Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(78)

“Why would that matter?” Vane asks.

“Simple math,” Aston tells him. “If shattering one draft boosts its strength, breaking the others should triple the effect.”

Vane doesn’t look thrilled with his reasoning.

But he nods.

“Try to focus on the Gales you’re hoping to save—not on saving yourself,” Solana advises, before Aston can give the command. “Keep saying it over and over in your mind and make yourself believe it. Then say whatever words the need tells you.”

Aston sighs. “You’re really killing all the fun of this.”

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” I snap. “Those winds are being sacrificed to save us—at least give them some small choice in the matter.”

Aston sighs again, but closes his eyes and lets several seconds slip by before he hisses a string of commands.

The wind spike crackles and shifts to a shade of yellow so bright it practically glows.

I can feel the power radiating from it, sick and scratchy but so intense it gives me hope. Until Vane tries to command it to “come” and the spike refuses to respond.

“Maybe it needs you to say the command in the power of pain?” Vane suggests.

Aston and Solana both try, to no avail.

“At least that makes it harder to steal,” Aston says, slashing it a few times.

“It also means you’ll probably only get one shot,” Vane reminds him.

“Then I’ll make it count,” Aston says, slashing the spike several times. “And hopefully build more when I have access to wind.”

Vane turns to the battlefield, probably taking another count of the Storms. “I’m not sure I want to know the answer to this,” he says quietly, “but . . . do we know who these Storms are—or were—or whatever the right phrase is?”

“I’d wager they’re the Stormers who failed to capture us on the mountain,” Aston tells him. “And the ones who allowed you to escape from Brezengarde. Raiden wouldn’t let such failure go unpunished.”

I know I shouldn’t feel sympathy for the Stormer who tore my dress and tried to assault me. Or Nalani, who was happy to let Gus die in that cell.

But it’s all such an incredible waste.

So many lives stolen.

So much pain and ruin.

And for what?

For one sylph’s greed for ultimate power—a sylph who couldn’t even bother showing up to fight his own battle.

Please, I beg the winds, give us the strength to end this.

“Os got the warning,” my mother announces, stroking her newly returned crow. “And the other birds are finishing up their rounds.”

“I guess that means it’s time to do this, right?” Vane asks, tightening his grip on my hand. “You sure you’re up for it?”

“I have to be. We need an Easterly.”

He leans closer, whispering only for me to hear. “But I need you more. We could use your mother—”

I shake my head. “I don’t trust her. Besides, I’m staying with you.”

“Will you two please remember that there are people with eyes here, having to watch this sugary mushiness?” Aston interrupts.

Vane shoots him a glare—but Aston’s right.

Still, I feel myself twining my fingers tighter with Vane’s. “Okay, we’ll give the command on three. And then—depending on what happens—we’ll charge into battle. Ready?”

I wait for each of them to nod.

Vane agrees first.

Then Solana.

“Oh, why not?” Aston tells me.

“One,” I count. “Two.”

I steal an extra breath before I call, “Three!”

In perfect harmony, we all shout, “Scorch!” in our native languages.

The winds double their span, blasting the four of us backward. We skid across the ground as the winds swirl so fast they tear off chunks of rock and pulverize them.

The battle goes quiet as the Stormers halt to stare.

“Is that how this is supposed to work?” Vane asks as the funnel stretches higher and higher. “I thought it was going to, y’know, move.”

“It’s heating up,” Aston says. “Ever rub a stick between your palms and watch the friction spark?”

The air does seem to be getting hotter.

And hotter.

And hotter.

“Maybe we should back up,” Vane says.

But there isn’t far to go. The hill slopes down on one side, and butts us up against the spire of rock on the other.

“EVERYONE COVER YOUR MOUTHS!” Aston shouts, and I bury my face in my hands as the storm blasts into a cyclone and swirls toward the battlefield.

The simoom stretches wider with every second, gouging the earth as it moves, smashing it into silt and fanning it through the sky until the air is so thick I can barely see my hands. The grit burns my eyes and throat, and I wish we’d been smart enough to tear strips of fabric from our jackets and make face masks.

Someone grabs my hand and I scream—then choke on the dust.

“It’s okay,” Vane shouts, pulling me to my feet.

We stumble toward the others, all of us coughing so hard it nearly knocks us over.

“This storm will burn out in a few minutes,” Aston rasps. “So we should start making our way down. We’ll want to hit them when they’re scrambling to regroup.”