Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(76)

“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.”