Let the Wind Rise

by Shannon Messenger

  Not that I mind an easy journey—but I don’t trust it either. We’re escaping the world’s most impenetrable fortress. We should be constantly dodging guards.

  “I can’t imagine Raiden would only assign one Stormer to cover this area,” Gus whispers.

  Neither can I.

  Even if Vane and my mother are distracting him, it’s a sloppy, careless mistake—and Raiden doesn’t make mistakes.

  “Do you think we’re heading for an ambush?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

  “I think we’re heading for something,” Gus says.

  He whispers to his Easterly, asking it to search the path ahead. The wind darts away, and Gus’s knees buckle, dragging us both down.

  “I wish you’d absorb my Westerly,” I tell him as I pull him back to his feet. “It made you so much stronger.”

  “It did,” Gus agrees. “But that draft has had more bright ideas than both of us combined. No way am I locking it up somewhere it can’t help us if we need it.”

  The Easterly returns, reporting emptiness ahead.

  “It can’t be this easy,” Gus says, reaching for the windslicer strapped to my waist.

  As soon as he draws the sword, it slips from his weakened hand.

  The CLANG! that follows sounds like a hurricane raging down the hall, announcing our presence to the entirety of the universe.

  I retrieve the weapon and push Gus against the wall, standing in front of him to cover us.

  A minute passes in silence.

  Then another.

  And another.

  “I know I should be relieved,” Gus whispers. “But someone should’ve heard that.”

  “Wait here. I’m going to sweep the area.”

  I crouch low as I move—checking the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

  Still, I don’t notice the slightly raised stone until I step on it.

  The second I hear the click I drop to my stomach, knocking the breath out of my chest as a wind spike blasts out of the wall and explodes.

  Pebbles and dust cloud the air, making it impossible to see if I’m near any other triggers.

  “DON’T MOVE!” I shout to Gus, forcing myself to remain still. “The floor is rigged.”

  “That blast was designed to maim, not kill,” Gus says. “Someone’s probably on their way to scoop up the injured.”

  I’m sure he’s right. And I have no idea how to get us out of here. Gus is too weak to run—and who knows how many other traps we could set off?

  Then again, the more traps we trigger, the worse they’ll imagine our injuries . . .

  “Maybe we should play with their expectations,” I say as I spot another raised stone and tap the center with the edge of the windslicer.

  Instead of the spike I’m prepared for, a mangled wind bursts out of the floor and tangles around me.

  I’ve been caught in a crusher before, but this one is suffocating and sharp. Every time I try to twist free, it feels like the wind is peeling off my skin.

  “Hang on!” Gus calls, careful of his steps as he rushes to help.

  He slashes the vortex with the windslicer, but the black metal passes straight through.

  One of my ribs cracks, and Gus grabs hold of the crusher with both fists.

  Veins bulge in his arms, and his face contorts with agony as he lets out an unearthly scream and tears the crusher to shreds.

  I collapse to my knees and he crumples beside me, both of us shaking and gasping for air. I recover first and drag us away from the rest of the trigger stones.

  That’s when I notice Gus has stopped breathing.

  “He needs wind!” I beg my Westerly, and it coils around him. But it can’t seem to sink under his skin without Gus giving the command.

  I send the Easterly to find an exit, but I don’t have time to wait.

  Gus’s lips are taking on a bluish tinge.

  I faced this same dilemma with Vane—and I never did determine whether a bond would form if I pressed my mouth to his.

  That did hold a much greater risk, since I already cared far too deeply for Vane.

  Still, I care for Gus in other ways, and what if . . .

  I don’t have time for this debate. I prop his neck on my knee and open his mouth.

  Maybe if I cover his lips with my fingers, the barrier will ensure there’s no connection.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I whisper as I lower my mouth to his and blow all the breath in my lungs.

  Half of it breezes through the gaps around my fingers. The rest doesn’t sink deep enough.

