LITMIR.BIZ

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for your kin. My kin,” she added, “and I won’t argue the definition. He might be right. I’ve often thought—”

      “Kaylin, topic,” Severn said curtly.

      “Right. If insanity can be defined, it means there are, among your kin, those who are insane.”

      “The deaf,” Ybelline said, and there was pity in her voice. “Those that are born deaf. Those that become deaf through injury.”

      Kaylin nodded.

      “It is like losing the ability to speak,” Ybelline added, “and to hear. And to touch. And to walk. It is all of those things, at once. It is the loss of kin. Many do not survive it.”

      “And those that do?”

      “They are our kin,” she replied, “and we care for them as we can. They have no place in your world. They are of the Tha’alaan even if they can no longer perceive it.”

      Kaylin nodded. “What happened?” she asked again, but this time her voice was gentle.

      “Mayalee is five years old, by your reckoning. She is still in all ways a child, by ours. She is aware of the Tha’alaan, and the Tha’alaan is aware of her.

      “She was out, near the roof gardens of the center. It was late, and the moons were full—it was just after your Festival. She likes the Festival,” she added softly, “and although we forbid it to our kin, some of the magefire that lights the sky can be seen clearly from the terrace.

      “So she went there, to watch.

      “After a time, she climbed down, and she headed toward the guardhouse wards. She is such a clever child,” Ybelline added, and the affection was swamped with regret and fear—and a certain sense of failure.

      Profound failure.

      “She was not afraid, simply determined. Her aunt—I think you would use that word—headed out to find her. But before they reached her she met someone.

      “A man,” she added. “He was not in the Tha’alaan, but Mayalee was not afraid of him. Not immediately.”

      “And she went with him?”

      “She went with him. Her uncles came, then, and her mother,” Ybelline added. “I was on call to the Emperor at the time, or I would have heard her.”

      “How far away can you hear your kin?”

      “I? A great distance. But it depends entirely upon the individual. Some of us can reach far, and some can touch only the heart of the Tha’alaan.

      “She was afraid, when she left our quarter. She did not want to leave. She told us this much—but not more. We could not clearly see the man she saw,” she added. “And this—”

      “Magic?”

      “We fear magic,” Ybelline replied. “But it is worse—she began to tell us something and then—she screamed.” Ybelline closed her eyes. “She screamed. It was the last thing we heard of her—that scream. She is no longer in reach of the Tha’alaan.”

      “She was taken that quickly?”

      “That is our hope,” Ybelline said, but there was little hope in the words.

      Kaylin was confused. Severn rose. “You think she was crippled,” he said quietly.

      “We fear it,” Ybelline replied. “We fear that they damaged her somehow, to break the contact. Those who are powerful can sense each other—but even the weak can touch the Tha’alaan at all times.”

      “But they could have just knocked her out, couldn’t they?”

      “No. Not conventionally.” It was Severn who replied. “The Tha’alani would be aware of her, even were she sleeping.”

      “But how—” Kaylin bit back the question. “Her stalks. Her antennae.”

      Ybelline nodded, and this time, her face showed open fear.

      They were silent for a time. Even for Kaylin, who had dreaded the Tha’alani for almost half her life, the sense of horror was genuine. It was as if she had been told someone had blinded a child to stop the child from identifying where she was being held captive.

      “Why have you not approached the Halls of Law, Ybelline?” Severn again. Kaylin let him take over the questioning because he was so calm, his voice so soft, facts somehow seemed less threatening.

      “We are not certain that it is a matter for the Common Law,” Ybelline replied carefully.

      “You cannot think one of your own—” He stopped. “One of the deaf.”

      “It is possible,” Ybelline replied. “One is missing.”

      “How long?”

      “We cannot be certain—but he was not to be found after Mayalee disappeared. She would not fear him,” Ybelline added. “She might pity him, but she would not fear him.”

      “I’m sorry,” Severn told her. “I wasn’t clear. How long has he been deaf?”

      “Almost all of his life.”

      “And he has lived here?”

      She was silent for a time. “When he reached the age of maturity, and the madness was upon him, the Tha’alaan itself could not reach him, as it reaches those who are not—deaf. He … injured himself. And he left the Tha’alaan, searching for his own kind, as he called you.”

      “He injured himself.”

      “He cut off what he referred to as useless appendages,” she said carefully. “And bound his head with warrior markings, so that the wounds might go undetected. I think he truly felt that among your kin, he would find peace and acceptance.”

      “He wasn’t accepted here.” Kaylin’s words were flat.

      “He was, Kaylin,” Ybelline replied, just a hint of anger in the words. “And he was loved. We would no more turn our backs upon our own children than you would turn your backs upon one born blind or silent.

      “But he felt the separation keenly at that time, and nothing we could say or do would dissuade him. We are not jailers,” she added bitterly. “And in the end, it was decided that he might, indeed, find truth among your kind.”

      “But if he was living here—”

      “Our world and your world are different,” Ybelline replied. “And fear is so much a part of yours. He would be considered—would have been—childlike and naive by your kin. By you,” she added. “He was not the same when he finally returned to us. He was silent, and he smiled little. He was injured,” she added, “but we did not ask him by what, or how. He did not desire us to know.

      “He was ashamed, I think,” she added softly, “and that is almost foreign to us. He recovered here. He spent time with his friends and his kin.”

      “How long was he gone?”

      “Six months.”

      Six months, Kaylin thought. Six months could be such a long time. You could learn so much in those months. Or so little, she thought ruefully, remembering her months on idle behind a school desk in the Halls of Law.

      “Yes,” Ybelline said, looking at Kaylin’s face carefully. “He learned, we think, to lie. To smile when he was unhappy. To be silent when he yearned to scream. More,” she added. “But it hurt us, and we did not press him.” She looked away. “Were you of my kin,” she whispered, “you would know how much of a failure that was—we, who know everything, did not attempt to learn, to seek his truth.”

      “But if he didn’t want you prying—”

      “You think like a human.”

      “Hello. My name is Kaylin. The last time I looked—”

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