Let the Wind Rise Page 5

  “So . . . basically, you want to torture her,” I clarify.

  “Only for a few minutes. Don’t tell me she doesn’t deserve it.”

  She does—but something doesn’t add up. “Why would you offer that when you could just capture her right now?”

  “Because he would never be able to keep me here,” Arella whispers.

  “Your gift does give you a very specific skill set,” he agrees. “Os was right to contain you in the Maelstrom. Separating you from the sky is the only way to truly contain you—unless you cooperate. But don’t think that means I don’t have ways to control you. I know what you crave.” He squats to make sure Arella’s looking at him. “I want your word that when this is over, you’ll return here with me to keep our arrangement going. Break it, and I’ll destroy everything you care about.”

  “Keep Audra out of this,” I warn.

  “I meant what she really cares about. Oh yes—” he adds when Arella sucks in a breath. “I know how to find him. But I won’t if you’re a good girl. And as a bonus, I’ll help you save your daughter.”

  I can’t imagine Arella agreeing to any of this—but maybe I don’t know her as well as I think I do.

  Or maybe she thinks she can outsmart Aston.

  Or maybe she’s afraid.

  Either way, she whispers, “You have my word.”

  CHAPTER 8

  AUDRA

  The swirling patterns of lines make me dizzy—or maybe it’s the blood.

  Or the fact that I have no idea what Aston’s guide means.

  “You’re sure you re-created it exactly?” I ask.

  “I’m not an artist,” Gus says. “But the original is just as confusing.”

  Weariness weighs down his words, and a pained stiffness has settled into his motions.

  “You should rest,” I tell him.

  Gus nods.

  “I hope you’ve memorized this,” he says as he pulls off one of his bandages and smudges the guide with the soaked fabric.

  When the marks are reduced to a smear, he lies down on top of it to make the bloody puddle seem as if it seeped from his many wounds.

  “ ‘Raiden’s greatest weakness is that he has no weakness,’ ” I mumble.

  “What does that mean?” Gus asks.

  “I wish I knew. It was something Aston told me while I was his hostage. He also said, ‘His fortress has more security than anyone could ever need and none all at the same time. Once I figured that out, getting away was easy.’ ”

  Gus sighs. “I’ve never been good at riddles.”

  Neither have I.

  But I close my eyes and picture the bloody lines of the guide, trying to imagine anything that could make a similar pattern. Some of the lines intersect, separating the design into clusters of three, four, and five.

  Seventeen clusters in all.

  Seventeen is a prime number—but I doubt Raiden pays attention to basic mathematics. It’s also my age—though I’m certain my lifeline holds no importance.

  Still, the reminder startles me.

  I’m only seventeen.

  Most days I feel much older, but it suddenly feels too young—too inexperienced to face a foe with triple my lifetime’s worth of wisdom.

  Panic tightens my chest and I lean against the wall, closing my eyes and counting my breaths until they slow into a pattern I can manage.

  Behind me, I hear Gus shift positions.

  Then shift again.

  And again.

  Each time he moves, he grunts in pain.

  I watch the red trickle across the ground, wishing I had a way to comfort him. But I have no wind. No warmth. Nothing except . . .

  My voice.

  For years my songs were silenced—the loss of my father too thick in my throat. But now that I know the truth of his loss, I’ve been slowly reclaiming the melodies.

  I choose the song my father sang to calm my mother during her worst bouts with pain:

  Another day, another night

  Hollow darkness, blinding light

  Both have to share.

  Another calm, another storm

  Calls of peace, violent swarms

  It’s never fair.

  Might be grounded now, but the sky still calls for you

  Hush now

  Rest your wings

  Sleep now

  Close your eyes and let the wind sing

  And be miles away

  Until yesterday

  Is just a long forgotten dream.

  The last lyric fades into a hum, and I notice that Gus’s breathing has softened. His brow is still pinched with pain, but for the moment he sleeps.

  I should do the same.

  I tuck my legs underneath me and pull my hair tight against my shoulders. I’ve barely closed my eyes when pounding footsteps jolt me back to the present.

  “On your feet!” a Stormer orders as he marches into the dungeon.

  Everything about him is pristine—his gray uniform perfectly pressed, his weapon polished to a gleam—save for the pale scars marring his black skin along his neck and wrists.

  He uses rough yellow winds to bind our hands before unlatching our cells.

  Our path through the halls is straighter than my previous route, and I’m trying to figure out if that means there are multiple routes to the same place or if we’re going somewhere new when the Stormer shoves his way past us and snarls another word.

  A door appears in the wall, and we stumble outside to the gray, frosty day—far colder than I’d expected given the time of year.

  Scratchy, ruined drafts thicken the air, and I sense no trace of the brave winds that snuck into my tower cell and kept me company.

  My thoughts blur as my bare feet sink into the knee-high snow. I wait for numbness to take over, but the ice is too sharp. By the time we’ve crossed the courtyard, my head is spinning faster than the enormous silver windmills lining the walls.

  “Up there,” our escort says, shoving us toward a staircase barely wide enough to fit my narrow frame.

