Let the Storm Break (Sky Fall #2)(49)

“No, Vane. He’s seen me speak Westerly, too. And he’ll kill Gus just for revenge—or keep him alive and . . .” She shudders, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ve seen firsthand what he can do.”

The greenish tinge to her skin and the tremble in her voice is enough to convince me.

“Well then, I guess we’ll just have to make this work,” I say quietly. “And hope Westerlies have big haboobs.”





CHAPTER 26


AUDRA

T

he Stormers are moving closer.

I can feel it in the force of the explosions.

In the fear surging through our loyal Westerly shield.

Raiden seemed shaken by Gus’s attack. Thrown by the fact that he couldn’t deter it. Furious that his army saw a hint of his weakness.

If he catches us now, it won’t just be about learning our language. He’ll also make sure we’re punished violently and publicly so that there will be no question who reigns supreme. No doubt who holds the ultimate power.

My hands shake as I help Vane unravel our wind spikes, and I try to draw calm and peace from the Westerlies as I coil them around my wrist.

“What?” I ask when I catch Vane watching me.

A shy smile peeks from the corners of his lips, which seems out of place as the explosions echo around us.

“Sorry. It’s just . . . every time the Gales ask me to teach them Westerly, I feel sick. I can’t imagine trusting them with that responsibility. But when it’s you, I . . .”

He doesn’t finish, but his smile tells me what he’s not saying. The same words I suddenly have to say, even though our time is running out—or maybe especially because of that. In case I never get another chance again, I have to tell him.

“I’m glad I chose you.”

I counted on a goofy grin or the smug smirk I remember so well. Instead, his eyes turn glassy and he looks away.

He clears his throat. “So what’s the command for a haboob? Please tell me it involves the word ‘knockers’.”

I feel my lips smile, even though I’m panicking inside.

I saw my father make haboobs, but he never taught me what he was doing. And during my training in the Gales I was so focused on learning violent attacks that would take out the most soldiers that I never bothered learning anything else. I never knew there was power in restraint. Not until I started listening to Westerlies.

My whole life I was taught that the west wind was weak. No one realized how much power comes from winds that are willing to work together, instead of dominating, like the Northerlies. How caution steadies the drafts against the pitfalls that a brash Easterly might dive into. How they always stay swift and active, unlike the sluggish Southerlies. They’re the most willing, compliant winds I’ve ever experienced—and whether that’s because of their easy nature or a result of suffering so much loss and loneliness, I can’t be sure. But I know I can convince them to do this. I just have to find the right words.

“Have you ever triggered a haboob?” I ask Gus, hoping the command might be the same in any language.

Gus shakes his head, his eyes still so blank I can’t tell if he even understands me.

“You don’t know how to make one?” Vane asks, sounding as nervous as I feel.

“I can figure this out,” I promise, ordering myself to believe it.

I think back to the haboobs I’ve seen. My father always triggered a rapid downdraft that battered the ground so hard it kicked up the towering wall of dust. Most of the force came from how many winds he used, but if I can get my Westerlies to flow in a cycle—flying high and then crashing back down, over and over and over—they might be able to trigger the same effect after a few rotations.

But that’s a complex command. A single word isn’t going to explain that many steps. For that I’ll need a chain of words, like when I call the wind.

The Westerlies swirling around my wrist feel too distracted— too overwhelmed by all the chaos to share their secrets. So I focus on my loyal shield, hating that I have to turn to it again. The draft feels weary and faded and its voice is hushed, its words now stuttered as it sings.

The sound breaks my heart, and I wish I could send the poor wind away, tell it to wander through the endless sky and never worry about me again. But I still need its help, so I whisper a soft apology and beg it for another favor.

The draft’s song turns sad and sweet, whispering about carrying on when all else feels bleak. And one phrase stands out from the others.

The force of peace.

The harder I focus on it, the more I feel other words tingle inside my mind, swirling and building until I know what my instincts are telling me to say.

Surge and swell and rise to increase. Then fall and crash with the force of peace.

The rightness of the command makes my tongue feel heavy, desperate to whisper the words and put them to work. But not yet. Not until the Stormers are closer and I can be sure the chaos will affect them the way we need.

Vane reaches for my hand as the ground shakes again, and I can feel the poor shield fighting to hold on, clinging to the three of us with any strength it has left.

“I want you to promise me something,” Vane says, waiting for me to look at him. “If something goes wrong and Raiden captures me, I want you to make a run for it—no, don’t argue.” He presses my palm against his cheek, closing his eyes as the sparks dance between us. “I’m strong enough to handle whatever Raiden does to me. But I’m not strong enough to watch him hurt you.”