Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(77)

“I think it’s our best chance,” Solana adds. “At least we’ll be coming at them with something they won’t be prepared for.”

She releases three of her drafts, sending the Easterly to Audra, the Northerly to Aston, and keeping the Southerly for herself.

I untangle my Westerly shield, begging it to swirl with the others and not drift away.

“What about me?” Arella asks.

“We don’t need you.”

I might be imagining the joy in Audra’s voice, but I’m pretty sure she’s wanted to say those words to her mother for ten years.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Aston asks.

“Right now, it’s all about listening.” Audra holds out her hands, and Solana and I each take one.

Aston sighs as he reaches out and completes the circle—and I’ll admit the whole process does feel a little “Kumbayah.” But as I beg the winds for help and focus on their lyrics, I can hear their songs slowly synchronizing.

The whirlwind picks up speed, whipping into a frenzy as a single word rings out over all the others.

“Everyone else is hearing ‘simoom,’ right?” I ask. “That’s an actual thing?”

“It is,” Audra tells me.

“And I doubt they’ll be prepared for that,” Aston murmurs.

“Why, what’s a simoom?” I ask.

Audra tightens her hold on my hand. “It means ‘poison wind.’?”





CHAPTER 44


AUDRA


I’ve never seen a simoom before.

They’re rare in this part of the world.

And Windwalkers tend not to use them.

Partially because they can be erratic and untamable. But mostly because they’re terrifying.

To let the earth choke out all the air . . .

My shudder makes me realize what I’m forgetting.

“I need you to warn the Gales,” I tell my mother, hating that we have to rely on her after all. “Tell them to hold their breath and cover their hands and faces—without tipping off the Stormers.”

I wish I could order a retreat, but that could ruin everything. And I doubt the Gales would be able to get past the Living Storms anyway.

“I’ll use the birds,” my mother tells me, marking the feathers on her crow’s wing. She whispers directions for it to follow and sends it soaring into the stormy sky.

“Okay, what the heck is this thing we’re about to make?” Vane asks as my mother calls more birds to warn the other Gales.

There aren’t many willing to brave this weather, but a handful of sparrows responds as I tell Vane, “It’s a heat-driven dust storm.”

“How is that different than a haboob?” he asks. “Besides the way less awesome name, of course.”

He winks and I can’t help smiling.

Now is definitely not the time for another round of his infamous boob jokes.

But I love that he always manages to ease the tension.

“Haboobs are formed by sudden downdrafts. Simooms are cyclonic,” I explain. “And they carry heat along with the dust, and sweep through an area so fast they choke everything in their path and scorch it.”

“I’ve heard stories of whole pastures of dead animals after a Simoom passes,” Solana adds. “And men with blistered skin.”

“That definitely doesn’t sound like anything I want to be signed up for,” Vane says. “Are we sure the Gales can survive it?”

“We’re not sure of anything,” I hate to admit. “Except that our winds are telling us the command, and they haven’t failed us yet.”

“If it helps,” Aston adds, “the Gales are as good as dead in this battle anyway. At least this gives them a chance.”

No. That doesn’t help.

But I can hear Gus’s voice whispering through my memories.

Trust the wind.

Keep fighting.

“So how do we actually do this?” Vane asks. “Do we stay up here and watch, or . . .”

I wish.

“I think we’ll have to follow through on foot, don’t you?” I ask Aston.

He nods. “I doubt the simoom will have much affect on the Living Storms. They don’t breathe or have skin to burn.”

“Wait a second,” Vane says. “Are you telling me that once we use up half of our winds to make this simoom thing, we’re still going to have to fight”—he turns to the battle and counts—“thirty-six Storms?”

“You’re the one who thought we should listen to the wind,” Aston tells him. “If you don’t like their plan, take it up with them.”

Vane checks the drafts’ songs again, and I find myself doing the same. They’re still focused on the simoom, and they’ve added another lyric about hoping in the unknown.

“Well then,” Vane says. “Anyone got any plans for fighting the Living Storms? Last time it didn’t go very awesome.”

He rubs his injured elbow, and I try not to remember how many Gales died in that battle—or the fact that we were only facing twenty-nine Storms at the time.

“I have a few ideas,” Aston murmurs. “But most of them require wind, so we’ll have to hope the simoom wipes out whatever the Stormers are doing to keep the sky empty. And another involves breaking the rest of the drafts in this wind spike. Or breaking the ones I’m capable of shattering, at least.”