Let the Wind Rise Page 12

  “In exchange for the power we’re given? You bet,” the Stormer tells him. “And the suicide draft takes a toll on Raiden too. It drains so much of his strength he can only form one a day.”

  “Is power really all you care about?” I have to ask.

  He shrugs—but I can tell by the tightness in his features that there’s something more he’s not saying.

  “How did Raiden convince you to swear fealty?” I press.

  “Why do you care?” he snaps back.

  “Because I want to understand.”

  “No one ever understands.”

  I wait for him to say more, but he turns away.

  “This is a waste of time,” Gus says, heading for the stairs.

  I’ve only followed him for a few steps when the Stormer says, “A groundling killed my father.”

  I turn back and find him wiping his eyes, and he has to clear his throat twice before he can add, “He caught my dad on his property after a storm and pointed a gun at him. I was hiding nearby. Saw the whole thing. He claimed my dad was a looter—like we gave a damn about his rusted junk. When my dad tried to calm him down, he shot him in the head. It didn’t matter that my dad was the one who saved their filthy house from the storm. And the wind didn’t knock the bullet aside fast enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. That’s what everyone says. That, and ‘I wish there were something I could do.” Raiden was the first person who understood. And he did something. After I swore fealty? He brought me back to that house and we tore everything to shreds.”

  “Revenge isn’t justice,” Gus tells him.

  “Then how do you explain the beating you gave me?” the Stormer argues.

  “That was deserved,” Gus says, taking my arm. “He’s just stalling. Stalling until someone finds us.”

  “It’s better than that,” the Stormer says. “I’m also making sure we have time to capture your Westerly friend—if we haven’t already.”

  An unearthly howl stops my reply, and the grating mix of rage and ruin crawls under my skin.

  I’ve heard the sound before—and I hoped to never hear it again.

  The cry of an unwilling victim being transformed into one of Raiden’s Living Storms.

  CHAPTER 21

  VANE

  Solana’s bleeding a lot.

  Like, a lot a lot.

  She’s even leaving a trail of red footprints on the stone floor.

  I keep trying to get her to stop so we can bandage up her wound. But she claims we don’t have time—and she’s probably right.

  Even if the password prevents any Stormers from getting into the passage, I’m sure they’ve guessed where we’re heading. So my whole “stealthy heist” plan is trashed at this point. And I have a feeling the gut-wrenching wail that just shook the passage means Raiden’s making a Living Storm Welcome Party for us.

  I refuse to think about who it could be. The cord of Audra’s guardian pendant is still blue, so I know she’s safe. But Gus . . .

  “How long is this passage?” I ask.

  “Too long.”

  I can’t tell if Solana’s worried about Gus too—or if she’s worried about how much she’s having to lean on the wall for support.

  Eventually she collapses, and I barely catch her in time.

  “I’m fine,” she mumbles.

  “Yeah, it looks like it.”

  I ease her to the floor and unbutton my jacket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Cutting bandages.” I unsheathe my dagger and slice off the bottom of my undershirt. “Figured this was softer fabric.”

  Her wound looks pretty gnarly, so I cut a few more strips. Then I realize how stupid wearing a half shirt is and rip off the rest.

  “That’s a good look,” Solana says, pointing to my bare-chest-plus-jacket combo.

  I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or getting deliriously honest. Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m blushing.

  “Warning,” I say, taking a quick sniff of the sweaty fabric. “Apparently I stink.”

  “That’s not exactly news. Besides, I’m sure I smell just as bad.”

  Actually, she smells like oranges or melon or—

  I shake my head.

  No time for playing guess-the-shampoo.

  Solana tries to take the bandages from me, but I keep a tight grip. “It’s my turn to help.”

  It seems like a totally normal thing to offer—until I have to pull her wounded leg into my lap. And it gets worse when I have to slide her dress up another inch to expose the whole gash. . . .

  Okay—focus on the blood.

  “Let me know if this hurts,” I say as I dab at the wound with a piece of cloth.

  She doesn’t cry out, but she keeps sucking air through her teeth, and I don’t blame her.

  “This looks awful.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean your leg—not that I’m looking,” I add quickly. “I just meant . . .”

  My excuses trail off when she laughs.

  “I’m giving you a hard time,” she says, “so you’ll stop looking so nervous. Honestly, I’ve never had a guy so afraid to touch me.”

  My cheeks feel way too hot.

  Maybe they melt my brain, because I hear myself say, “So . . . you’ve been with other guys?”

  “Are you seriously asking me that?”

  “No—you’re right. I’m sorry—I don’t know why I said that.”

  Cue uncomfortable silence.

  Actually, “uncomfortable” isn’t a strong enough word. This is like if awkward and uncomfortable hooked up and had an ugly, miserable baby that won’t stop screaming and pooping all over everything.

  “For the record,” Solana says, “I meant the Gales who treated my wounds over the years, and the guardians who trained me to fight. They had to get very hands-on at times, and they’ve never been this twitchy.”

