"Have?"

Killashandra was astounded to see a smile return to tremble on the wasted lips, a smile that remained even after Donalla ended the hypnotic session. She said nothing when she noted that Killashandra had seen that smile. She turned up the music, a lilting, merry tune, and, as the two women left, Killashandra turned back and saw a distorted finger lift in time to the rhythm.

When they had finished their snack, Killashandra checked their flight path and estimated that they were nearly there. They overflew the black-and-yellow chevrons ten minutes later, and she circled, mentally chanting Lars's choosing rhyme—eeny meeny—as she looked for the landmarks he had told her marked the exact location of the black crystal.

She had turned 160 degrees before she recognized the configuration of ravines: three, one rising behind the other, in frozen waves of stone. At the base of the third, she should find signs of workings. She did: recent workings because sunlit sparkles caught her eye.

"Here we are," she caroled out to Donalla. "Behold!" She gestured expansively out of the front window. "An actual crystal site!"

Donalla's lips parted and then a slight frown marred her high forehead.

"No, it's not much to look at," Killa said, lightly teasing. "A place known only to few and treasured by many." She locked down the controls, noting as she did so, as she always did whether she had realized it before or not, the coordinates on the screen before she shut the engines off. She had to admit that such an automatic scan was as much a part of a landing routine as turning off the engine—so automatic that she wouldn't remember she had done it three seconds after she had. There would be hundreds of such flashes for Donalla to probe . . .

She reached for her cutter and gave the lined carrier for cut crystal to Donalla to tote and opened the sled door. Through the soles of her heavy workboots, she could feel the ripple of the nearby black. She swallowed hard. The call of black was strong. Maybe Lars had been right: she wasn't ready for black yet. But they hadn't much choice, had they?

She led the way to the face, visible because of the regular steps where crystal had been recently cut. Nothing looked familiar. She knew from checking files that he had cut alone for nearly a decade—a decade she hadn't even known had passed while they were estranged. But, and she shook her head in surprise, the claim bore their chevron markings. Lars was a bundle of contradictions, wasn't he? He was too sentimental to be a good Guild Master, she thought; then, thinking of recent examples of his ruthlessness, she reversed her opinion.

As she narrowed the distance, she explained once more to Donalla exactly how a singer proceeded on site: finding a clear side of crystal, sounding a tuning note, setting the cutter, and then excising the crystal.

"The dangerous part is when I hold the crystal up. If sun hits it, I'll go up into thrall." Wryly she glanced up to check the position of the sun, trying to ignore the hard, cold knot developing in her stomach. "Well," she said, exhaling a deep breath, "here goes!" She motioned for Donalla to step back a bit, farther away from the business edge of the cutter.

Killashandra eyed the crystal face. Yes, these were Lars's cuttings. She would know them anywhere. Recent storms hadn't damaged his distinctive style. She brushed some loose splinters away and felt the crystal resonance just a note away. She pressed her hand flat against the surface and, setting her diaphragm, sang a clear mid-C. The crystal vibrated almost excitedly to the sound. She set the cutter. Putting the blade perpendicular to the face, she rammed it in, disengaged the blade, sliced from the top to her lower cut, then quickly shifted position to make the second downward cut, freeing the shaft. She turned off the cutter, letting it slip down the harness that held it to her shoulder.

"Now, Donalla," she said. She lifted the black crystal high, high enough to catch the sun and felt the beginnings of thrall paralyze her. She could no more have evaded that than Rimbol had been able to evade Donalla.

Hard grit dug into her face, irregular hard objects poked her the length of her body, and her ears rang with an unpleasant dissonance that would soon split her skull. Abruptly the unendurable noise quit.

"Killa! Killa! Are you all right?"

A hand on her shoulder shook her, tentatively at first, then more urgently. But the voice was female. She had never cut with a woman! She propped herself up, one hand automatically feeling for the cutter. Her cutter? Where was it? She couldn't have lost her cutter? Dazed, she looked about, patting the ground. Her eyes were dry in their sockets and ached.

"Killa?"

Boots scrabbled on the litter and someone's face peered anxiously at her. But the someone held her precious cutter in one hand and a black-crystal shaft in the other.

"I didn't drop it . . ." Killa was weak with relief.

"I was about to shatter it if the cutter noise hadn't worked," the woman said.

Killa peered at her anxious face. It was familiar. She forced a tired mind to put name to face. Ah! "Donalla!"

"Who did you expect?" Relief made Donalla's voice sharp.

Killa eased herself to a sitting position. She couldn't trust her legs yet. Her right shoulder ached, and her arm was riddled with sharp needles of renewed circulation. She massaged her shoulder, gradually becoming aware that darkness was rapidly shadowing the narrow ravine.

"So?" she asked Donalla curtly as memory flooded back. She had cut black to go into thrall, which she had obviously done, and the thrall had lasted much longer than planned.

The look on the medic's face answered her question. "You were more impenetrable than when I tried back at the Infirmary," she said, with a weary sigh. "You just stood there, holding this wretched thing." She gave the black shaft a careless waggle. Killa lunged to save it. Donalla drew it sharply back into her chest.

"I'm all right now, Donalla. It can't thrall me again. Just don't damage the thing."

"After what it did to you? I thought I'd never get it out of your hand." Donalla regarded her burden warily.

"Then put it in the carrier." Killa wrenched her upper body about, looking for the carrier, and jabbed her finger at it. "Just don't drop it," she added as Donalla obeyed. Her voice was strident with anxiety. She cleared her throat and went on, controlling her voice, "For some reason, fresh crystal cracks faster than at any other time. Ah!" She sighed in relief as the medic stowed and covered the shaft.

Killa got to her feet then, brushing off clinging bits and pieces of dirt and crystal. She was tired, but glancing at the sun, she saw there was enough light left to make a couple more cuts to add to this bigger C.

"What are you doing?" Donalla asked, her voice sharp with concern.

"I'm going to cut." She had to use force to get Donalla to release the cutter.

"But I couldn't break through the thrall."

"Shouldn't keep me from cutting. Especially as it's black."

Killa went down a fifth, sang loud and clear, heard the answering note, and set her cutter. Donalla stepped in front of her.

"Out of my way," Killa said, appalled that she had been about to swing the cutter into position—a movement that would have brought the blade slicing right through Donalla's thighs.

"I can't let you."

"Ah, leave off, Donalla!" Killa tried to push her away. "There's no sun. It's the sun that starts thrall. For the love of anything you hold sacred, let me use the light that's left."

"You're sure? It took me hours . . ."

"Well, it won't happen at this time of day." Killa blew out with exasperation. Donalla was worse than any novice she'd ever shepherded. "Sun's nearly down. Now, move out of my way!"