  Gus is forced to turn sideways, pressing his wounded back against the stones and leaving a trail of speckled red across the icy wall.

  The Stormer doesn’t follow, stationing himself at the base with a second Stormer and blocking any possible escape.

  The air grows thinner as we climb, and by the time we reach the top, I can’t remember who the tall blond figure dressed all in white is. He eyes the boy I climbed with—I can’t recall his name either—then frowns at me.

  “We’re going to need you to be a bit more lucid than this,” he says, waving his arm.

  Something gray and heavy is draped over my shoulders, smothering me in a sticky kind of heat. It melts the fog in my head and thaws the ice in my veins.

  My shoulders relax—until I realize I’m wearing the coat of a Stormer. I want to fling it away, but the warmth is the only thing providing clarity.

  “Not used to the cold, I see,” Raiden shouts over the raging winds. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. “And here I gathered the squalls just for you. Can you feel their energy?”

  He grabs my wrist and presses my palm against the wall, which hums with a steady vibration.

  “The power of the earth meeting the sky,” he breathes in my ear. “And it’s only the beginning. I’ve learned so many incredible things in my years living here. There’s so much I could teach you.”

  I jerk my hand away.

  “Clearly you have other lessons to learn first.” He points behind us, to where Gus—how could I forget about Gus?—has been dragged to the side of a tower and bound to the stones.

  “What are you doing to him?” I ask.

  Raiden smiles. “Patience, my dear.”

  “I’m not your dear.”

  “No. I suppose not.” He raises his fingers to his lips and blows a screechy whistle.

  Metal scrapes across the courtyard, and I turn to find five Stormers dragging open a heavy door. Behind it is an enormous round gr
ate, and just beyond the bars I catch a glimpse of fans spinning at top speed, filling the air with an unsettling howl.

  “This might be my favorite creation,” Raiden says. “I call it the Shredder. It’s Brezengarde’s air purification system. No wind can pass near my fortress without learning to be submissive.”

  Goose bumps prickle my arms as I realize the strange howl is the cry of innocent drafts being torn into Raiden’s ruined slaves.

  “The true brilliance of the Shredder, though,” Raiden adds, “is that I can concentrate its force. For instance . . .”

  He whistles again, and the Stormers crank a wheel next to the grate.

  Metal panels curl inward, creating a beam of wind that blasts into Gus.

  He stands silent and still, but his agony is carved across his face.

  “Are you getting the idea of how this is going to work?” Raiden asks, steadying me as my body shakes with rage. “If I have them narrow it one click further, it gets rather dangerous for your friend—especially fueled by these violent Northerlies. So, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  My eyes stay focused on Gus. He’s watching me, mouthing the same three words again and again.

  Trust the wind.

  Still, I can’t help feeling like a coward as I tell Raiden, “I have nothing to say.”

  “I was hoping you would say that. Now we get to have a little fun.” He smiles as he whistles the command.

  The Stormers narrow the grate to a jet stream that slams Gus in the stomach, and this time Gus can’t fight back his screams.

  I try to look away, but Raiden grabs my neck. “You will watch every second, or I will gouge out your eyes, understood?”

  I turn back to Gus, feeling my heart break when I see his beautiful eyes pleading with me to be strong.

  I owe him that much.

  So I watch every minute, trying to pretend it’s not really happening. But my stomach heaves and I cough up bile onto the snow.

  Raiden whistles to end Gus’s agony and offers me a white handkerchief to dry my mouth.

  I refuse, using the sleeve of the Stormer’s coat instead.

  “Ready to talk—or do we need to continue?” Raiden asks.

  I shake my head, spitting out the same worthless response I gave him before.

  The wheel cranks again, and Gus’s screams turn into deep, guttural groans that will echo in my mind from this day forward. When it’s over, his breaths are so ragged they sound more like gurgles, and blood is streaming from his nose.

  “Very few have survived a third blast,” Raiden tells me. “And none when the Shredder was fueled by the squalls.”

  My mouth tastes of iron as I bite my tongue.

  But Gus is still staring at me. Still pleading with me to keep going.

  Raiden gives the command, and I curse the wind for obeying—for blasting Gus so hard he goes silent.

  I don’t realize I’m sobbing—or that I’m digging my nails into my hands—until the Stormers at Gus’s side declare him alive.

  “You’re both stronger than I thought,” Raiden says, ordering his Stormers to haul Gus away. “But don’t worry, the strongest things are the most fun to break.”

  “Then take a turn on me!” I shout.

  “I intend to. But for you it needs to be special.”

  He stalks away then, leaving me to imagine the horrors he’ll dream up as the Stormer with the scars hauls me down the stairs.

  Another Stormer is waiting for us in the courtyard, and he strips off my coat, sending sharp pain shooting through the wound on my side. I suck air through my teeth, trying to keep it together. But when he shoves me again, I heave more bile, not sorry at all when most of it ends up on his shoes.

  He pins me against the wall, proving he’s less disciplined than the others.

  I can use that.

  I spit accidentally-on-purpose onto his coat, and he grabs my hair, yanking my face closer to his.

  “You’ll have to do something to make that up to me,” he growls.

