“How come it didn’t feel like that last night?” I was asleep for most of it, but I don’t remember having a hard time waking up.
“When I triggered your Easterly breakthrough it was me inside your head, and I could control the drafts and build the connections you needed to make without exposing you to the full force of the winds.”
“So . . . you were literally inside my mind—like how the wind just was?” I shudder, remembering the weird swishy, spinning feeling.
“Yes. When we shift into our true forms, we are the wind. We move and work and feel exactly the same way, only with more control.”
“That might be the freakiest thing you’ve told me yet.”
She rewards me with another partial smile. Then she looks down, watching her fingers as she twists them together. “I’m not sure if I should trigger the Southerly breakthrough. It might be too much for you to handle right now.”
I can’t begin to explain how much I don’t want to go through that again—ever. But this isn’t about me. “I need to learn the three languages, right? As soon as possible?”
A few seconds pass before she says, “Time is running out.”
“Then we have to do it.”
I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth.
But I can’t wimp out now. People might die. Audra might die. “I know what to expect now. I’ll be fine.”
“If the lure was that strong from the harsh, cold Northerlies, it’ll be ten times worse from the warm, welcoming Southerlies.”
“I’ll come back.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I take her hands. She tries to pull away, but I hold tight. “When you touched me, it yanked me back. So just do that again, and I’ll come back. For you.”
The last words I kinda mumble, but I’m pretty sure she caught them, because a hint of pink colors her cheeks.
She stares at our hands for a second, taking slow, deep breaths. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 22
AUDRA
Vane has no idea how irresistible the Southerlies’ pull will be.
Their warm rush is intoxicating. The comfort they promise so alluring. Tempting you to slip away forever in their soft, wandering drag.
I’d been ready to follow their whispers anywhere they led, and I very nearly had. The vow I made my father was the only thing that pulled me back.
But all I can do is stick with the plan and hope Vane really will come back for me.
To me, I correct. And not even me—specifically. Come back to the world, to continue with his training. Live up to his potential. Step into his role as king. Those are my primary—my only—concerns.
I repeat the reminder in my head as I reach for the winds. The nearest Southerlies are several miles away, ambling through a stretch of empty dunes. They shift toward me when I whisper their call.
I hold Vane’s gaze as the winds form the first tendrils of his cocoon. “You must come back,” I order.
“Hold on to me and I will.”
His honest trust, his willingness to face such a challenge for me—not to mention the intensity in his eyes—makes my guilt burn hot in my hands. In my heart.
I stuff the pain as deep as I can shove it. Then I whisper the last command, close the cocoon, and Vane’s gone, tangled in the silky strands of Southerlies.
I catch myself holding my breath and force air into my lungs. I have to keep my head clear. Be prepared for anything.
Vane’s limbs stay locked in place as his body lifts off the ground. No thrashing or flailing like the Northerlies caused. It’s hard to make out his form through the sandy gusts, but I can see his face and he looks peaceful. Happy.
I remember that feeling. The Southerlies carry pure bliss.
My nails press into my palms as I count the passing seconds, watching for the breakthrough to occur. The longer he’s at the wind’s mercy, the more he relinquishes control.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
I live an eternity in each moment. I could have destroyed our only hope with this hasty decision.
Fifty seconds.
A minute.
“Come on, Vane—you can do this!” I shout over the gusts.
Sixteen more seconds pass. Then the winds unravel, fleeing to freedom.
He had the breakthrough.
His body collapses on the bed of palm leaves, and I call his name over and over. He doesn’t stir, but I take his hands the way I did when he was fighting the Northerlies, ignoring the guilt searing my skin as I do.
His eyes remain closed. He doesn’t so much as twitch.
“Breathe, Vane,” I order, squeezing his hands harder. “You promised.”
No reaction.
I shake his arms, trying to rock him awake. “Breathe!”
Nothing. Even when I pound on his chest with my fists.
My heart jumps into my throat as I watch his lips tinge with blue. I have to do something—anything.