Killashandra (18 page)

“I’m here.”

Holding tight to her hand, he pulled her into a lope. Then, pushing at her shoulder with his, he guided her at right angles to the beach, up toward the thick shadow of the polly grove on the headland, near where she had beached that morning. When she tried to slow his headlong pace, his hand shifted to her elbow. His grip was electric, his fingers seemed to transfer that urgency to her and anticipation began to course through her breast and belly. How they avoided running into a polly tree trunk, or stumbling over the thick gnarled roots, she
never knew. Then suddenly he slowed, murmured a warning to be careful. She could see him lift his arms to push through stiff underbrush. She heard the ripple of a stream, smelt the moisture in the air, and the almost overpowering perfume emanating from the creamy blossoms before she followed him, pushing through the bushes. Then her feet were on the coarse velvet of some kind of moss, carpeting the banks of the stream.

His hands were urgent on her and the initial physical attraction she had felt for him was suddenly a mutual sensation. He put her at arm’s length, staring down at her, seeing her not as a vessel from which he expected the physical relief, but as a woman whose feminity had aroused an instinctive and overpowering response.

“Who are you, Carrigana?” His eyes were wide with his amazement. “What have you done to me?”

“I’ve done nothing yet,” she replied with a ripple of delighted laughter. No one else had awakened such a response in her, not even Lanzecki. And if Lars had somehow sensed the crystal shock in her, so much the better: it would enhance their union. She had been celibate far too long and he was partly to blame: the consequences were for both to enjoy. “Whatever are you waiting for, Lars?”

A
light, almost tender, finger touch on her shoulder, just where the star-knife had sliced her flesh, roused Killashandra from the velvet darkness of the deepest sleep she had ever enjoyed. She felt weightless, relaxed. Despite her having led an uninhibited private life, Killashandra was inexplicably possessed by shyness, a curious reluctance to face Lars. She didn’t want to face him, or the world, quite yet.

Then she heard the barest ripple of laughter in the tenor voice of her lover.

“I didn’t want to wake up either, Carrigana …”

Loath to perpetuate any lies between them, she almost corrected the misnomer but she found it too difficult to overcome the physical languor that gripped her body. And an explanation of her name would lead to so many more, any of which might fracture the stunning memory of the previous night.

“I’ve … never …” He broke off, his finger tracing other scar lines on her forearms—crystal scar (and how could she explain those at this point in a magical interlude)—down to her hands where his strong tapered fingers fit in between hers. “I don’t know what you did to me, Carrigana. I’ve … never … had a love experience like that before.” A rueful laugh that cracked because he couldn’t keep it soft enough to match his whisper. “I know that when a man’s been troubled, a normal reaction is to seek sexual relief from a woman—any woman. But you weren’t just ‘any woman’ last night, Carrigana. You were … incredible. Please open your eyes so that I can see you believe what I’m saying—because it is true!”

Killashandra could not have ignored the plea, the sincerity, the soul sound in his voice. She opened her eyes. His were inches away and she was gripped by an overpowering surge of love, affection, sensuality, empathy, and compassion for this incredible and talented young man. Relief was mirrored in the very clear blue of his eyes: a morning-lagoon-in-sunlight clear blue, as vivid as the sea could sometimes be. Relief and the sudden welling up of tears. With the shuddering sigh that rippled down his body, so close to hers, he dropped his head to the point of her shoulder, just above the knife-scar. When, at length, he confessed that he had caused it, she would willingly forgive him. Just as she was willing to forgive him her abduction, for whatever marvelous reason he might submit. After last night, how could she deny him anything? Perhaps last night had been such a unique combination of emotional unheavals that a repetition was unlikely. The prospect made her smile.

As if he sensed her responses—he had certainly sensed them last night—he lifted his head again, anxious eyes searching her face. She saw that he was not unscathed,
for his lower lip was red and puffy as he tried to echo her smile.

Then she chuckled, tracing the line of his mouth with an apologetic finger.

“I don’t think I can ever forget last night happened, Lars Dahl.” Would she ever find adequate words to record
this
on her personal file at Ballybran? She let her finger drop to his jaw. His grin became more self-confident, and his fingers squeezed hers lightly. “There’s one problem …” His face tightened with concern. “How long will it take us to recover to try it again?”

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.