  I pull my hand back and suck in another breath, checking the hall around me for signs of the Stormers.

  I can’t hear what the wind is doing—can’t tell if any guards are drawing close.

  I lean down again and breathe straight against his mouth.

  Our lips barely touch—but I can feel how cold they are.

  I lean back for a new breath and repeat the process again.

  And again.

  By the fifth time, I notice his mouth turning warm.

  “Come on, Gus,” I whisper. “You’re so close.”

  Three more breaths and my lips turn tingly.

  The next time, Gus gasps on his own.

  I scoot back, letting him cough and wheeze. That’s when I realize I can hear footsteps charging closer.

  I search for the Easterly and find it slashing at the ceiling.

  I send the Westerly to help and order them to Sever as I drag Gus toward the exit I hope the winds are making.

  Silt rains down, stinging my eyes as the drafts cut the seams around a square hatch.

  I drop into a deep crouch, begging my Westerly to fuel my jump as I burst off the ground. The stone is heavier than I expected, and my wrists scream in protest, but I manage to knock the hatch aside and make an opening.

  I land next to Gus and throw him over my shoulder, wondering if I can leap high enough with his added weight.

  My Westerly has a better solution, coiling around us both and repeating the command it wants me to use.

  “Elevate.”

  The wind pulls taut and drags us like a rope. It’s not a comfortable process, but it’s worth it when we launch through the hatch. I’ve barely pulled my legs inside when the Stormers burst into the room, and I shove the hatch closed and collapse on top of it.

  “Is there a way to seal the door?” I ask the winds.

  Neither have any suggestions.

  And Gus is barely conscious.

  And I left the windslicer down below.

  I scan our new tunnel, searching for actual options.

  The thin metal slats lining the ceiling could possibly serve as a weapon—but when I try to pry one off, the metal is welded too tight.

  The best I can manage is to coil the Easterly and Westerly into a weak sort of wind spike. The point feels dull—wind spikes need the strength of the Northerlies. But it’s better than nothing.

  I drag Gus behind me, glad to see he’s still breathing. If only his eyes weren’t closed and his wounds weren’t seeping through his bandages.

  I’m wishing for wind—and maybe the sky hears me—because the metal slats tilt and cool air rushes in.

  For two seconds I let hope swell in my heart. Then I realize the Stormers haven’t tried to follow me. And when I pull on the hatch, I find it sealed shut.

  I press my ear to the floor and hear the voice of the Stormer who ripped my dress.

  “Flood the tunnel with flurries. She’s useless in the cold.”

  The metal slats tilt farther, and the wind picks up speed, tearing at my face and hair.

  I unravel the wind spike and blanket us each in a shield before I pull Gus close and try to find something to grab on to.

  The walls are perfectly smooth—the tunnel too wide to use my feet for leverage. And the wind keeps rushing rushing rushing.

  I hold firm as long as I can, but the gusts are relentless. Eventually, the river of air drags us away.

  CHAPTER
25

  VANE

  I’m rocking this leader thing.

  Okay, fine, maybe I’ve had a ton of help from the wind.

  But the point is, I’m totally kicking butt!

  We’re moving fast. We’ve avoided dozens of Stormers—a couple were close calls, but we still got out of there without being seen. And my Westerly isn’t having any problems finding the hidden doors we need.

  So take that, power of pain and all your dark, evil, creepiness.

  You just got stomped by a Westerly!

  I’m planning the endless ways I’ll be bragging about this to Os when we pass through the next door and my mind blanks out.

  “Is this . . . Raiden’s bedroom?” I whisper.

  “I think it must be.” Solana traces her hand across the wall, which is painted with a perfect sky in a hundred shades of blue. Birds of every color soar from one side of the room to the other, and windswept trees disappear into the floor.

  “He kept my grandmother’s murals,” she whispers. “I’ve always wanted to see them.”

  I don’t blame her.

