Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3) (28 page)

“How is this hiding us?” Vane asks.

“It’s similar to how we disguise our forms when we fly,” Solana tells him. “I convinced the draft to combine our traces, so it’ll feel like there’s only one of us. And it’s weak and muffled, so Raiden might not even notice it. But if he does, he’ll think it’s a lone Gale. He definitely won’t be prepared for the four of us.”

We move in silence after that, making the slow climb up the rock formation.

I stretch out my senses, trying to home in on Raiden’s exact location. But either we’re too far away, or Raiden’s too good at hiding.

“By the way,” Solana whispers, turning to look at Aston. “I don’t believe that anyone can ever be too far gone.”

“Even Raiden?” Vane interrupts.

“He’s different,” she says. “He’s the one who started messing with the power. And even if he could change his ways, he’s done too much to be redeemed.”

“As have I,” Aston tells her. “I know you still see me as that eager-to-help Gale—but I can’t even remember being him. And the things I’ve done since then would give you nightmares.”

“But you’re here now,” Solana whispers. “I saw how terrified you were in that tunnel outside Brezengarde. And still, you came back—and now you’re marching up to face Raiden, knowing our chances aren’t good.”

“So really, we should be questioning my sanity,” he says with a forced smile. Several seconds later he adds, “I just . . . want this all to be over.”

I can’t tell what he means, but the sadness in his tone turns my heart heavy.

He clears his throat. “We should pause in that crevice ahead. It’s making me twitchy that I can’t get a reading on Raiden. I know he’s good—but he’s not this good.”

We ease into the crack—which is much cozier than it looked from the outside—and I end up pressed rather tightly against Vane.

“Sorry,” he whispers, trying to find somewhere to put his arms.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, pulling his hands to rest on my hips. “I don’t mind.”

A teasing glint sparks to life in his eyes, but it’s gone just as fast, and he turns his face away, eyes on the ground.

I want to grab his chin and force him to look at me—talk to me. Explain his complicated mixed signals.

But time is never on our side.

“Is anyone getting anything?” Aston whispers. “Though I should probably limit the question to Solana since you lovebirds clearly have your minds
other
places.”

His raised eyebrows fuel my blush, and I close my eyes and listen to the sky. “Everything feels empty.”

“That’s what I’m sensing too,” Solana agrees.

“Everything
is
empty,” a new voice says, and my brain screams,
NOT AGAIN!

We all look up to find my mother standing over our crevice with one of her loyal crows perched on her shoulder.

“You can’t sense Raiden,” she says, “because he’s not here.”

W
hat do you mean Raiden’s not here?” I ask as I scramble out of the crack we’ve been hiding in—trying not to bruise Audra in the process.

“I thought the statement was self-explanatory.” Arella reaches up to stroke her ugly crow, and I wish it would bite her. “Raiden’s not here—and I don’t just mean on this rock. Apparently he’s skipping this whole battle.”

“How do we know this isn’t another one of your tricks?” Audra asks, jumping out of the crack and pointing her windslicer at her mother’s heart.

Arella rolls her eyes. “Your senses are giving you the same message, aren’t they? It seems Raiden elected to let his army handle the matter for him.”

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Aston says as he hefts himself out of the crevice and helps Solana climb out with her weak ankle. “Maybe for a quick snatch-and-grab mission. But he sent his entire force.”

“That was my thought as well,” Arella says. “And why I’ve circled every inch of the battlefield. I even called on a bird to be my eyes when the sky grew too treacherous.”

The crow caws, making me jump.

Freaking birds.

“Do you think he’s waiting for something before he arrives?” Solana asks. “Trying to catch us off guard?”

“Or maybe he knew he’d lose this time, so he’s cowering at Brezengarde,” I say, trying to think positive.

“I suppose both are possible,” Aston says, “though the latter seems unlikely—especially since the Gales aren’t exactly triumphing out there.”

He’s right.

The sound of the fight keeps echoing this way, and . . . it doesn’t sound good.

I kick the ground so hard it showers us in bits of rock and dirt. “Sorry.”

It’s just . . .

