That isolation, to the Tha’alani, caused insanity. It caused bitterness and delusion and fostered misunderstanding and self-hatred—which, of course, led to hatred, which led to violence, and in the worst cases, death.
If the only people in the world had been Tha’alani, there would be no need for Hawks or Swords or Wolves. Misunderstanding was pretty hard to maintain when everyone around you could hear your thoughts. It was hard to maintain when you could hear theirs. The fears were addressed before they had time to grow ugly roots; the pain was addressed, comforted. You were never alone.
Once, Kaylin had feared that: you could never be alone. There was no privacy. There was no way to hide what needed to remain hidden if you were to live in the world. But she hadn’t considered that maybe there was no need to hide. Not until she had touched the Tha’alaan. Not until she had experienced the truth of it.
Had it been up to Kaylin, she would never have left it. But...she wasn’t Tha’alani. She had no way of contacting the Tha’alaan except this: to touch the elemental water. Because the core of the thoughts, emotions, dreams of the entire race was contained in the heart of the water.
It was the reason that elemental water, alone of the four elements, was different. The long, slow accumulation of the daily lives of thousands—tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands—had slowly altered the way the water itself thought. But only part of it; the elemental water was still a wild, chaotic force.
Kaylin could not hear its voice. When angered, when frightened, when outraged, its voice was too loud and too destructive. And yet, throughout, the Tha’alani were part of it. It was the Tha’alani she needed to reach. It was the voices of mortals, not ancient, imperturbable nature. No, she thought; what she needed to do was hang on to the rails and wait until they could reach her.
*
Kaylin.
Ybelline. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t plug her ears; she had no way to block the roar of moving water, the distant sound of deluge. But she could “hear” Ybelline Rabon’Alani as if the castelord was beside her, lips pressed against her ear. More: it felt like a hug.
Ybelline.
Where are you?
Kaylin showed her; it was easier than using words. It was easier to just...open up everything and let Ybelline see what she saw, as she saw it. A year or two ago, this would have been Kaylin’s worst nightmare. Now?
She wasn’t alone. Yes, she was standing—more or less—on her own two feet. But someone was standing beside her. Someone who couldn’t take the weight of responsibility off her shoulders, who couldn’t just do what had to be done—but who saw it, who understood it. Who saw Kaylin and understood Kaylin—and didn’t judge.
We...will speak to the Tha’alaan. Speak to the water as you can, she added, the interior voice grim. We will speak as we can. But, Kaylin—
Yes?
The Tha’alaan is...confusing now. There are—there are thought-memories in its folds that are ours—but not ours. We did not think those thoughts; we did not live through those events. It is...chaotic. We are used to dreaming thoughts and memories, but they do not have the same weight, the same texture.
Kaylin froze. Ybelline sensed everything Kaylin was trying to gather words to explain. And Kaylin, in turn, sensed Ybelline’s hesitance. It was almost like fear. Fear of a future that had not yet happened, but which the Tha’alaan remembered.
You need to know what happens in those memories and thoughts.
Kaylin swallowed. Yes. It’s—it’s why I came to talk to the water at all. Not—not that I knew the Tha’alaan was affected, but that I thought the water could tell me, tell us, what’s about to happen. What had happened, sometime in the near future. But...the water isn’t us. It’s not mortal. It’s not living here. You are. I am. Whatever thoughts you’re hearing—the haven’t-happened-yet thoughts—I think they’ll be clearer, and cleaner.
She felt Ybelline’s reluctance give way—and she expected that. That was Ybelline, all over. What she didn’t expect was the water’s frenzied response. The inches of water across the second-story hall reared up in a sudden wall, like a tidal wave in miniature. It dropped on Kaylin’s head—and the stair railing.
The railing snapped.
If she drowned here, Severn was going to be so mad.
*
The water did not speak.
It roared. It roared like a flight of Dragons, the sound a sensation that made Kaylin’s teeth—and every other part of her body—rattle. She lost the Tha’alaan; lost the comfort of Ybelline’s steady presence; she lost everything as the water swept her, and the very broken rail, down the hall and into the door at the end of it.