Let the Wind Rise Read online

  I try calling a Northerly or a Southerly, but none respond. So there’s no way to channel the power of four.

  “Do you think east and west are enough?” I ask Gus when he’s unable to summon any drafts either.

  “It might be. Those winds belong to your natural heritage and your bonded heritage.”

  I open my mouth to remind him that I’m not bonded to Vane anymore, but even thinking the words triggers a jolt of pain deep in my chest.

  That’s new.

  And yet, the sensation is also familiar. A slow, steady tugging, almost like . . .

  I shake the thoughts away.

  Now is not the time to be pondering my bond to Vane.

  The Easterly and Westerly dance around each other, and I listen to their songs. The lyrics seem vague, singing of dual strength, dual force. But the final verse keeps championing the power to sever.

  “Sever,” I whisper, trying the Westerly tongue first.

  Nothing happens, so I repeat the command in my native tongue.

  I should’ve known from the beginning that Westerly was too peaceful. Only a tricky Easterly would be willing to tear anything apart.

  And it does.

  The drafts stretch thin and slam into the rock. A narrow cloud of dust erupts from a seam I never would’ve been able to see on my own.

  But the door remains shut.

  “Now what?” I ask, listening to the drafts, but their song gives me no other clues.

  “I wonder,” Gus says, stepping forward and giving the rock a hard shove.

  The door swings open with a scratchy crumble.

  “I guess we need to do some of the work too,” he says, coughing on the floating dust.

  He’s right.

  It’s going to take all of our efforts combined to make our way through this maze.

  But if we work together, we have a chance.

  CHAPTER 23

  VANE

  Do you hear anything?”

  I’ve already whispered the question at least twenty times. It’s kind of a miracle Solana hasn’t jumped down from the ladder and clobbered me.

  But I still can’t make myself believe her when she removes her ear from the ceiling and tells me, “No, Vane. I still hear nothing.”

  “Maybe the stones are too thick. Or the Stormers are being really quiet.”

  “Or they have no idea where the tunnel exits,” Solana whispers. “Just like I’d hoped.”

  Hope.

  I’m trying not to feel too much of that right now. It’s safer to be realistic.

  We’re about to sneak into the enemy’s lair—that’s the kind of thing that requires fancy gadgets and superspy moves and Mission Impossible theme music.

  But we don’t have self-destructing messages to guide us—and I’m definitely not Tom Cruise. And we were too stupid to take the anemometer from Arella before she left, which would’ve at least warned us if there were Stormers around. So our odds of pulling this off are—

  “Are you listening to me?” Solana asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “No. Sorry. What?”

  “I said I think we’re good. But I’ll climb out first and give you the all clear.”

  “And if it’s not clear?”

  “Then I’ll make it clear.”

  “But what if—”

  “Vane,” she interrupts, waiting for me to make eye contact. “This is what we’re here for.”

  She’s right.

  This is it.

  It’s all-in time.

  Either we pull this off, or . . .

  It’s probably better if I don’t finish that sentence.

  Not that I’m worried about me.

  Okay, fine, I am a little.

  A lot.

  But I’m much more freaked out about seeing Gus and Audra.

  All the things I’ve been trying not to think about—all the ways Raiden might have hurt them . . .

  If it’s actually happened, I’ll have to see it—and I don’t know how I’ll handle it.

  “Let’s do this,” Solana whispers, reaching for the hatch.

  She gives me a smile that looks surprisingly confident, considering we’re two wounded teenagers who haven’t slept in several days, trespassing blindly into a warlord’s mazelike fortress—and he knows we’re here.

  “Okay,” she whispers, “if my dad’s memories are right, this hatch should lead into a small storage room. But wherever we are, we’ll need to make our way to the turbine. If we cross any Stormers, we’ll need to dispatch them silently.”

  “And by dispatch you mean . . .”

  “It’s us or them, Vane. Try not to forget that. And remember that any of them could’ve done something to hurt Gus or Audra. They’re the enemy. The only thing we have to make sure is that we don’t leave a trail. I’m hoping the majority of the Stormers are still chasing after Aston and Arella, or trying to open the hatch we used to get here. But from this point on, no talking unless it’s an emergency—or we know we’re somewhere secure. Otherwise, communicate through gestures only.”

  She presses her palms against the ceiling and leans close to whisper the password.

  I can’t believe she’s so calm and steady. It makes me extra glad she didn’t leave when I tried to send her home.

  Which reminds me . . .

  “You don’t have any winds stored inside you, right?” I whisper. “Remember what Aston said could happen.”

  “The only winds left are the ones that are already broken,” she promises. “I’ve been saving them for this.”

  “You’re planning to use the power of pain?”

  “I’m planning to do whatever it takes to get the four of us out of here alive. Ready?”

  No. But I nod anyway.

  She takes three slow breaths. Then whispers to the hatch.

  The door swings open, making only the tiniest of creaks—but it might as well be an air horn.

  We both freeze and hold our breath.

  Nothing happens.

  Either we really are alone, or they’re waiting for us to move deeper into their trap.

