leering dramatically at her.

“Maybe I’ll just stay in the islands.” Killashandra
surprised herself with the longing in her voice. “There’s all I could possibly need just for the taking …”

“Even me?”

Killashandra looked up at him. Despite his light words, his voice held a curious entreaty.

“I would be a right foolish dolt to consider you part of the taking.” She meant it, for quixotic though the man might appear, she sensed that Lars had an unshakeable integrity which she, or any other woman, would have to recognize and accept.

“We could stay in the islands, Carrigana, and make a go of the charter service.” Lars, too, was caught in the same thrall which infected her resolve. “Sailing’s never dull. The weather sees to that. It could be a good life, and I promise you wouldn’t have to hack polly!” His fingers caressed her hands.

“Lars …” She had to set the record fair.

He covered her lips with his hand. “No, beloved, this is not the time for life-shaping decisions. This is the time for loving. Love me again!”

T
he idyll lasted another full day and into the early morning of the third, during which time Killashandra would have been quite willing to forego all the prestige of being a crystal singer to remain Lars’s companion. A totally impossible, improbable, and impractical ambition. But she had every intention of enjoying his companionship as long as it was physically possible. She was haunted by memories of Carrik and, as such traumas can, they colored, and augmented, her responses to Lars.

It was the change in the weather which necessitated their return to society. The drop in barometric pressure woke Killashandra just before dawn. She lay, wide awake, Lars’s lax arms draped about her, his legs overlapping hers, wondering what had returned her so abruptly to full consciousness. Then she smelled a change in weather on the early morning breeze. It had not occurred to Killashandra that her Ballybran symbiont would be agitated by other weather systems. And she
pushed her sensitivity as far as she could, testing what the change might herald.