Lars Dahl burst out laughing, rolling away from her.

  “You may be the death of me, Carrigana.”

  Once again Killashandra ardently refretted using that particular pseudonym. She desperately wanted to confess everything and hear her own name on his lips, in his rich and sensual voice.

  “Like last night?”

  “Oh my precious Sunny,” he replied, his voice altering from spontaneous laughter to urgent loverliness as he rolled back to her, his hand gently cupping her head, fingers stroking her hair, “it was almost a death to leave you.”

  That he might be quoting some planetary poet, she discarded as unworthy. Her body and mind echoed the sentiment. Their exhausted sleep had been like a little death, it had overtaken them so completely.

  With total unconcern for aesthetics, her stomach rumbled alarmingly. They suppressed a laugh and then let their laughter blend, as they enveloped each other in loving arms.

  “C’mon, I’ll race you to the sea,” Lars said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “A swim to cool us off.” He rose lithely to his feet, offering her a hand.

  It was only when the light blanket fell from her body that she realized its presence. And noticed the small basket to one side of the clearing, the unmistakable neck of a wine jug protruding from the lazy stream.

  “I woke at dawn,” Lars said, hands on her shoulders as he gently inclined forward to kiss her cheek. “The wind was a touch chilly. So I got a few things for us. Could we spend today together and alone?”

  Killashandra leaned lovingly against him for a moment. “I feel remarkably unsocial.” She wanted nothing more.

  “You’ll barely look at me!” Lar’s voice rippled with amused complaint.

  Her hands began to caress him as his were gentle on her arms. Almost guiltily they broke apart. Laughing, they joined hands and pressed through the bushes toward the seashore.

  The sea was calm, the waves mere ripples flopping over at the last moment onto the smooth, wet sand. The water was soothing, soft against her body. Finally hunger could no longer be denied and they sprinted back to the secret clearing, patting each other dry, carefully avoiding the sorest spots. That morning Lars had acquired fresh fruits, bread, and a soft savory cheese as well as some of the flavorful dried fish that was an island specialty. There was wine to wash it all down. Lars had also had the wit to ‘borrow’ from Mama Tulla’s wash line a voluminous and comfortable kaftan for her and a thigh length shirt for himself.

  They were both hungry enough to concentrate on eating, but they smiled whenever their eyes met, which was often. When their hands touched as they hunted in the basket for food, the touch also became a caress. When all the food had been eaten, Lars excused himself with grave courtesy and pushed through the bushes. Trying to suppress giggles, Killashandra did the same. But when she returned to the clearing, Lars was making a couch of polly fronds and sweetly scented ferns. In silent accord, they lay down, spread the light blanket over their weary bodies and, hands lightly clasped, surrendered to fatigue.

  Once again the sensation of light fingers stroking the crystal scars roused Killashandra.

  “You were a long time learning to handle polly, weren’t you?” he said, his teasing tender.

  She sighed, hoping she could somehow, and, with reasonable truth, evade his natural curiosity about her. She daren’t risk a full disclosure even in the euphoria which still enveloped them.

  “I came from the City. I’d no choice about an island life or an education in polly planting.”

  “Must you go back to the City?” Apprehension roughened his voice, his fingers tightened on hers in an almost painful grip.

  “Inevitably.” She turned her face against his arm, wishing it were bare and she could taste the skin covering the strong arms that had held her with such love: which must hold her once again in love, preferably for a long, long time. “I don’t belong here, you know.”

  “I didn’t think you did,” and his reply was amused acceptance, “once you dropped the Keralawian accent.” She warned herself to watch what she said. “Where do you belong, Carrigana?”

  “Besides in your arms?” Then the honesty of the moment began to close in on her. “I don’t really know, Lars.” These moments were out of context with any previous part of her life on Fuerte or Ballybran: totally divorced from Killashandra, Crystal Singer. Pragmatically she knew the euphoria would end all too soon but the desire to prolong it consumed her. “How about you, Lars? Where do you belong?”

  “The Islands don’t actually hold me any more. I’ve come to realize that over the past few months. And I think that my father recognizes it, too. Oh, I’m partner in an interisland carrier service that’s reasonably profitable—useful to the islanders certainly.” He grinned. “But three years in the City at the Complex taught me discipline, order, and efficiency and the easy way of islanders irritates me. I can’t see me settling in to City life, either …”

  Killashandra raised herself on her elbow, looking down at his face. The muscles were relaxed but the strength and character in his features were not the least bit diminished.

  “Aren’t you going to appeal the Master’s decision?” Her fingers traced his clearly defined left brow.

  “No one appeals their decision, Carrigana,” he said with a contemptuous snort. Then he drew both eyebrows together: her finger followed to caress away his scowl. “They did, damn their souls to everlasting acid, have the incredible gall to suggest that, if I performed a slight service for them, they might consider. And like a childish fool I believed them.” Incensed by his memories, he swung to a sitting position, arms clasping his knees tightly to his chest, his mouth in a bitter line. “A real fool but so desperate to have my composition accepted—not so much for my own prestige as to prove that an islander could succeed at the Complex and to vindicate the support the islanders had given me during those years.” He twisted his torso around to face her. “You’d never guess what this slight service was.”

  “I wouldn’t?” Killashandra was quite certain what he would say.

  “They wanted me to make an assault on a visiting dignitary. Possibly the most important person to set foot on this forsaken mudball.”

  “Assault? On Optheria? On whom? What visiting dignitary?” Killashandra was astonished at the surprise and concern in her voice, a genuine enough response to Lars’s shocking statement.

  “You heard that Comgail had died, shattering a manual of the Festival Organ?” When she nodded silently, he continued. “You may not know that the damage was deliberate.” It was easy for her to react suitably, for a death involving crystal would not have been painless. “There are a lot of people who believe that they—we,” and he grinned humorlessly, admitting to his complicity, “have an inalienable right to leave this planet in order to achieve professional fulfillment. And that right should be enjoyed by more than disappointed composers, Carrigana. This restriction is stagnating intelligent people all over this world. People who have tremendous gifts which have no channel whatever on this backward natural mudball.

  “So, it was decided to manufacture a situation that would require the presence of an extraplanetary official. An impartial but prestigious person who could be approached to register our protest with the FSP. Oh, letters have been smuggled out but letters are ineffective. We’re not even sure that they reached their destinations. What we needed was someone who could be shown examples of this stagnation, talk to people like Theach, Nahia, and Brassner, see what they have been developing in spite of strictures of federal bureaucracy.”

  Lars gave a rueful laugh. “It’s rather depressing to realize how little Optheria requires. The founding fathers wrought too well. We’re a population expert in making do with the meanest possible natural resources. Good old polly!

  “It was Comgail who proposed what had to be done to force the government to bring in a foreign technician. A manual on the Festival Organ would have to be shattered. The Government would be forced to have that replaced in time for the Summer Festival tourists.

  “Did you ever realize how dependent the Government is on tourism?” His eyes glinted with malicious amusement. “Theach researched the economics. He can do the most phenomenal computations in his head—that way, there’s no written proof of his alienation from the Optheria way of life! That tourist income is absolutely essential to purchase the high tech items which cannot be manufactured here. And without which all the federal machinery would grind to a halt. Even the barrier arc at the shuttleport is fashioned from imported components.

  “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.