Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3) (16 page)

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.

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.”

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.

D
o 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 can 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.