Killashandra (27 page)

“Don’t tell me you—who braves hurricanes, Elders, and Masters—feared my ranting?” She soothed the creases from his eyes. “I assume a role, Lars Dahl, from some opera or other. I play no role with you, no matter under what circumstances. Believe me. Let’s not lose a moment of what we have together!”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him and the hunger they both felt made them tremble.

“How are we going to make out, Killa, on board that cruiser? And back on the Mainland?”

“Oh, citizen!” Killashandra laid her hand gracefully against her bosom, fluttering her eyes, as much to keep back the tears as to embellish her assumed character. “When I trust to you my safety, where else shall you be but with me, wherever I go, even in my bedchamber? And have you seen where they quartered me in the Conservatory? You’ll see, Lars. It will all be arranged
my
way!”

By then they had reached an establishment with a modest sign spelling out “Teradia” in graceful lettering. Teradia herself greeted them, a woman as tall as Lars, with a supple, willowy figure, and densely black hair very intricately braided. Her skin was olive and flawless, the pale green pupils of her eyes appeared luminous: she was a superb testimonial to her establishment.

“Olav Dahl wants the very best for you, Killashandra Ree, and I myself will see to your care.”

“I’ll supervise,” Lars interrupted. “The bleaching must be …”

With a quick movement, Teradia placed one hand across Lars’s chest and eased him away from Killashandra, a look of mild disdain on her elegant features. “My dear boy, clever you may be in some of the ways of pleasing a woman, but this is
my
art …” she began to draw Killashandra away with her, “and you will allow me to practice it. Come, Guildmember, this way.”

“Teradia, that’s not fair.” Lars pushed through the door in pursuit. “I’m Killashandra’s bodyguard—”

“Here I guard her body, though from the look of her skin and hair, you’ve done a poor job—Sun-bleached, dry-skinned, waterlogged child.”

“Teradia!”

For the first time Killashandra had seen her lover rattled; she looked more keenly at Teradia. There was a twinkle in the woman’s eyes, though her expression did not soften at his exasperation.

“It is, of course, as the Guildmember wishes …”

“How do you do it, Teradia?”

“Do what?”

“Quell him.”

Teradia shrugged delicately. “It is easy. He has been reared to respect his elders.”

“What?” Killashandra peered more closely at Teradia’s face.

“She’s my grandmother,” Lars said with a disgusted growl.

“My compliments, citizen,” Killashandra replied, trying not to laugh at Lars’s discomposure. “I shall have your artistry to support me this evening—”

“And me!” Lars was emphatic.

So, under Lars’s eyes and occasionally with his help and company, Killashandra was soaped and bathed and massaged and oiled, and repairs to hair and nail accomplished, Killashandra fell asleep during the massage and later Lars fell asleep while Teradia tinted Killashandra’s hair and dyed her eyebrows dark again.

“It does make a considerable difference in your appearance,” Teradia said, surveying her handiwork. “I’m not certain which becomes you more,” she added thoughtfully. “You are a striking woman in either guise. Now,” she went on so briskly that Killashandra did not have to make any reply to this assessment, “we don’t have everything back from hurricane storage, but I know exactly where I put several unusual gowns that would suit your style and rank. Come this way, into the dressing room.”

Killashandra looked over her shoulder at the slumbering Lars.

“If he fell asleep in your presence, he is far more tired than he would ever admdit, Killashandra Ree. We will leave him so until he is needed to escort you back to Olav Dahl.”

By the time Teradia had garbed Killashandra to her satisfaction, which had nothing, Killashandra realized, to do with her own, Lars had awakened. He executed a double take at the vision before him, presented a properly stunned expression before he began to smile then nod with approval.

“In there,” Teradia said, flicking her fingers to direct him to another dressing room in the shop portion of her establishment. “We can’t have a shabby escort. Not that any will notice you.”

Killashandra began to frown, then the woman winked slowly and grinned. “That one is too sure of himself by half.”

“He’ll need it,” Killashandra said sadly. “Oh?”

But before Killashandra could say anything more, an unclad Lars had stormed into the room, waving a heavily embroidered, tissue thin, blue shirt and equally thin blue trousers.

