Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3) (6 page)

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. . . .

“Please,” 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.”

“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.”

T
he 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 grate, 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.”