Let the Wind Rise Read online

  The words hang in the silence between us until Gus sighs, sounding so weary and broken a few tears creep down my cheeks.

  “So what’s going to happen, then?” he asks. “Are you going to teach Raiden Westerly?”

  “I don’t even know Westerly anymore—I tried to tell Raiden that, but he wouldn’t believe me. Because of this stupid wind!”

  I claw at the draft still whipping around me, wishing I could pry it off and fling it away.

  I don’t care that it’s loyal or protecting me. “I don’t deserve to be shielded!”

  “Stop it!” Gus shouts, and the anger in his voice makes me freeze.

  He takes a deep, labored breath before he speaks again.

  “I know you’re worried about me. But my dad used to say, ‘No matter what happens—trust the wind.’ It’s part of us. It’s our kin. And that draft—for whatever reason—has decided it needs to protect you. So trust it. Let me deal with Raiden.”

  “You don’t know what he’ll do to you.”

  “I have a pretty good idea.” He uncovers the hole in his shoulder again. “But I can take it, Audra. Raiden’s already attacked my mother. Murdered my unborn sister. Turned my father into a Living Storm and forced me to kill him. And I’m still here. Still fighting. I’m stronger than Raiden. He did all of this to me, and still has no idea you taught me that command—and he never will.”

  The words bury me in shame.

  I’d forgotten I taught him Westerly.

  Only one word—and I didn’t even tell him what it means. I didn’t want to trigger the breakthrough and put him in more danger.

  And now he’s bruised and bloody, facing who knows how many more rounds of torture. Yet he has no doubt that he can bear through it, while I’m wallowing in self-pity.

  “I can’t believe you know more Westerly than I do,” I whisper.

  “Gotta love the irony, right? But it’s good. It gives us an advantage. We know that Raiden has his suspicions backward.”

  I don’t understand how he can stay so positive, but I try to draw from his confidence.

  There has to be something we can do—a way to change Raiden’s mind, or get us out of this somehow, or . . .

  I jump to my feet when I realize what I’m forgetting.

  Aston gave me some advice before I left his cave—something that could be the answer to everything. I scour my cell, but all I find are the scratches in the floor, and no matter which way I study them, their pattern remains random.

  “Do I want to know what you’re doing?” Gus asks as I squint through the bars of one of the cells next to mine.

  I scan the dungeon for hidden guards before I lower my voice to the softest hint of a whisper. “When I left Aston’s cave, he told me that if I ever got captured by Raiden, I should look for the guide he carved into his cell. He said it would help me escape.”

  “Did he say how?”

  “He was obnoxiously vague. But if we can find it . . .”

  “I think I already have. There are some marks in here that are clearly supposed to mean something. I don’t know how they could be a guide, though.”

  He points to the back corner of his cell, but all I can see is shadow.

  “Can you describe it to me?” I ask.

  “It just looks like a bunch of dashes and scribbles. Do you really think it matters? I’m sure Raiden’s figured out how Aston escaped and made changes to prevent it from ever happening again.”

  That sounds like Raiden.

  But it’s the best chance we have.

  “Aston is smart—and he was convinced the guide would get me out of here,” I tell Gus, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “I wish I could see it.”

  Gus nods and crawls toward the shadowy corner. “I guess it’s a good thing I have all these handy wounds, then.”

  He rubs his finger against his chest. Then draws a red line on the floor, painting a copy of the guide in his blood.

  CHAPTER 7

  VANE

  I’d really been hoping to face psycho cave-boy with at least a little bit of daylight. But the sun is long gone by the time Arella picks up hints of Aston’s trace.

  I have no idea what she’s sensing. All I see is an empty beach—which looks exactly like the zillion other empty beaches we’ve been flying over for the last few hours.

  She points to a dark patch among the rocks and whispers, “I feel him testing the air, getting a sense of who we are.”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” a deep, accented voice calls from the darkness. “And the only reason you’re still breathing is because I’ve decided to let you. But that can change.”

