Crystal Singer Read Free Page B

dryness of her throat—and about her shrewish temper. But he had modified his criticism by stroking her hand.
    “I must apologize for my bad manners,” he began with no display of genuine remorse but with a charming smile. “Those shuttle drive-harmonics can be unnerving. It brings out the worst in us.”
    She nodded agreement as she sipped the wine. It was a fine vintage. She looked up with delight and pleasure. He patted her arm and gestured her to drink up.
    “Who are you, Carrik of the Heptite Guild, that port authorities listen and control towers order exorbitant delicacies in gratitude?”
    “You really don’t know?”
    “I wouldn’t ask if I did!”
    “Where have you been all your life that you’ve never heard of the Heptite Guild?”
    “I’ve been a music student on Fuerte,” she replied, spitting out the words.
    “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have
perfect
pitch?” The question, unexpected and too casually put forth, caught her halfway into afoul temper.
    “Yes, I do, but I don’t—”
    “What fantastic luck!” His face, which was not unattractive, became radiant. “I shall have to tip the agent who ticketed me here! Why, our meeting is unbelievable luck—”
    “Luck? If you knew why I’m here—”
    “I don’t care
why.
You are here, and so am I.” He took her hands and seemed to devour her face with his eyes, grinning with such intense joy she found herself smiling back with embarrassment.
    “Oh, luck indeed, my dear girl. Fate. Destiny. Karma. Lequoal. Fidalkoram. Whatever you care to name the coincidence of our life lines, I should order magnums of this fine wine for that lousy shuttle pilot for endangering this port terminal, in general, and us, in particular.”
    “I don’t understand what you’re ranting about, Carrik of Heptite,” Killashandra said, but she was not impervious to his compliments or the charm he exuded. She knew that her self-assurance tended to put off men, but here a well-traveled off-worlder, a man of obvious rank and position, was inexplicably taken with her.
    “You don’t?” He teased her for the banality of her protest, and she closed her mouth on the rest of her rebuff. “Seriously,” he went on, stroking the palms of her hands with his fingers as if to soothe the anger from her, “have you never heard of Crystal Singers?”
    “Crystal Singers? No. Crystal tuners, yes.”
    He dismissed the mention of tuners with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. “Imagine singing a note, a pure, clear middle C, and hearing it answered across an entire mountain range?”
    She stared at him.
    “Go up a third or down; it makes no difference. Sing out and hear the harmony return to you. A whole mountainside pitched to a C and another sheer wall of pink quartz echoing back in a dominant. Night brings out the minors, like an ache in your chest, the most beautiful pain in the world because the music of the crystal is in your bones, in your blood—”
    “You’re mad!” Killashandra dug her fingers into his hands to shut off his words. They conjured too many painful associations. She had to forget all that. “I hate music. I hate anything to do with music.”
    He regarded her with disbelief for a moment, but then, with an unexpected tenderness and concern reflected in his expression, he moved an arm around her shoulders and, despite her initial resistance, drew himself against her.
    “My dear girl, what happened to you today?”
    A moment before, she would have swallowed glass shards rather than confide in anyone. But the warmth in his voice, his solicitude, were so timely and unexpected that the whole of her personal disaster came tumbling out. He listened to every word, occasionally squeezing her hand in sympathy. But at the end of the recital, she was amazed to see the fullness in his eyes as tears threatened to embarrass her.
    “My dear Killashandra, what can I say? There’s no possible consolation for such a personal catastrophe as that! And there you