“If you think I’m parading about like a stud on sale! When did I ever have the need to display—”

In one long stride Teradia reached the room, and scooped up a pair of blue briefs that had evidently fallen to the floor. She flourished them under his nose and then pushed him back into the room.

“Well, if that’s the case …”

Killashandra stifled her giggles.

“You only wanted to take the limelight …”

He poked his head around the door. “Not when I know Torkes’s proclivities. Then again,” he paused in the act of withdrawing his head, “he probably has the cruiser packed with his boys so I’m safer here than in City.”

“Who needs the bodyguard then?”

“Shall we have a mutual assistance pact? I read those were once very popular.”

“Done!”

Lars slammed open the door, strode across the room, and gathered her into her arms, beaming down at her.

“If you spoil her dress or make-up …” Teradia’s mock anger subsided as she became aware of the atmosphere between them.

Lars ached to kiss Killashandra as badly as she wanted to have his lips on hers. He sighed deeply and let her go. “You look regal, Killashandra! But I think I liked you even better on the beach at Wing! Then you were mine alone to enjoy!” His voice was low, his words meant for her, his sentiment unhindered by his grandmother’s presence. “You have outdone yourself, Teradia.” He pulled the woman close, and kissed her cheek.

Killashandra felt relief that there would be another sane and well-adjusted person to help Lars when she had returned to Ballybran.

“Now we had better go, Killashandra. The cruiser will have docked!”

Killashandra thanked Teradia as warmly as she could, wishing that the woman did not dismiss so casually her genuine gratitude.

As they started to retrace their steps to the Harbor Master’s residence, Killashandra was instantly aware of an alteration in the ambiance. Far below the squat bulk of the cruiser jet did much to explain the change, looming as it did, gross and menacing, its white ovoid hull diminishing the graceful fishing vessels. The slanted superstructure, the little nodules of its armaments, and the sprouting whiskers of its communications and surveillance equipment added to its menacing presence.

Killashandra unconsciously hugged Lars’s arm. “That is a very deadly looking machine. Do they have many of those?”

“Enough!”

“Can Nahia and Hauness escape it?”

Lars chuckled, relieving his own tension and reducing hers. “The
Yellowback
is smaller and faster, highly maneuverable and could slip through reefs that would ram the cruiser. Once they’re away, they’re well away.”

Killashandra could see the coming and going on the ramp leading to Olav’s—people bearing tables, chairs, seating cushions, baskets of fruit, bowls of fruit, jars, several men staggering under loads of provender. Killashandra had been expecting another beach barbecue, with its pleasant informality. It had not occurred to her that there might be no beach at North Harbor, nor would the Elder have been entertained in the casual setting she had so much enjoyed at Wing. She groaned.

Lars squeezed her hand. “What’s wrong?”

She gave a gusty sigh. “State occasions! Formality! Scrapes and smiles and total boredom.”

Lars laughed. “You’ll be surprised. Pleasantly.”

“How will your father get away with it?”

Lars grinned at her. “You’ll see.”

What she first saw was the disposition of guards, lining the route up from the harbor, spaced neatly and stiffly about the Residence, and armed. She had seen very few stun rifles in her life but she could recognize them.

“What was he expecting? Civil war?”

“Elders usually travel with a considerable entourage. Especially in the islands. We are so aggressive, you see.” Lars spoke with deep sarcasm and she took in an anxious breath. “Oh, don’t worry, Killa. I’ll be circumspect. You’ll not even recignize me as your impetuous lover.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’ll expect a return of that lover as a reward for my evening with Torkes. And why is it Torkes? I thought he was in charge of Communications.”

Lars choked back a loud laugh, for they had neared the first sentry. “Elder Pedder is afflicted with motion sickness.”

The sentry who had been watching them approach from the corner of his eye suddenly pivoted, ported his weapon, and stared with impartial malevolence at them. “Who goes there?”

“The crystal singer, you fool,” Killashandra replied in a loud and disgusted tone. “With her bodyguard, Lars Dahl.” When Killashandra would have proceeded she was stopped by the weapon. “How
dare
you?” She darted forward, grasped the weapon by its muzzle, and levered it forcefully to the ground. The surprised young sailor panicked and relinquished his weapon. “How
dare
you threaten a crystal singer? How dare you threaten
me
?”