  I’m not even into art, and I can tell they’re amazing.

  The whole room is crazy beautiful. Everything is clean and white and pristine. The marble floor is polished, and the wall of windows gives us a view of the whole range of snow-capped mountains. Even in the dark—with the fires and smoke—it takes my breath away.

  “I’m guessing this is all your family’s stuff?” I ask, pointing to the huge canopied bed covered in more pillows than one of my mom’s decorating magazines. The posts are carved to look like trees, and hundreds of wind chimes dangle from the ornate branches. The center chimes hang lower than the others, and they’re strung with a few clumps of colorful feathers and something that kinda looks like a miniature silver flute.

  “No, this is all new,” Solana whispers. “Only the paintings are familiar.”

  I study the room again, noting silver mirrors and vases full of reeds cut to different heights.

  Who knew Raiden was so . . . decorate-y?

  The better question is: Why are we here?

  I told my Westerly to take us to the turbine, since sabotaging the crap out of this place is even more crucial now that they know we’re here. Maybe that’ll keep everyone distracted while we head for the dungeon, and if not, it’ll hopefully cripple them when they attack us.

  I search the air for my shield and feel it calling me from what I’m guessing is Raiden’s closet. I’m on my way there when I turn back and snatch the chimes hanging from the center of the bed.

  I’m not sure why I want them—and I kinda regret the decision when the rest of the chimes start tinkling like crazy. But it’s too late now. Plus, it makes me realize something.

  We’re standing in the bedroom of the guy who’s basically declared himself King of the Wind, and . . . the air is perfectly still.

  It almost feels stale.

  I don’t know what that means—but it has to mean something.

  Solana shakes her head at me as I shove the wind chimes in my pocket—which is pretty full now between the chimes and Socky the Duck and the handprint thing.

  “You’d better hope there were no Stormers around to hear that,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, I know. I should’ve picked something quieter. But imagine Raiden’s face when he plops down in bed and realizes we were here, messing with his stuff.”

  “See, and I’d rather find a way to ensure he never rests again,” Solana mumbles.

  Okay. Yeah. I guess that’s a better plan.

  I head for the closet, which turns out to be more like a master bathroom. There’s a huge tub in one corner, and a dressing table covered in colorful bottles that look like cologne. I peek into the walk-in closet as we pass it, and it’s floor to ceiling clothes.

  “Where does he get all of this stuff?” I ask.

  “I’m sure most of it is spoils of war. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just weird. This place is so normal—if normal people wore this much white fur and feathers.”

  “What did you think his living quarters would be like?” Solana asks.

  “I honestly had no idea.”

  I always picture Raiden in a war room with a map of the world spread out on the table and giant knives stabbed into the countries he’s taking over.

  Plus I’ve never seen a sylph house. That serial-killer place Arella lives in hardly counts. And Audra squatted in a burned-down shack on my parents’ property. The Gales sleep in holes in the ground so the Stormers can’t find them. Even my few childhood memories are all filled with the deserted human houses we crashed in during our days on the run.

  “I guess it’s easy to forget there’s a person behind all of this,” Solana whispers, and somehow the idea makes it all worse.

  The more I learn about Raiden, the more I can’t figure him out.

  Does he stand in his closet asking himself which outfit would look the coolest for a long day of murdering children and then soak in a giant bubble bath afterward?

  “I think your wind’s over there,” Solana says, and I follow her to a small cubby room with nothing but a toilet.

  Side note—I guess it really is true: Everyone poops.

  I kick down the seat and stand on the lid, feeling the section of the ceiling where the Westerly is circling. “Pretty sure there’s a door here.”

  “Let’s hope it leads to a wind tunnel.”

  I know I should be rooting for the same thing, but Aston made it sound like the wind tunnels are a whole other nightmare.

  I give the command to open the hatch anyway.

  “Need a boost?” I ask Solana, kneeling and cupping my hands.