  “We need to keep moving,” the Stormer with the scars warns him. “Raiden ordered us to take her straight to the hold.”

  “Raiden’s not here right now,” he argues, sliding his hands to my waist.

  I knee him as hard as I can.

  I only manage to hit his thigh, and he grunts and grabs my throat.

  The scarred Stormer pries him away and shoves him into the snow. “Get down there and cool off! I’m not facing the Shredder over you.”

  The other Stormer snarls threats, but doesn’t follow as I’m dragged away.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, tripping over my shaky feet.

  “I didn’t do it for you,” the scarred Stormer says.

  I follow his eyes to his marked hands, where the pale lines almost glow in the dim light.

  “You’ve faced the Shredder before?” I guess.

  He doesn’t answer. But the set of his jaw tells me all I need to know.

  I probably shouldn’t ask my next question, but . . . I have to.

  “What did it feel like?” I whisper.

  “How do you think? The Shredder has seventeen fans, and each one carves different edges into the drafts. So when the wind hits, it’s like having seventeen spinning blades liquefying your insides.”

  If my stomach weren’t so empty, I’d vomit again.

  Instead, I let out a sob for Gus—but only one.

  I spend the rest of the walk trying to compose myself. Which is why I don’t realize the crucial information I’ve been given until I’m locked away in my cell.

  Seventeen fans.

  Now I know what Aston meant about the fortress having more security than anyone could ever need and none all at the same time.

  Aston escaped through the Shredder.

  CHAPTER 9

  VANE

  Flying with Aston sucks.

  Actually, “sucks” isn’t a strong enough word—but breaking my parents’ Language Rules feels like admitting that I’m really not planning on seeing them ever again.

  It’s not just the scratchy broken winds Aston uses, or the way they turn the world into a blurry mess.

  It’s that Aston’s, well . . . holey.

  He’s still wearing his cloak, but he has the hood down and his sleeves keep blowing back. And when you surround any of his skin with a ton of rushing wind, it makes this constant screeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaach.

  I lose track of how many hours I spend gritting my teeth through the nails-on-a-chalkboard whistle, but my jaw is aching when we set down in the middle of a field with long, swooshing grass and one of those round, silver windmills with the fin sticking out of the back.

  “Why are we stopping?” I ask.

  “I know I may ooze power and prestige,” Aston says. “But I do occasionally need to rest.”

  The confession reminds me how long it’s been since the last time I slept. Raiden spent weeks using his shattered winds to torment me with nightmares—and now I can’t sleep. Not when Gus and Audra are . . .

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  Arella glances at the sun. “Looks like it’s getting close to noon.”

  “NOON?”

  “Oh, spare us the freak-out,” Aston tells me. “We’re losing time as we head east.”

  “How does that make it better?” I ask.

  Aston shrugs. “If you want to move faster, we’ll have to ditch some dead weight.”

  His eyes dart to Solana, and she gives him a glare that practically shoots ice beams.

  “You call this ‘dead weight’?” She stretches out her arms, and all the nearby breezes sink under her skin.

  “You do realize that windcatching is essentially the worst thing you can do when you’re facing the power of pain, right?” Aston asks. “What do you think will happen to all of this”—he waves his hands in front of her, outlining her curves—“if I shatter those drafts you’ve tucked away?”

  The color drains from Solana’s face. “Can you really
do that?”

  Aston pulls aside his cloak to reveal a long row of perfectly round holes, piercing through skin and bone. “Anything can be broken.”

  “Well, he won’t break me,” Solana says, calling more breezes and soaking them up.

  Aston shakes his head and growls a scratchy word.

  A grayish draft tangles around her, but Solana absorbs it like the others. “You were saying?”

  “That is . . . unexpected,” Aston says.

  He studies her so closely that Solana starts to fidget.

  I save her by getting back to the much more important subject. “I think we should use pipelines for the rest of the journey.”

  I hadn’t suggested the rapid wind tunnels before, because they can be unstable and deadly. They also suck worse than traveling with Captain Screeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaach.

  But we’re wasting too much time.

  “We’re moving faster than you think,” Aston promises. “We’ve already made it to that middle part of the country where there’s far too many cows for my liking. Kansas, is it? Or Dakota something?”

  “Nebraska,” Arella murmurs.

  The name feels fuzzy in my ears, matching the memory that resurfaces with it.

  A hazy afternoon—the sun so bright it whites out the blue. I follow a dark-haired girl as she finds the tallest tree and climbs. I can’t see what’s in the nest, but I’m mostly there for the songs. Her voice makes me forget that I’m supposed to be afraid.

  I close my eyes, trying to remember more, but my past is still too jumbled up.

  Audra’s a part of it, though.

  And she’s still a part of me—even if the ache I’m clinging to is growing fainter every hour.

  “Are you okay?” Solana whispers, resting her too-warm hand on my shoulder. “Isn’t this where your family . . .”

  I nod.

  Arella clears her throat. “Actually, we’re a little to the north. But it does look the same.”

  I study the field we’re standing in—rolling waves of grass and wildflowers as far as the eye can see.