Killashandra was seized by a violent surge of real anger at the archaic and inane formality. She didn’t hear Lars trying to soothe her; she barged past two more sentries who came to assist their mate; she would have gone through the officer who came hurrying up the ramp, flanked by three additional guards on either side. She paused momentarily, seething at this additional obstacle. The officer had either encountered Elders in a tearing fit or he instantly recognized an elemental force. He barked an order, and the barricade suddenly became an escort which fell in behind the officer and Lars, who had managed to keep at Killashandra’s heels as the enraged crystal singer stormed forward to the Residence, seeking the initiator of this additional affront.

Here Lars took the lead, adroitly indicating the way. She heard an exchange of urgent shouts. She had a confused vision of more guards snapping to attention, and another pair hastily opening the elaborately carved wooden doors—which despite her involvement in anger, she recognized as magnificent panels of polly wood.
Then she was in the formal reception antechamber of the Residence, and she remembered thinking that the tip of this iceberg was the business end. She continued her angry progress right to the shallow tier of steps that led down to the main level. With an alert and wary expression, Olav was half way across the floor to greet her. Behind him Elder Torkes was seated on a high wooden chair, members of his staff standing about the room, conversing with several islanders.

Automatically, Killashandra gave the assembled one quick glance before she proceeded toward Torkes. “Did I spend weeks on a deserted island to be stopped and questioned by an
armed
minion? To have a
weapon
thrust in my face as if I were an enemy? I”—and Killashandra nearly bruised her breast bone as she thumped herself with rigid fingers—“I am the one who has been assaulted and abducted. I am the one who has been at jeopardy and you—” Now she pointed an accusing finger at Torkes, who was regarding her in a state of shock. “You have been safe! Safe!”

Afterwards Lars told her that she had been magnificent, her eyes visibly emitting sparks, her manner so imposing that he had been breathless with astonishment. What operatic role had she been using?

“I wasn’t,” she’d replied with a rueful smile, for the effect of her dramatic entrance had more than satisfied her rage. “I’ve never been so angry in my life. A
weapon?
Pointed at
me
?”

Torkes heaved himself out of his chair, his expression that of a man confronting an unknown and dangerous entity and uncertain which course to take. “My dear Crystal Singer—”

“I am not your dear anything.”

“Your experiences have unnerved you, Guildmember Ree. No aggression was intended against you, merely—”

“—Your wretched, suffocating need for protocol and an irrelevant show of aggression. I warn you”—and she waggled her finger at him again—“I warn you, you may expect the most severe retribution”—she caught herself; in her rage, she had been on the point of revealing too much to Elder Torkes—“from my Guild, reparation for the callous and undignified way in which I have been treated.”

Torkes regarded her finger as if it were some sort of deadly weapon in itself. Before he could assemble a suitable reply Olav was at Killashandra’s elbow, offering a glass of amber liquid. “Guildmember, drink this …” His baritone voice, so soothing and conciliatory, penetrated her ranting. She knocked back the drink, and was rendered momentarily speechless. The shock of the potent beverage effectively restored her to discretion. “You are understandably overwrought, and have been needlessly upset, but you are safe here, now, I do assure you. Elder Torkes has already initiated the most thorough investigation of this terrible outrage and personally supervised your security here on Angel Island.”

Olav’s tactful reassurances gave her the time to regain use of her throat and vocal cords. Her throat was on fire, her stomach throbbing, and her eyes watered. Which seemed a good cue to develop. She allowed her tears to flow and reached weakly for Olav’s hand to support her. Instantly she felt Lars take her right arm, and the two men led her to the other elaborate chair in the chamber, seating her as if she were suddenly fragile.

“I am overset. Anyone would be, enduring what I have,” Killashandra said, using her sobbing to purge the last dregs of anger, for she estimated that she’d worked that pitch long enough. “All alone, on that wretched island, not knowing where I was, if I’d ever be rescued. And then the hurricane …”

A second glass was proferred. When she glared at
Olav, he winked. Nevertheless, she sipped cautiously. Polly wine.