  Solana glances at me before climbing another rung up the ladder and peeking out into the room.

  Nobody chops off her head, so I take that as a good sign.

  She climbs another step and slithers out into the darkness. I count the seconds after she’s gone, realizing we should’ve come up with an emergency system—a special whistle, or at least a timeline so I know when to worry.

  Thirty seconds crawl by.

  Sixty.

  Ninety.

  By one twenty my twitchy legs move me to the ladder.

  I climb a couple of steps at the two hundred mark.

  Another at three fifty.

  By that point I no longer have any idea how many actual minutes have passed. But I’m up to the top of the ladder.

  Solana told me to wait for her signal—but what if she needs me?

  My brain is arguing in circles when Solana’s face melts out of the shadows, and I barely manage to stop myself from scream-flailing.

  She slides closer, pressing her lips against my ear. “It’s totally empty. No one’s been in here for years. It’s still a storeroom, but not of what I was expecting.”

  “Is it dead bodies?” I whisper back. “That’s the kind of thing you need to warn a guy about.”

  “It’s not dead bodies. It’s . . . you have to see for yourself.”

  That doesn’t exactly sound like I should be excited to follow her into the dark. But I do anyway, and I find . . .

  “A bunch of dusty trunks?”

  “Open one,” Solana tells me, “but be quiet about it.”

  I ease the nearest trunk open, relieved when it doesn’t squeak.

  “Toys?” I whisper, staring at the pinwheels and reed pipes and kites and windsocks all neatly arranged inside.

  “Raiden’s toys,” Solana corrects. “Look at this.”

  I crawl to where she’s opened a trunk filled with stuff I c
an only describe as “baby things.” Rattles and tiny clothes in pale yellows and blues, and a couple of well-loved stuffed birds. Tucked among the blankets is one of those clay handprint things with the initials R.N. carved in loopy letters.

  “N?” I ask.

  “Must be his family name. He’s a Northerly, but I only know him as Raiden.”

  Same here.

  I never realized Raiden had a last name.

  Or a childhood.

  Or cute, tiny hands.

  I know how stupid that sounds—obviously he wasn’t born an evil dictator. But it’s bizarre to see proof of the before.

  Once upon a time, he was just a kid with chubby fingers, flying kites and hugging his stuffed birdies and living with his family.

  “What happened to his parents?” I ask. “And does he have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No idea.”

  “Shouldn’t we know?”

  We’ve all been so focused on stopping him that we haven’t bothered getting to know him.

  I wonder if that’s a mistake.

  Isn’t that why “know your enemy” is a saying?

  It makes me wish we had time to crack open every trunk and try to piece together his life story. Since we don’t, I shove the clay handprint thing in my coat pocket—and while I’m at it, I grab an old mallard-shaped windsock from the other trunk. I hope Socky the Duck was his favorite.

  Solana doesn’t notice my thieving as she seals the hatch we came through and crawls toward the wall, where threads of light outline a heavy door.

  “Any idea where that leads?” I ask.

  She presses her ear against it. “Not really. But it sounds quiet out there. And it should be one of the old hallways. I doubt it’ll take us to the turbine—but hopefully it’ll have an air vent. If I’m not back in five minutes, come after me.”

  She draws her windslicer and tugs lightly on the door.

  “Is it locked?” I ask when it doesn’t budge.

  She motions for me to duck into the shadows, then whispers the password that worked twice before.

  Nothing happens.

  “Let’s hope Aston’s commands work,” she says.

  The sound of her snarl makes me queasy, and even across the room I can see her eyes glinting with the rush of the need.

  A soft click rewards her efforts, and the door slides open. She doesn’t hesitate before slipping out, sending me back to waiting-and-counting mode.

  I’m only at forty-seven seconds when I hear a grunt and a thud.

  I scramble toward the door and crash into Solana, who’s dragging something into the room. It takes my brain a couple of breaths to realize it’s a body.

  A Stormer with a yellow draft tangled around his face.

  I can’t tell if he’s awake, but he’s not putting up a fight.

  “He was the only one,” Solana whispers as she closes the door again so no one can hear us talking. “I couldn’t tell if he was a guard or just passing by. Either way, this is good news.”

  “How?”

  “Because we can take his uniform. He even looks like he’s your size. I wish he’d been carrying an anemometer, but they must only carry those when they’re out in battle. At least he has a windslicer.”

  She gets to work stripping him down, but I can’t stop staring at his face.

  He looks about my age—maybe a little older.

  “Help me lift his legs,” Solana whispers.

  I obey—and then regret it when she pulls down his pants and the dude’s going commando.

  Solana laughs as I cringe. “What were you expecting?”

  “Uh—how about some boxers? Even tighty-whities would’ve been better than nothing.”

  Solana looks at me like I’m speaking alien, which raises a super-weird question.

  “Sylphs wear underwear, right?”

  “Why would we? The less we have between our skin and the air, the better.”

  I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that—and I have to work very hard not to think about what’s clearly not under Solana’s tiny dress.

  Then again, it does also cast a new, rather interesting light on all of my memories of Audra . . .

