Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(15)

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.