  “Well, they have a lot more experience than I do—with fighting and stuff . . . not with, you know—not that Audra and I have . . . um . . . you know what? I’m going to stop talking now. Maybe forever.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she agrees.

  I stare at the floor, wishing a sinkhole would open up and swallow me.

  When it doesn’t, I wrap her wound with the widest scrap of fabric.

  “It needs to be tighter,” she says.

  “But that’ll hurt.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes pain’s the only way.”

  It feels like there’s a deeper meaning to her words, but I decide not to go there.

  Instead I pull the bandage a little tighter—but apparently it’s still not enough. She grabs my hands, forcing me to pull until her skin bulges.

  A tiny gasp slips through her lips, but she moves her leg a few times. “Thanks. I guess I should’ve let you do that from the beginning.”

  “Wait—did you just admit I was right?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m sure it was a fluke.”

  I sigh. “Now you sound like Audra.”

  And with that, the moment hits an all-time low.

  I stop wishing for a sinkhole and consider digging my own. I bet it wouldn’t be hard to gouge the stone with my knife. . . .

  “It’s always going to be weird between us, isn’t it?” Solana asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe with time . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  Neither of us sounds very hopeful.

  I don’t realize I’m playing with Audra’s guardian pendant until Solana reaches out and touches the cord.

  “I’m glad she’s still alive,” she whispers. “And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she stays that way.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “I wish we had a way to know how Gus is doing.”

  “Me too. Especially now that I heard that Living Storm. But I feel like I’d pick up his echo if he wasn’t okay.”

  “Maybe.”

  I don’t know much about the proce
ss—just that when sylphs die, they leave a small piece of themselves drifting with the wind to tell the world they’ve gone.

  But we’re so deep underground his echo might not be able to reach us.

  “Think you’re ready to walk again?” I ask.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  She’s still wobbly, but her limp is mostly gone.

  I wrap her arm around my shoulder. “You’ll save more energy this way.”

  “Thanks.”

  We walk in silence for several minutes, until the hall curves and she pulls away.

  “I’m feeling better now,” she promises.

  And she does make it a few steps. Then she has to lean against the wall again.

  “Is this a pride thing, or a girl thing?” I ask.

  “What exactly is ‘a girl thing’?”

  “Oh come on. You know how girls are, pretending everything’s okay when really they want to rip your face off.”

  “Assuming I agree with your broad generalization—which I don’t by the way—I suppose you think guys are better?”

  “Well, yeah. Kinda. At least when a guy is pissed at another guy, he tells him—or he punches him in the face.”

  Solana rolls her eyes. “Then how do you explain all the things you keep stopping yourself from saying?”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind. Let’s keep moving.” She tries to walk again and nearly collapses.

  I help her lean against the wall, but she scoots away from me. It’s only a few inches, but it feels like miles.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say when I can’t stand the silence anymore. “Maybe we’re both holding things back, and if we just got it all out in the open, this would be easier.”

  Her eyes drop to her hands, and she twists her link.

  I’m about to ask her why she does that when she stops to look at me.

  “Fine, you want to know why I feel uncomfortable around you? It’s because I can tell you blame me for what happened to Audra. And I know you hate that I use the power of pain. I also know you think you’re going to have to bond with me to save me from that power—and you act like everything I do is some big scheme to seduce you.”

  Okay . . . whoa.

  Holy Mountain of Honesty, Batman!

  Maybe I should’ve left this alone. . . .

  I don’t even know where to start, except to mumble, “It’s not like that.”

  “Then how is it?”

  I stare at my compass bracelet, which seems to be spinning even faster.

  “I wish I could’ve saved you both,” I whisper. “And I wish you’d never had to use the power of pain. I get that neither of those things were your fault. It’s just hard not to play the ‘what if’ game, you know?”

  “Oh, I know,” she says. “I play that game more than anyone.”

  She’s staring at her family’s crest carved into the wall, and I have a feeling I can guess what some of her what-ifs are.

  “What about Aston’s theory?” she asks, reminding me we still have a whole lot more awkwardness to get through before this is over.

  I can’t look at her as I ask, “He told you?”

  “I figured it out. And for the record, I’m not convinced he’s right. But even if he is, it doesn’t change anything. I don’t want to be bonded to someone who’s only trying to fix me.”

  “But what if it’s the only way to stop the power from ruining you?”

  “Then I’ll deal with it. It’s not your problem.”

  We both know it kinda is.

  “What about the last thing?” she whispers. “And don’t make me say it again. It was embarrassing enough the first time.”

  Seriously—where is a sinkhole when I need one?

  “I don’t think you’re seducing me,” I tell my feet.

  “But?” she prompts.

  I can hear my brain screaming, DON’T SAY IT.

  We’ve already come this far, though, so I blurt out, “You’re really not still hoping I’ll change my mind?”

  “Please, Vane. How many times do I have to tell you—”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re not pining for me. But . . . if you’re really over it, why are you still wearing your link?”

