Vane laughs. “The wind farm? You’re joking, right?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I guess I assumed we’d practice the power of three—or whatever you call it—in the middle of nowhere, so I couldn’t do any damage to, oh, I don’t know, huge wind turbines that probably cost more than my life.” He waves his arms at the rows of windmills all around us. “Not to mention, they look like they’ll slice me to Vane-bits if I get too close.”
I can’t help smiling. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure nothing gets out of hand. But you need the windmills. They’ll help you separate the different winds, since your senses aren’t fine-tuned enough to determine that on their own. See how each windmill is turned differently? They’re angled to pick up winds from every direction.”
“Is that why there’s always like, one or two random windmills spinning, even though none of the others around it are moving?”
“Exactly. So when we practice tonight, and I tell you to find an Easterly, you would reach from there.” I point to four windmills at the base of the lowest hill, lined up like soldiers, their pointed blades blurring in unison. “Watch for their speed. Easterlies are the stealthy winds. They also tend to cluster, so you want to look for a group. Let’s see if you can spot a Northerly.”
He squints through the darkness, examining the spinning blades.
“There.” He points to a pair of windmills in the middle of our level.
I repress a sigh. I can’t expect him to know these things—they’re not something he’d learn in groundling schools. But it’s still disappointing when he gets them wrong.
“Those are Southerlies. See how it looks like they don’t have enough force to keep moving, but somehow still do? Southerlies are the steady, sluggish winds. Easterlies are the swift, tricky winds. And Northerlies”—I point to the edge of a hill, where the freeway carves its brightly lit path in the night. A line of windmills stands taller than the others, their enormous blades whirling at top speed—“are the strong, forceful winds.”
“What about Westerlies?”
I swallow the lump that rises in my throat every time I think of Westerlies. They stand behind every pain, every sacrifice I’ve endured in my seventeen years in this world. “They’re the soft, peaceful winds.”
Vane snorts. “That’s ironic.”
Indeed, it is. The greatest war our world has faced is being waged over the language of peace. Makes me want to scream. Or punch something really, really hard.
Instead, my eyes search the rows of turbines, seeking out the one spinning to a rhythm all its own. I find it at the lower point of the highest hill, silhouetted against the starry sky. “There’s a Westerly.”
Vane hesitates before looking where I point.
“It’s the only draft here I can’t feel. I can see it, and if I were in its path I would feel it against my skin. But I can’t feel it prickle my senses. Can’t call it. And if I tried to listen to its song, all I would hear is a hiss of rushing air. Its language is completely lost to me.”
I don’t tell him to feel for it, but Vane closes his eyes, stretching his hands toward the lone Westerly powering the windmill. Reaching for his heritage.
Please let him feel it. Please let there be hope.
I send the silent plea into the night, wishing the winds could hear it and grant my request. But it isn’t up to them.
It’s up to Vane Weston.
Everything comes down to him.
CHAPTER 27
VANE
I want to feel that freaking Westerly so bad.
Not because I’m expected to. Not because I can hear Audra holding her breath beside me, hanging the weight of the world on my shoulders.
I need to know. If I really am a Westerly. If I have any chance of saving us—of stopping Audra from sacrificing herself to protect me. Of stepping into the role everyone expects me to fill.
So I concentrate on the windmill until it feels like the world disappears. All sound. All thought. It’s just me and that draft, straining to make contact.
But I can’t feel it. No itch in my palm. No pull in my fingers.
If it weren’t for the spinning blades right in front of me, I’d have no clue the wind’s even there.
Epic Vane fail.
I glance at Audra and watch the disappointment flicker across her face like shadows.
She forces a smile. “I didn’t expect that to work.”
“I wish—” I start, but she waves my apology away.
“Don’t worry. I have a plan for how to trigger the breakthrough.”
I turn back to the Westerly whipping the windmill at a brisk, steady speed.
I do feel . . . something. An ache deep, deep inside. Almost like hunger.
My body craves that wind—in a way I don’t crave any of the others. Like it’s a part of me, and I’ll never be complete until I let it fill me, wrap around my mind, and sing its song, tell me the long history it carries.