Raiden not being here ruins our whole plan—which is probably the
real
reason he’s playing hooky. And if he’s holed up in Brezengarde, I . . .
can’t
go back there.

I know we escaped once. But I can feel it deep in my gut. We’ll never beat Raiden on his home turf.

And God—does this mean all those people are still snowed in at that hotel?

I kick the ground again, and Audra places her hand on my shoulder to calm me.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“Maybe we should circle back and fight with the Gales,” Audra says. “They could definitely use some backup.”

We all turn to study the battle. The Gales are outnumbered five to one—and soon it’ll be six or seven to one, judging by all the red stains on the ground.

“Why are there still so many Stormers hanging in the mush-pot?” I ask.

“I’m assuming you mean the cluster of soldiers waiting in the center,” Aston says. “And I’d wager they’re the ones who’ve been charged responsible for our capture. If Raiden was going to skip a battle, he’d make sure his best warriors save their strength to scoop up his spoils and bring them back to where he’s waiting. I doubt he cares about learning Westerly anymore, but I’m sure he wants you to die knowing he stole the one thing you gave your life to protect.”

“Then we can’t go down there, right?” Solana asks.

“So we just stand here and watch them all die?” Audra argues.

“Besides, won’t the rested Stormers just come after us anyway?” I ask.

Either way—Raiden wins.

It all feels so pointless.

I keep trying to take control—keep trying to tell myself I can beat this.

But Raiden’s like the kid in my fourth-grade class who liked to catch Japanese beetles, tie string around their bodies, and hold on to one end.

The dumb bugs would fly around in circles, and sometimes he’d let the string go slack. Let the beetles think they were finally going to fly free—and then
SMACK!
They were splatters of green goo on his baseball bat.

I’m tired of being a dumb bug—and I really really really don’t want any of us to end up green goo.

Raiden thinks he can beat me without even showing up.

Well . . .
screw that
.

We’re the good guys, dammit!

We’re supposed to pull it together and have that “group shot” moment. Like in the comic book movies when all the heroes gather up and the score gets louder and the camera does one of those fancy 360-shot things and everyone’s like, “RAWR—GO TEAM AWESOME!” And then they dive back in, kicking butt and taking names until the bad dudes explode or get blasted into another dimension or something.

That.

We need that.

But how do we pull that off in reality? Especially a funky reality where we can control the wind, but the bad guys can too?

Except . . . they don’t have the power of four—and that’s what this whole mess is about, isn’t it?

“Solana, didn’t you say you had a Northerly, an Easterly, and some Southerlies stored away?” I ask.

She nods. “Why? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking . . . are you a Northerly?” I ask Aston.

“I am, actually,” he says. “But if this is a power-of-four thing, haven’t we established that your tricks falter against the power of pain?”

“Have we really?” I ask. “Or have we established that the two powers are
different
? Because we pulled off something pretty awesome when we were trying to get away from Brezengarde. I kinda forgot about it, since what happened to Gus totally killed the victory. But before that, we used the power of four—and it worked.”

“It did,” Audra chimes in. “There were four of us then, too. And we each used our native wind and gave the command in our native tongue. Our drafts told us what to say, and somehow we made a foehn, and it melted the snow and took out most of the Stormers, before reinforcements arrived. If we ask the wind for help again, maybe it’ll come up with something even better.”

Aston sighs. “It would be a lot easier to get behind this plan if we hadn’t been so horribly abandoned by that Westerly you called over.”

Yeah, that really does suck.

I don’t get why that wind didn’t want to help.

“But just because one draft lets us down,” I say, “doesn’t mean they all will.”

“I think it’s our best chance,” Solana adds. “At least we’ll be coming at them with something they won’t be prepared for.”

She releases three of her drafts, sending the Easterly to Audra, the Northerly to Aston, and keeping the Southerly for herself.

I untangle my Westerly shield, begging it to swirl with the others and not drift away.

“What about me?” Arella asks.

“We don’t need you.”

I might be imagining the joy in Audra’s voice, but I’m pretty sure she’s wanted to say those words to her mother for ten years.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Aston asks.

