Let the Sky Fall (Sky Fall #1)(24)

“Come to me swiftly.”

It’s actually quite impressive the amount of disdain he slipped into his whisper.

I smile at his pettiness. “Carry no trace.”

“Carry no trace.”

“Lift me softly.”

“Lift me softly.”

“Then flow and race.”

“Then flow and race.”

The Easterly rushes through the half room, stirring the leaves and cooling the sweat pooling at my hairline before it whisks away.

Vane’s eyes widen. “Cool.”

“Memorize those four phrases. They will save your life a thousand times over.”

He doesn’t say anything, too busy staring at the giant grasshopper that jumped onto the flat edge of the windslicer.

I snatch the disgusting insect and toss it at his head. “Pay attention, Vane. What did I just tell you?”

He shrieks, waving the now flying creature away from his face. “Memorize the spell. Got it—no need to get psycho with the bugs.”

The grasshopper lands on his shoulder and he flails to shoo it away, fixing me with a glare that would’ve been evil if he weren’t blushing so bright red. It distracts me from what he said, but only for a second.

“Wait, did you say ‘spell’?”

“Spell. Command. Whatever you want to call this crap.”

My mind spins with the implications of his words.

“I’ll ignore for a second that you just referred to the single most valuable element of our heritage as ‘crap’—though you can bet we’ll get back to that. Do you think I’m teaching you . . . magic?”

I feel crazy even saying the word.

“You control the wind. What else am I supposed to think?”

He has a point—from a human standpoint, at least. But he’s still wrong.

“We control the wind through words, Vane. We ask the gust to do what we want and convince it to obey. It’s a simple communication—no different from what you and I are doing right now.”

“We talk to the wind? Like it’s alive?”

“In a way. Each of the four winds has a language. Only sylphs can understand and speak the languages because we’re part of the wind ourselves. But there’s no magic or spells. Just a simple dialogue between wind and Windwalker.”

I should’ve realized he was confused. It explains why he isn’t taking this as seriously as he needs to. “I can’t believe how little you know about your heritage. I know your mind was wiped, but I thought some things were just . . . instinctive.”

I realize my slip a second too late.

“What do you mean my mind was wiped?”

“Nothing.”

“Like hell it’s nothing.” He scoots closer, the windslicer no longer intimidating him. “Tell me what happened to me. Now.”

I want to be angry with him for once again interrupting this very important lesson—and as his trainer I should demand he pay attention, and whip him around with some winds if he refuses.

But I can’t.

I feel sorry for him.

Sorry for what I know.

Sorry for what I’ve done.

“You have to understand,” I tell him, trying to sound calmer than I feel. “When the Stormer attacked it was like the world ended. Everything gone, destroyed, sucked up, or broken and left in splinters. My mother found us huddled on the ground, sobbing. She didn’t have any choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“No one can hide from Raiden—not for long. We had to make him think we were dead. My mother and I could disappear easily enough, but you were too important. The only place we knew Raiden would never look for you was with the groundlings, and the only way to hide you there was if you didn’t know who or what you are. Humans don’t know we exist—and we couldn’t risk that you would tell them.”

“So she wiped my mind?” His hands tear through his hair, like he’s trying to feel for a wound or injury. “What the hell did she do to my brain?”

“She called a Southerly and sent it deep into your subconscious. The wind did the rest.”

I can still remember the way his skinny, bruised body collapsed to the ground as she wrapped the draft around him and sent it into his mind. My mother didn’t explain what was happening. So he turned his wide, terrified eyes to me, silently begging me to help him.

Vane watches me now, looking so much like the little boy that day it nearly takes my breath away. I owe him the truth. As much as I’m willing to tell, at least.

“You said it felt like a million butterflies were flapping around in your brain,” I whisper. “I held your hand and told you to close your eyes. When you woke a few hours later, you didn’t remember much of anything. The wind wiped all your memories away.”

Vane doesn’t speak—doesn’t move. I take his hand, stunned at the overwhelming urge I feel to reach him. Comfort him. Try to make it right.

He jerks away. “How do I get them back?”

I can’t blame him for asking. But I need him to forget. One memory at least.

“You can’t, Vane. They’re gone. Forever.”

He closes his eyes, looking fragile. Crushed.

Hopeless.

I close my eyes too.