“Your name was first on the list of qualified available singers.”
“Stuff it, Trag. Why me?”
“The interests of the Heptite Guild are best served by your acceptance.” A hint of desperation edged Trag’s voice.
“You object to the relationship between Lanzecki and me?” She had no way of knowing in what way Trag had adapted to Ballybran’s symbiont or in what way he expressed thought that such respect required additional outlets. If jealously prompted Trag to remove a rival . . .
“No.” Trag’s denial was accompanied by a ripple of his facial muscles. “Up till now, he has not allowed personal consideration to interfere with his judgment.”
“How has he done that?” Killashandra was genuinely perplexed. Trag was not complaining that Lanzecki had awarded her another valuable assignment. He was perturbed because he hadn’t. “I don’t follow you.”
Trag stared at her for such a long moment she wondered if the screen had malfunctioned.
“Even if you just go to Rani, it will not be far enough away or long enough. Lanzecki is long overdue for a field trip, Killashandra Ree. Because of you. Your body is so full of resonance he’s been able to delay. But your resonance is not enough. If you’re not available, he will be forced to cut crystal again and rejuvenate his body and his symbiont. If you have a real regard for the man, go. Now. Before it’s too late for him.”
Killashandra stared back at Trag, trying to absorb the various implications-foremost was the realization that Lanzecki was genuinely attached to her. She felt a wave of exultation and tenderness that quite overwhelmed her for a moment. She’d never considered that possibility. Nor its corollary: that Lanzecki would be reluctant to cut crystal because he might forget his attachment. A man who’d been in the Guild as long as he had would be subject to considerable memory loss in the Ranges. Had he learned his duties as Guild Master so thoroughly that the knowledge was as ingrained in him as the rules and regulations in a crystal-mad brain like Moksoon’s? It was not Lanzecki’s face that suddenly dominated her thoughts, but the crisscross tracings of old crystal scars on his body, the inexplicable pain that occasionally darkened his eyes. Antona’s cryptic admission about singers who could not break crystal thrall echoed in her head. She puzzled at the assortment of impressions and suddenly understood. She sagged against the back and arms of her chair for support. Dully she wondered if Trag and Antona had been in collusion. Would the subject of crystal thrall have come up at that lunch hour even if Kimbol had not arrived?
There was little doubt in Killashandra’s mind that Antona knew of Lanzecki’s circumstances. And she did doubt that the woman knew about their relationship. She also doubted that Trag would mention so personal an aspect of the Guild Master’s business. Why couldn’t Lanzecki have been just another singer, like herself? Why did he have to be Guild Master and far too valuable, too essential to be placed in jeopardy by unruly affection?
Why, the situation has all the trappings of an operatic tragedy! A genuine one-solution tragedy, where hero and heroine both lose out. For she could now admit to herself that she was as deeply attached to Lanzecki as he was to her. She covered her face with both hands, clasping them to cheeks gone chill.
She thought of Antona’s advice, to put down everything – including love – Killashandra writhed in her chair. Antona couldn’t have known that Killashandra would so shortly be faced with such an emotional decision. Which, Killashandra realized with a flicker of ironic amusement, was one to be as deeply and quickly interred and forgotten as possible.
One thing was sure – no matter how long the journey to Optheria, it wouldn’t be long enough to forget all the wonderful moments she had enjoyed with Lanzecki the man. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of encountering him when she returned, and, perhaps, finding no recollection of her in his dark eyes. Nor feel his lips again on her hand . . .
“Killashandra?” Trag’s voice recalled her to his watching presence on the viewscreen.
“Now that I know the ramifications of the assignment, Trag, I can hardly refuse it.” Her flippant tone was belied by the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Do you go with him to break the thrall?” she asked when her throat opened enough to speak again.
At any other time, she would have counted Tag’s startled look as a signal of victory. Maybe if she found someone to sing with. she would also find such a passionate and unswerving loyalty. She must remember that.
“When’s the next shuttle to Shanganagh, Trag?” She rubbed her cheeks dry with an urgent impatience. “Tell Lanzecki – tell him . . . crystal resonance drove me to it.” As she spun off her chair, she heard herself give a laugh that verged on the hysterical. “That’s no more than the truth, isn’t it?” Driven by the need just to do something, she began to cram clothes into her carisak.
“The shuttle leaves in ten minutes, Killashandra Ree.”
“That s great.” She struggled to secure the fastenings on the bulging sak. “Will you see me aboard again, Trag? That seems to be your especial duty, rushing me onto shuttles to Shanganagh for unusual assignments all over the galaxy.” She was unable to resist taunting Trag. He was the author of her misery and she was being strong and purposeful in a moment of deep personal sacrifice and loss. She glanced up at the screen and saw that it was dark. “Coward!”
She hauled open her door. She decided that slamming it was a waste of a grand gesture. She had just enough time to get to the shuttle.
“Exit Killashandra. Quietly. Up stage!”
Chapter 3
Trag had timed Killashandra’s departure well for she and the three crates of white crystal were on board a freighter bound for the Rappahoe Transfer Satellite within four hours of their confrontation. She didn’t think about it at the time for she was totally immersed in the strong emotions of self-sacrifice, remorse for her effect on Lanzecki, and a perverse need to redeem herself in Trag’s eyes. Even though she had permitted herself to be borne on the tide of circumstance, she kept hoping that Lanzecki might somehow get wind of her defection and abort the mission.
To insure that her whereabouts were known, she rummaged through the shopping area of Shanganagh Base like a mach storm. She bought necessities, fripperies, and foodstuffs, accompanying each purchase with a running dialogue at the top of her voice and spelling out her name for every credit entry. No one could fail to know the whereabouts of Killashandra Ree. After adding a few items of essential clothing to the garments she had stuffed into her carisak, her keen instinct for survival asserted itself in the base’s victualers. She had vivid memories of the monotonously nutritious diet on the Selkite freighter and the stodge supplied by the Trundomoux cruiser. She did have to consider her palate and digestive system.
Sadly, no deferential shopkeeper tapped her on the arm to tell her of an urgent call from the Guild Master. In fact, people seemed to keep their distance from her. A chance glimpse of her gaunt, harrowed face in a mirror provided one explanation – she’d have needed no cosmetic aids to play the part of any one of a number of harried, despairing, insane heroines. At that point her humor briefly reasserted itself. She had often thought that the make-up recommended for, say, Lucia, or Lady Macbeth, or Testuka and Isolde was totally exaggerated. Now, at last having had personal experiences with the phenomenon of losing one’s great love through selfless sacrifice, she could appreciate the effect which grief could have on one’s outward appearance. She looked awful! So she purchased two brilliant multihued floating kaftans of Beluga spider-silk, and hastily added their fingerlength cases to her bulging carisak, then a travel-case of fashionable cosmetics. She’d nine days to travel on the first freighter and it would only be civil to remedy her appearance.