  Solana kills the fantasies by tossing the pants at my head. “Get changed.”

  “Dude, his junk was floating around in these.”

  “Well, apparently yours won’t be.” She raises one eyebrow and my face gets hot. Especially when she adds, “You should consider it. Might make a difference. But either way, you’re currently dressed like a Gale. And they know we’re here.”

  I really really really really really hate her for being right.

  I also hate how badly my cheeks are burning.

  And I’m definitely not going freebird in these things.

  “What about you?” I ask as I duck behind some trunks and struggle out of my coat.

  “I’ll change if we find another Stormer—or pass a supply closet. But now that you’re in uniform we’ll be okay. If we see anyone, we’ll pretend I’m your prisoner.”

  “That’s asking a lot of my acting skills.”

  “Hopefully it won’t come up. How’s it going back there? Need help?”

  “Don’t even think about it. You just worry about naked boy—and maybe cover his bits with Raiden’s blankies.” I emerge a minute later, fidgeting in the itchy fabric and wishing my new pants weren’t so much tighter than my others The stuff from my pockets barely fits. “Should we tie him up so he can’t walk out of here once he wakes up?”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  Maybe it’s the unnaturally calm way she says it. But it makes me take another look at the Stormer and realize the draft silencing him is covering his mouth and nose.

  “Before you freak out,” Solana says, holding out her hands like she’s calming a rabid dog, “remember, he chose to serve Raiden. He deserves whatever happens to him.”

  “Not this.” I grab my dagger and try to cut him free, but my swipe grazes right through the ruined draft.

  By the time I realize I need to use his black windslicer, a cold, rattly sound echoes through his chest, and he goes a different kind of still.

  “You didn’t have to kill him!” I say—barely remembering to whisper.

  “He would’ve killed us! And what if he’d escaped? What if he led them back to this room to wait for us? This is our exit. We have to keep it clear. This is why Aston said I should be the one in charge. He knew I’d be the only one who could make the tough choices.”

  “This wasn’t a ‘tough choice’—it was murder!”

  “No, it was war—and keep your voice down or you’re going to get us killed.” She turns away from me, pulling at the hem of her dress, and I notice her hands are shaking.

  When she looks back my way, there’s a plea in her eyes, begging me to let this go.

  But there’s something else there too. That same junkie-glint as the last time she let the power of pain take over.

  Even my Westerly shield agrees, switching its tune to a song about traitors.

  “We need to get back on track,” she whispers. “We’re making too much noise and moving too slow. If we don’t get Gus and Audra out of here now, we never will.”

  I know she’s right.

  And some part of me knows this isn’t her fault. It’s the disgusting power breaking her down bit by bit.

  But I can’t be a part of this.

  “Here’s how this is going to go,” I say, heading for the door. “This is my mission, and we go by my rules from now on.”

  “You really think you can get us through this?”

  “No, but I’m hoping the wind can. This isn’t up for negotiation. We do it my way—or we split up. Your call.”

  Solana sighs. “We’ll see how long this lasts.”

  I’m feeling pretty good about the whole taking-back-control thing, until we get to the door and I realize it’s locked again.

  “I can open it . . . ,” Solana says.

  Tra
itor, my Westerly whispers.

  Got any bright ideas, then? I ask the wind.

  I’m expecting it to sing some sort of vague melody about resisting temptation. Instead, it slips through the cracks and unlocks the latch.

  Solana’s eyes are as wide as mine as I pull the door open.

  Maybe the fourth language can take down the power of pain after all.

  CHAPTER 24

  AUDRA

  We’re finally making progress.

  Slow progress.

  But progress.

  Slipping through secret doors to new parts of the maze.

  I have no idea where we are, but at least the halls have changed.

  Rougher walls.

  Uneven floors.

  The path we walk even feels like an incline, heading for the surface.

  I’d be celebrating if Gus’s skin weren’t turning as pale as a sun-bleached stone. His breaths also hold a gurgly rattle that makes my stomach knot.

  I coiled the Easterly around him, but it seems to be making no difference. And Gus claims that if he absorbed it, he’d use the energy up even faster.

  I keep calling for other drafts, but so far none have been around to answer. Even Raiden’s ruined winds seem to be avoiding this hall—not that they would help us.

  “So I just realized you never told me the whole plan,” Gus whispers. “How exactly are we supposed to escape through the Shredder?”

  “Aston’s guide maps out a path through the fans.”

  Gus stops walking. “How many fans are there?”

  “Seventeen.”

  It sounds so much worse out loud.

  Seventeen leaps through spinning blades.

  The slightest miscalculation—a split second of difference—and we’re nothing more than a splatter of red.

  Gus whistles. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m in such great shape then.”

  He smiles at his joke, but it still breaks my heart.

  I remember Gus during the early days of my guardian training. He’d be doing sit-ups or push-ups or practicing fight moves long after the rest of us retired for the day. His focus was legendary, and it pushed me to try harder, be better.

  And now . . .

  “Relax. It’s going to take a lot more than this to finish me off,” he promises, getting us moving again. “I’m way more worried about the fact that we haven’t run into any Stormers.” “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”