Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(35)

“You should be helping us,” I tell him. “The wind is on our side.”

“And since when does the wind know what’s right for our people?” he counters. “Since when does the wind think? It’s a force.”

“I used to believe the same thing,” I tell him. “But the wind is changing. Maybe it’s fighting against your cruel methods. Or maybe it was always this thoughtful and we were too arrogant to listen. Either way, it’s showing us where our loyalties should be. We belong with the wind and the sky.”

“Don’t waste your breath on him,” Gus tells me. “He took plenty of turns with Raiden’s whip during my interrogation.”

“I spare no sympathy for those who face the consequences of their actions,” the Stormer snaps. “You should’ve known what to expect the moment you dared to defy him.”

“And you should know the risks of joining him,” Gus shouts back. “Raiden’s rule will fall, and when it does, he’ll drag his armies down with him—and that’s assuming he doesn’t decide that you’d be much more useful as one of his Living Storms.”

“Ah, but he’s saving that privilege for his captives,” the scarred Stormer says. “I’m sure that’s what he’s planning for you. Like father, like son.”

Gus lunges for the bars, but the sudden motion is too much for his weakened body. He collapses to his knees, coughing and gasping.

My Westerly shield flits to his side, coiling around him.

“Do you see?” I ask the Stormer. “That Westerly is acting on its own.”

“Rushing from one person to another hardly counts as a mighty uprising.”

“It does in this case,” Gus snarls.

He stands and shouts “Meld” in Westerly, and my jaw falls as he pries open his cell’s bars. The metal bends as though it were made of feathers, and when the scarred Stormer lunges with his windslicer, Gus dodges easily, kicking out the Stormer’s legs.

He dives on top of him, pinning the Stormer’s shoulders with one hand, using the other to deliver blow after blow after blow.

Bones crack.

Blood splatters.

The Stormer’s cries fade to delirious moans.

“That’s enough!” I shout—but I have to repeat the call twice more before I’m able to pull Gus out of the frenzy.

“He’s still conscious,” Gus says, reaching for the fallen windslicer and pressing it against the Stormer’s neck. “We can’t risk that he’ll raise the alarm.”

“You can’t kill him!”

Gus points to the hole in his shoulder. “He laughed as this happened.”

I swallow, trying to understand how the same soldier who saved me from assault could be so cruel.

But it doesn’t matter.

“You’re under Westerly influence now,” I whisper. “There’s no telling how the violence will affect you.”

Gus loosens his grip on the hilt, but keeps his blade pressed in place.

“Trust me on this, Gus. It’s not worth it. You’re going to need every ounce of strength to escape.”

“Fine,” he says, slowly lowering his blade.

He punches the Stormer one last time—a knockout blow that leaves him silent and still. “It’s probably better to let Raiden deal with him anyway. I’m sure he’ll have much more creative ways to punish him for letting us get away.”

Each word drips with the purest, most potent kind of hate.

I don’t blame him—but it’s hard to watch Gus strip off the unconscious Stormer’s uniform and drag his limp body to one of the empty cells.

He slams the barred door and crushes the lock so easily, it’s like the metal melts at his touch.

“How are you doing that?” I whisper.

“My gift allows me to absorb strength from the wind and channel it into my muscles. That’s why those Northerlies helped me recover as much as I have. And now that I can finally absorb Westerlies . . .” Gus pries open my cell as though it were paper.

“That’s incredible.”

“It’s never been this strong before,” he whispers. “I can’t tell if it’s a power of four thing, or because your Westerly was especially strong.”

“Was?”

The word feels like a knife to my heart.

I know it’s ridiculous, but . . . after all that little draft and I have been through . . .

“Don’t worry.” Gus closes his eyes and whispers “Release” under his breath.

His body shifts ever so slightly, as though his essence unraveled for a brief moment, and a soft rush whisks past my senses, singing its familiar melody.

“We need to get out of here,” Gus says as my Westerly tightens into a shield around me. “But first, a little camouflage.”

He shuffles to where he left the Stormer’s clothes, and I notice he’s limping again.

He tries to pull the jacket on, but his bandages snag on the fabric.

“Here,” I say, scooting behind him and taking over.

It’s a slower process than I want it to be, pulling the sleeves inch by inch. But Gus has lost too much blood—I can’t tear open any of the scabs.

“I never thanked you for this,” he says, touching one of the pieces of torn red fabric. “I don’t even remember when you did it.”