  She stops spinning the cuff, almost like she didn’t notice she’s been doing it. “I’ll get rid of it someday. I’m just not ready yet—and not because of you. Because of me. It just feels like, once I take it off—that’s it. There goes my whole family’s heritage.”

  Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

  Because I’m stealing the throne.

  “I don’t want to be king,” I tell her.

  “You know that makes it worse, right? You’re being handed my future and you don’t even want it. All you want to do is run away.”

  “Yeah, because it’s a huge freaking responsibility! And I have no idea how the hell I’m supposed to rule people.”

  “So you learn. And you try your best.”

  “It won’t be good enough.”

  “I don’t believe that. You could be a great king, if you decided you wanted to be. Your Westerly perspective is incredibly valuable.”

  “Tell that to Os—and the Gales—and anyone else who expects me to be this, like, ultimate warrior. That’s the thing, Solana. Even if I do find a way to kill Raiden—that’s it. Then I’m done with violence forever. And what happens the next time there’s a threat to our world?”

  “Then your Westerly instincts will teach you how to keep the peace.”

  I sigh.

  That’s asking an awful lot of the wind.

  And not even the whole wind. Westerly is one language out of four—and let’s not forget that it’s a language that almost got totally wiped out.

  Why is everyone so convinced it’s the answer to everything?

  Just because it’s important doesn’t mean it’s the only thing we need. Otherwise, why are there three other languages?

  I straighten up. “It should be four.”

  “Am I supposed to know what that means?” Solana asks.

  I shake my head, taking a second to think it all through again before I tell her, “One ruler isn’t enough. There are four winds.”

  “So . . . you’re saying there should be four kings?”

  “Or queens,” I correct. “All that matters is that each language have a representative.”

  I’d still be stuck being King Westerly—but it wouldn’t be as bad if it wasn’t all on me.

  And Solana could be the Southerly.

  Then she wouldn’t have to lose her family’s heritage.

  And it might be a way to calm Os down about Audra, too. She could represent the Easterlies—assuming she still wants to be with me, and we manage to survive today, and we kill Raiden, and and and . . .

  “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Solana says, and I wonder if she’s been thinking about the same things. “Let’s get Gus and Audra back and then we can decide if we want to convince the Gales to reorganize our entire world.”

  When she puts it like that, the idea sounds impossible.

  But . . . I still think I’m onto something.

  For the first time since Audra told me about all of the Gales’ crazy plans, I can actually think about my future without feeling like I’m hyperventilating.

  It’s made things less awkward with Solana, too. She has no problem leaning on me—though her leg does seem to be getting stronger.

  We’re moving at a pretty good pace when we turn a corner and find a dead end with an old metal ladder leading to another hatch in the ceiling.

  The entrance into Raiden’s fortress.

  CHAPTER 22

  AUDRA

  I try to focus on moving forward and solving the riddle of this labyrinth.

  But every time I hear the Living Storm wail, I can’t help thinking: It could be Vane.

  It could also be my mother—which is more terrifying than heartbreaking.

  Who could stand against a tempest of my mother�
��s greed and rage?

  “You okay?” Gus asks. “Are your wounds making you woozy?”

  Actually, I’d forgotten all about the cuts on my back.

  “Do you think Raiden would kill him?” I whisper. “Now that he knows we’ve had the fourth breakthrough—do you think that makes Vane expendable?”

  “I guess it’s possible,” Gus says. “But I feel like Raiden would still want to bring him in alive. He’ll want to make sure one of us gives him the power. Then he’ll take us all out. So the better question is, can we get out of here before Vane gets himself captured? Because I really don’t want to have to turn our escape into a rescue.”

  That makes two of us.

  There has to be a trick to getting around this maze.

  I concentrate on my shield, letting the Westerly language drift across my tongue.

  “We need to reach the surface. Can you guide us?” I whisper.

  My shield doesn’t respond, but I continue repeating my request. Sometimes the wind needs to know how much you mean it.

  A soft tug slows my feet as we near the top of a staircase, and I feel my shield pulling my shoulders to turn them.

  I don’t understand what it wants until I remember the day I was nearly assaulted. The scarred Stormer pulled me through a hidden door.

  Could there be another path hidden here?

  My Westerly seems to think so. It’s singing of stronger air waiting on the other side. But when I search the wall, I see no handle—no seam. And I can’t use the power of pain.

  I wonder if the power of four could have some effect.

  I stretch out my hands, trying to feel for the air the Westerly is singing about. The stone dulls my senses, but my shield switches to a lyric about trusting the unknown. So I close my eyes and whisper the words I’ve said more than any others. The call of my heritage.

  “Come to me swiftly. Carry no trace. Lift me softly. Then flow and race.”

  The last syllable has barely left my lips when a gentle rush slips through an imperfection in the wall and coils around me like an embrace from an old friend—and in a way it is. The strong, healthy Easterly is every bit as brave and loyal as my shield.

  “How did you do that?” Gus whispers.

  “I think it was the wind. It seems to want to help.”