“Right now, it’s all about listening.” Audra holds out her hands, and Solana and I each take one.

Aston sighs as he reaches out and completes the circle—and I’ll admit the whole process does feel a little “Kumbayah.” But as I beg the winds for help and focus on their lyrics, I can hear their songs slowly synchronizing.

The whirlwind picks up speed, whipping into a frenzy as a single word rings out over all the others.

“Everyone else is hearing ‘simoom,’ right?” I ask. “That’s an actual thing?”

“It is,” Audra tells me.

“And I doubt they’ll be prepared for that,” Aston murmurs.

“Why, what’s a simoom?” I ask.

Audra tightens her hold on my hand. “It means ‘poison wind.’ ”

I
’ve never seen a simoom before.

They’re rare in this part of the world.

And Windwalkers tend not to use them.

Partially because they can be erratic and untamable. But mostly because they’re terrifying.

To let the earth choke out all the air . . .

My shudder makes me realize what I’m forgetting.

“I need you to warn the Gales,” I tell my mother, hating that we have to rely on her after all. “Tell them to hold their breath and cover their hands and faces—without tipping off the Stormers.”

I wish I could order a retreat, but that could ruin everything. And I doubt the Gales would be able to get past the Living Storms anyway.

“I’ll use the birds,” my mother tells me, marking the feathers on her crow’s wing. She whispers directions for it to follow and sends it soaring into the stormy sky.

“Okay, what the heck is this thing we’re about to make?” Vane asks as my mother calls more birds to warn the other Gales.

There aren’t many willing to brave this weather, but a handful of sparrows responds as I tell Vane, “It’s a heat-driven dust storm.”

“How is that different than a haboob?” he asks. “Besides the way less awesome name, of course.”

He winks and I can’t help smiling.

Now is definitely
not
the time for another round of his infamous boob jokes.

But I love that he always manages to ease the tension.

“Haboobs are formed by sudden downdrafts. Simooms are cyclonic,” I explain. “And they carry heat along with the dust, and sweep through an area so fast they choke everything in their path and scorch it.”

“I’ve heard stories of whole pastures of dead animals after a Simoom passes,” Solana adds. “And men with blistered skin.”

“That definitely doesn’t sound like anything I want to be signed up for,” Vane says. “Are we sure the Gales can survive it?”

“We’re not sure of anything,” I hate to admit. “Except that our winds are telling us the command, and they haven’t failed us yet.”

“If it helps,” Aston adds, “the Gales are as good as dead in this battle anyway. At least this gives them a chance.”

No. That doesn’t help.

But I can hear Gus’s voice whispering through my memories.

Trust the wind.

Keep fighting.

“So how do we actually do this?” Vane asks. “Do we stay up here and watch, or . . .”

I wish.

“I think we’ll have to follow through on foot, don’t you?” I ask Aston.

He nods. “I doubt the simoom will have much affect on the Living Storms. They don’t breathe or have skin to burn.”

“Wait a second,” Vane says. “Are you telling me that once we use up half of our winds to make this simoom thing, we’re still going to have to fight”—he turns to the battle and counts—“
thirty-six
Storms?”

“You’re the one who thought we should listen to the wind,” Aston tells him. “If you don’t like their plan, take it up with them.”

Vane checks the drafts’ songs again, and I find myself doing the same. They’re still focused on the simoom, and they’ve added another lyric about hoping in the unknown.

“Well then,” Vane says. “Anyone got any plans for fighting the Living Storms? Last time it didn’t go very awesome.”

He rubs his injured elbow, and I try not to remember how many Gales died in that battle—or the fact that we were only facing twenty-nine Storms at the time.

“I have a few ideas,” Aston murmurs. “But most of them require wind, so we’ll have to hope the simoom wipes out whatever the Stormers are doing to keep the sky empty. And another involves breaking the rest of the drafts in this wind spike. Or breaking the ones I’m capable of shattering, at least.”

“Why would that matter?” Vane asks.

“Simple math,” Aston tells him. “If shattering one draft boosts its strength, breaking the others should triple the effect.”