Cast In Secret

“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—”

Severn stepped on her foot beneath the table. Hard.

“You seek privacy because you fear discovery,” Ybelline told her. “And in the end? We let him be like you. We did not want to touch his fear, and draw it into the Tha’alaan. He chose to be isolated, and we let him.”

Kaylin understood by the tone of Ybelline’s words just how guilty she felt—but she couldn’t see why. So she did what she could as a Hawk, instead; she had nothing to offer the woman otherwise. “Where was he last seen?”

“His mother saw him,” she said quietly, “and those of his friends he chose to keep company with.”

“Was he behaving differently?”

“How were they to know? He is like your Severn in his ability to hide from us.”

“Can we speak with these friends?”

She hesitated. “They are younger than I,” she said at last. “Your age, perhaps slightly older.”

“So?”

Ybelline turned to Severn.

Severn nodded. “We are not here, I think, in official capacity. I doubt the Hawks would allow Kaylin into the Tha’alaan as a representative in any case. Her dislike and her fear are well known.”

Ybelline said, “It is a deep fear, but it is a narrow one. There are things she fears more, and in the end, things she loves more. I am willing to trust her. Are you?”

Severn nodded. “With my life,” he said, an odd smile on his lips. “She’s not noted for being all that careful with her own, however.” He rose and approached Ybelline, his back toward Kaylin. “Show me,” he said quietly. “Show me who his friends are, and where we might find them.”

Kaylin rose, as well, moving slightly, so she could see them in profile. Could watch Ybelline lift her face, could see the fluttery movement of her dreaded antennae as they brushed the surface of Severn’s forehead in a light caress.

Kaylin shuddered, but Severn merely closed his eyes and nodded. There were whole days where she didn’t understand him. And there were days like this—where even the thought of understanding him seemed impossible.