  A cluster of cold, scratchy drafts yanks us out of the sky and slams us against the beach in an explosion of sand. I can’t see—can’t breathe—can’t tell if I’m sinking or rising. And as the winds crush tighter, everything goes dark.

  The last threads of my consciousness are about to unravel when the winds vanish, and I cough and wheeze through the lingering silt.

  I force my eyes open, squinting through the falling sand to spot . . . a blond head.

  Just a head.

  A lot of shouting and panicking follows, along with a ton of failed attempts to thrash before I realize I’m pinned and—most important—that I didn’t see any blood.

  The head is also talking to me, which I probably should’ve noticed right away. But my brain was too busy screaming, AHHHHHH—DISEMBODIED HEAD!!!

  I take another look and realize the rest of Solana is buried in the sand.

  The fact that I can’t move seems like a pretty good sign that I’m in the same boat.

  I’m trying to be glad that at least I don’t feel any new injuries—or any extra pain shooting through my bad elbow—when I realize we’re stuck in the wet, squishy sand. The kind of sand you only get when you’re on the part of the beach where the waves come crashing down.

  Almost on cue, a freezing, foamy wave slams into us, stinging my eyes and nose and filling my mouth with salt water. The sand loosens around my shoulders as the ocean retreats, but not enough to pull myself free before the next wave hits.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Laughter rings between splashes, and I decide that as soon as I get my arms free I will blast every square inch of this beach with wind spikes until I find his smug face and—

  “I think that’s enough to make it clear who’s in charge here, don’t you?” Aston’s voice asks as the waves stop and we shiver through the eerie silence. “Not that any of you seem capable of putting up much of a fight. Still, now your silly notions of superiority can flutter away with your pride.”

  His voice is everywhere and nowhere, and I want to turn my head to follow it, or at least figure out how he managed to stop the ocean. But my muscles will only let me twist so far. All I catch is a glimpse of Arella’s head sticking out of the sand on my other side, rocking the drowned-rat look.

  “Well, if it isn’t the jilted princess, the questionable mother—who reeks of Maelstrom, by the way—and the heartbroken loverboy,” Aston’s voice calls from his cave. “I figured I’d be hearing from at least some of you after all the turbulence I’ve picked up—though I can’t say I expected this particular combination.”

  He hisses a word I can’t understand and a sickly Easterly crawls under my skin, its icy needles prickling all the way to my core.

  “Still clinging to your side of the bond, I see,” he says. “Too bad it won’t matter. Shattered bonds rarely linger. Especially when faced with so much temptation.”

  He hisses another word and the sand explodes again, sending me tumbling across the beach. When the world stops spinning, I notice I’m tangled up in something warm.

  “Sorry,” Solana mumbles, sliding out from underneath me.

  I try really really really hard not to notice whether the water turned her dress see-through.

  Aston laughs from the shadows, and I call a Westerly to my side, ready to get started on my attack-the-c
rap-out-of-this-beach plan.

  But then I remember the reason I dragged us here in the first place.

  “We need your help,” I call toward his cave.

  “Yes, I can see that. This is the rescue party, right? Funny, I thought it would be bigger. Having a little trouble controlling your army, are we, Your Highness?”

  “Yeah. The Gales are too busy learning to destroy the wind,” I snap back, finally getting his attention.

  A cloaked figure steps out of the shadows, like he’s following the Shady-Dude-Dress-Code. “You’re teaching them the power of pain?”

  “I’m not teaching them anything.” I wrap my Westerly around me as a shield and struggle to stand. “Os is the one behind it, and when I tried to stop him, he tied me to a tree. He thinks the only way to beat Raiden is to fight like him.”

  Aston’s laugh is slow and bitter. “Os is right. But he’s going to ruin himself.”

  “He knows,” I agree. “He doesn’t seem to care.”

  “And what about you?” Aston asks as he crosses the beach to join us. His feet barely leave marks in the sand. “If you see so little value in the power, why beg me for assistance?”

