He laughs. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
He’s right. Stupid, idiotic thing to say. I just didn’t expect him to be awake. Or to look so . . . good. His plain blue shirt is unrumpled—for once. And the color makes his eyes look like the sky on a warm, breezy day. The kind of sky that begs, Fly with me.
I smooth my braid. “Could you not sleep?”
He shrugs—those infernal shrugs of his—and stands. “I slept most of the night. Anyway, I left my parents a note telling them I’ll be training with you all day, so we don’t have to rush back. You ready to go?”
It throws me, the way he’s taking charge of everything. But I follow his lead, climbing through the window and padding across the grass in the purple predawn light.
He waves away the gnats swarming our faces. “Where are we training today?”
“My place. We can only train by the windmills after dark. We’ll be too conspicuous otherwise.”
He nods, and we walk in silence. I fall back a step so I can study him unobserved.
He walks taller. Straighter. Shoulders set with confidence.
He’s falling into his role. Owning it.
Finally.
The more seriously he takes his training, the better chance we have.
He hesitates outside my pathetic house, glancing around. “Where’s that evil bird of yours?”
“On his morning hunt. Don’t worry, the big scary birdie won’t get you.”
He whips around to face me. “Are you teasing me?”
I stop short.
I am.
I feel my lips stretch wider.
“Whoa,” he says, stepping closer. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you really smile.”
Blood rushes to my face. Apparently, Vane isn’t the only one changing.
Time to get back to business.
I march to the corner to retrieve the windslicer. “It’s time to teach you some basic attacks. I’ll be the main offensive fighter in the battle, but you still need to learn how to deal with the Stormers.”
I strap the sword to my waist and call two Easterlies—grateful the air has plenty of breezes swirling through the trees before the day’s heat chases them away. I order the winds to twist into a tight vortex, about the width of my leg. They spin so fast I see nothing more than a blur in the air in front of me. “This is called a wind spike,” I tell Vane. “Or it will be in a second.”
I call a Northerly and braid it through the Easterlies. When the winds are properly entwined, I switch to Easterly and say, “Concentrate,” and the winds lock together, tightening into a narrow pole of whipping drafts the same height as me.
Vane leans in for a closer look. “Awesome.”
“Grab it.”
“You can’t—” He stops himself. “Never mind. None of the stuff we do makes any sense. Why would this?”
He reaches out, his hand changing positions several times, like he can’t figure out how to get a grip. Finally he just grabs it. “Whoa, it’s squishy.”
I can’t help laughing at that. “Wind is never fully tangible, but if woven tight enough, there’s something for us to take hold of.”
“I guess.” He tosses it back and forth between his hands. “Now what?”
“Line up your aim and launch it as hard as you can. Try to hit that tree.” I point to an easy target—a stocky palm, branches heavy with unharvested dates.
Vane raises the wind spike over his shoulder. “This is so weird,” he says as he makes a few practice thrusts. Then he lets the spike fly.
His throw is strong, but his aim isn’t true, and the spike curves right, hitting a palm to the side of his target.
The tree explodes. Bark, sand, rocks, and bits of leaves rain on us, sticking to our sweaty faces as the thunderous crack echoes off the trees.
Vane stares at the destruction.
I wipe the filth from my cheeks. “We’ll have to work on your aim, or you’ll never be able to hit a moving target.”
He starts to nod, then turns to face me. “What kinds of things am I supposed to hit?”
“Well, ideally you’ll hit the Stormers. I doubt you’ll be good enough to catch one, but maybe you’ll get a lucky shot.”
He recoils, his skin fading to a ghostly pallor. “I’m supposed to hit people with those things?”
“Only the Stormers. I’ll try to make sure you don’t hit anyone else.”
He swallows, and his face twists as he does, like he’s ill.
“What’s wrong?”
“I never realized you’d expect me to kill people.” He takes another step back, leaning against a tree for support.
I move toward him slowly, trying to understand his reaction. “It’s a battle. What do you expect?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was thinking, like, punching and stuff. Maybe a few wind tricks to knock them unconscious. I never thought I’d be killing them.”
He starts to shake—hard. I reach for his shoulder to steady him, but he flinches at my touch.