  She steps over them, hops up onto the toilet tank and stretches high enough to grab hold of the edge of the doorway, then pulls herself up like a pro.

  “You coming?” she asks. “This isn’t the kind of place I want to linger.”

  I can’t climb with my bad elbow, so I have to convince my Westerly to pull me—and it doesn’t go smoothly. When I finally flop into the tunnel, I totally get why Solana’s desperate to keep moving.

  The air feels hot and sour, like we’re standing in Raiden’s armpit—and it smells just as disgusting.

  The sticky drafts pull at me, chanting, Go! Move! Faster!

  We start out at a walk, but it quickly turns to a run—then a flat-out sprint.

  And still I want to go faster.

  Faster!

  FASTER!

  My focus narrows to the next breath, the next step, the next burst of speed—which is probably why I don’t notice the giant, spinning fan until I’m seconds from charging through it.

  “Whoa,” Solana says as I grab her arm and screech us both to a stop. “How did you see that?”

  “My Westerly got my attention.” And I’m pretty sure its current song about watching where you walk is the wind’s way of calling me an idiot.

  The song shifts again as I concentrate on the fan, repeating a single word in a very specific rhythm.

  “How much do you trust me?” I ask Solana.

  “Why—is it telling you to jump?”

  “It is. And I’m pretty sure if we do it at the same time, we’ll end up as Windwalker smoothies. So since you can’t hear the Westerly telling you when to go . . .”

  “You’re going to have to push me,” Solana finishes.

  She blinks hard several times. Then steps in front of me. “I guess we should get it over with.”

  Her hair blasts my face until she gathers all the blond waves at the base of her neck.

  I seriously can’t believe we’re going to do this.

  We can’t even see what’s on the other side. For all we know, it’s another fan—or an army of Stormers.

  Now! my Westerly tells me.

  Now!

  Now!

  “In case this doesn’t go well,” Solana whispers, “I just wanted to say . . . you were right about his power. I can feel the need c
orrupting me. But I don’t know how to stop it.”

  Aston’s solution flits through my mind, and I squeeze the thought away. “The less you use it, the safer you’ll be.”

  She nods. “That’s why I’m letting you push me into a fan instead of using a command to stop the blades.”

  “There’s a command to stop the blades?”

  “That’s what the need is telling me. It senses what I want and comes up with a way to make it happen.”

  Crap—now I’m tempted.

  One more time isn’t going to make that big of a difference for her, right?

  Except . . . the power sounds even creepier when I really think about it.

  How can the need know what she wants—and what if she wants something bad?

  My Westerly has gotten us this far. It’s safer to keep trusting it—even if nothing about this decision actually feels safe.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  Solana nods, but her shoulders are shaking.

  Now! my Westerly orders.

  Now!

  NOW!

  On the next repetition I close my eyes and shove Solana as hard as I can.

  I’m fully expecting a sound like something squishy dropping into a blender. Instead there’s an excruciating silence before Solana calls out, “I’m okay! It’s not as bad as I thought. But there’s a pretty steep drop on the other side, so you’ll need to use the Southerly I gave you to stop your fall.”

  I nod—which is stupid because it’s not like she can see me. Then I scoot closer to the fan and try to get a handle on the rhythm again.

  Now.

  Now.

  Now—crap, I should’ve gone but I wasn’t ready!

  Now!

  Now—Audra’s waiting, come on, dude—NOW!

  I leap through the blades, preparing to be smoothiefied. But all I feel is a buzz of rushing air. The drop hits me then, and it takes me several seconds to remember the right command, so I land a little harder than I want to—but I’m alive!

  We’ve ended up on the ground floor of a tower, its round walls stretching at least five stories. And there are about a zillion fans covering the wall, alternating with round vents in a checkerboard pattern.

  Streams of hot and cold air blast through the fans and vents and collide against a giant motor in the center, making all the cogs and springs spin like we’re inside some sort of giant steampunk clock tower.