  “It’s not that I don’t see value,” I say. “It’s that I don’t think it’s worth destroying myself for it. But if you’re already under its influence . . .”

  “Ahhhh, I see. So I’m a lost cause and get to do your dirty work for you. Is that why you brought the murdering mother as well?”

  “Actually, he brought me to see through the tricks of silly fools,” Arella says, slithering out of her sandy prison.

  “Don’t get too cozy,” Aston warns. “Just because I haven’t killed you yet, doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Solana says, taking a small step toward him. “You were one of the Gales who came to help after I lost my first guardian. I’ll never forget how kind you were. How safe you made me feel.”

  “Yes, well, things have changed a bit.” Aston raises his arm, and I reach for another Westerly. But instead of attacking, he peels back the sleeve of his cloak and waves his hand back and forth.

  A strange whistling prickles the air, and glints of moonlight leak through his skin.

  It takes my brain a second to realize it’s because his arm is covered in pin-size holes.

  I squeeze my eyes tight, but I can’t wring out the horrifying image. And I can’t stop myself from imagining Audra looking just as Swiss-cheesy.

  “How long after you were captured did Raiden start to . . .” I don’t finish the question.

  Aston turns away, wrapping his arms around his chest. “The torture began immediately.”

  I sink to my knees and punch the sand so hard it sends the grit flying into my eyes—but I’m already tearing up.

  “I’m sorry,” Aston tells me. It almost sounds like he means it. “If it’s any consolation, she’s definitely still alive—for the moment, at least.” He tosses something on the beach. “She left this here during her last visit.”

  My blurry eyes only see a smudge of blue, but Arella whispers something about guardian pendants, and I scramble to grab it before she can.

  The cord is blue.

  The sobs hit me then—huge heaving wails that could rival any toddler.

  But I don’t care.

  She’s alive.

  I squeeze the proof as tight as I can as the sobs keep coming.

  Pretty soon I’m choking on my own snot, winning the prize for the Most Pathetic Dude in the History of Pathetic Dudes. Until gentle arms wrap around me, followed by a soft breeze.

  I lean into the warmth, my mind drifting with a rush of sunny memories.

  Chasing magpies in a field, stretching out my arms and wishing I could fly away with them.

  “Someday,” my mom tells me. “Someday you’ll rule the whole sky.”

  Then somehow I’m sneaking through an orchard with my dad, grabbing peaches off the branches.

  Juice dribbles down our chins, and he tells me, “We’ll have to jump in the lake before your mother finds out.”

  Their voices feel so familiar, and so foreign at the same time.

  I try to remember more, but cold fingers squeeze my arms, dragging me away from the warmth.

  “He doesn’t need your comfort,” Arella snaps.

  “Shouldn’t that be his decision?” Solana snaps back.

  “He made his choice. And it had nothing to do with you.”

  It’s obvious what Arella’s implying—and she’s technically right.

  But she doesn’t get to be the one to say it.

  “You certainly are an interesting group,” Aston says, as I pull away from both of them, nearly wrenching my elbow in the process. “I’d almost love to keep you here to watch how this all plays out. But I don’t think I could stomach Loverboy’s sniveling.”

  “I’m not sniveling,” I say in . . . a pretty snivel-y voice.

  I dry my nose on my sleeve and clasp Audra’s pendant around my neck, trying to keep focused on what’s really at stake here.

  “Ah, there’s the look,” Aston says. “The I’m going to throw my life away look. Your little girlfriend had it too, when she decided to leave my protection. And it’s worked out so well for her, hasn’t it?”

  I really want to punch him.

  But since we still need him, I mumble, “If you help us, we can get her out of there. I’m betting you know that fortress better than anyone.”

  “I do. And I hate to crush the dream, but no one can break into Brezengarde.”

  “My father escaped,” Solana argues.

  “As did I,” Aston reminds her. “But breaking in and breaking out are two very different things. There’s a chance she might make it out on her own—if she uses that brain of hers. But even then . . .”

  “I can find a way in,” Solana insists.

  I wish I could feel her confidence. But it doesn’t matter. “I have to try something.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what Raiden’s counting on,” Aston says. “Not that he needs your power. But he does so love to collect things. And what are you going to do when he catches you?”

  “If he catches me,” I correct. “And . . . I’ll find a way to kill him.”

  The words would be a whole lot more convincing if my voice wasn’t shaking.

  Aston sighs. “Sadly, that’s not what I meant—though we’ll need to circle back to the Worthless Westerly Conundrum later. You have a much more fundamental problem than that. There’s a reason Raiden rarely bothers with bodyguards. Anything you throw at him. Any deathblow you try to deliver. It all ricochets right back onto you. He calls it his backlash. I never could find a way around it.”

  My mind flashes to our escape from Death Valley, when Audra, Gus, and I were hiding under our Westerly shield and Raiden practically dared me to attack him.

  I’d been very tempted. But . . . it felt like a trap.

  “So you’re saying Raiden can’t die?” I ask.

  “I’m saying you can’t kill him. At least not by any conventional means.”

  Well . . . that definitely falls into the category of Crappy News I Didn’t Need to Hear. But killing Raiden isn’t my goal right now.

  My plan is much more simple.

  “Look,” I tell Aston. “I’m the first to admit I have no idea what I’m doing. That’s why I’m here. You think I wanted to waste all this time finding you? I need help—and I thought maybe you had a little decency left. If not, I thought you’d at least jump at the chance to piss off Raiden. I mean, what better way is there to drive him insane than stealing two of his prisoners while working with the one Westerly he’s never been able to capture?”

  Aston circles me, and the wind whips back his hood, revealing his pale, scarred face and blue-tinged lips.

  He’s honestly not as scary as I’d imagined. Just a few scars—nothing like his arm.

  Then again, we haven’t seen the rest of what’s under that cloak. . . .

  “Ple
ase,” I beg. “I have to get her back. It’s my fault she was captured.”

  “Is it? I thought it was mostly hers.” He points to Arella and she looks away, mumbling her same excuse about having no choice.

  Aston doesn’t buy it either.

  He widens his circle to make a slow path around all three of us. “What would you give me if I agreed to help?”

  I open my mouth to tell him “anything”—but “I won’t teach you Westerly, if that’s what you’re asking,” comes out instead.

  “Not even to save your precious love?” he asks.

  “My instincts won’t let me.”

  “The infamous Westerly instincts strike again. Surely they’ll be the death of us all. And yet . . . your winds can be very comforting. They used to visit me during my years in Brezengarde. Somehow they’d slip through the cracks in the fortress walls. I couldn’t understand them of course. But their songs were so beautiful.” His eyes look glassy as he stares at the stars. “Your girl sang one for me when she stayed here. I’ll never forget it.”

  “She has her father’s talent for song,” Arella whispers.

  “Careful,” Aston tells her. “You almost sound like a loving mother.”

  “I am a loving mother,” Arella snaps.

  “Well then, here’s your chance to prove it—and this will be a one time only offer, so think it through. I’ll give you my help. I’ll even figure out a way to sneak into Brezengarde. But only if you agree to give me your pain.”

  I have absolutely zero idea what that means, and judging by Arella’s expression, she’s just as clueless—until Aston raises his arms and tangles a draft around her.

  Arella screams and drops to her knees.

  I try to help, but the wind knocks me back. Same thing happens to Solana.

  Several terrible seconds pass. Then the wind calms and Arella falls still.

  Aston, meanwhile, is smiling so wide, his whole face looks stretched. “I’d heard stories of the ache her gift caused her, but I never realized it was so deliciously intense.”

  “What did you do to her?” Solana asks.

  “I absorbed her agony. Usually I’m forced to draw on the wind’s pain to hold myself together. But hers is so much stronger—so much more liberating.” He stands over Arella, the moonlight casting his strange speckled shadow over her. “That’s my offer. My help, in exchange for your pain three times a day.”