I search the nearby air for the feel of Feng. The hint of cool energy around the bloody cactus has to be him, so I hold on to that sensation and reach further, concentrating on the Westerlies coming from the north until I find a draft carrying the same chilly rush.
I gasp when I realize it’s not the only trace the wind carries.
“What’s wrong?” Gus asks as I call the draft to me, but my head is spinning too fast to answer.
The tingly warmth gets stronger as the wind gets closer. And the sparks feel more like a punch to the gut when the Westerly wraps around me, singing about a girl who found more than she was looking for in the valley of death
“He’s definitely that way,” I whisper to Gus.
And so is Audra.
CHAPTER 22
AUDRA
R
aiden has Vane.
The thought makes me want to tear through the basin, tackle Raiden to the ground, and scratch at his skin until there’s nothing left but bone. But all I can do is curl my legs into my chest, wrap my arms around them as tight as I can, and rock back and forth as Raiden carries on with his speech.
I’m glad his back is to me so I don’t have to see his cold, arrogant face—though the excitement in his Stormers’ eyes is equally sickening.
Focus.
Think.
Maybe I’m wrong.
I concentrate on my heart, taking slow, deep breaths. The pain of my bond is definitely there—so Vane is still alive. But . . . it’s weaker.
The searing heat is now a soft warmth, and the shredding pull is now a gentle tug.
That would happen only if I was moving closer to Vane.
Or if the Stormers are bringing him here . . .
My head spins and I lie down, pressing my cheek against the brittle ground. I could stay here, never get up, never have to face the possibility of Raiden having Vane in his clutches.
Or I could pull myself up and figure out a way to save him.
I choose option B.
Whether it was random luck or the will of the Easterlies that guided me, I’m here. Which gives me the chance to make sure Vane doesn’t end up as another shriveled lump dangling from the ceiling of the Maelstrom. All I need is a plan.
I stand and scan the valley, searching for some miraculous idea that will allow me steal a prisoner from the clutches of the most powerful Windwalker on earth and fifty of his top soldiers—without any winds to help me fight.
The dark mountains have potential. Their weathered, dusty slopes would easily crumble if I trigger an avalanche. But the falling rocks would never reach where Raiden stands. At best it would cause a distraction—which could be useful. I could rush in and grab Vane and . . .
Be defeated before I even take a few steps.
Raiden has all the advantages. My only assets are surprise and a single Westerly shield. It won’t be enough.
If I had a way to call the Gales and let them know I’m here and that Vane has been captured, maybe they could get here in time to—
A horrifying thought stops me cold.
The Gales would never let the Stormers take Vane.
They would fight to save him until their final breaths . . .
So if I’m right, and Vane’s been captured, I’m probably all he has left.
I’m shaking now, clinging to my Westerly shield the way I clung to Vane after the storm that stole our families and changed everything.
“Ah, here comes our guest now,” Raiden says, pointing to a gray streak barreling toward us from the southern horizon.
A tornado.
“Clear a path,” Raiden shouts, and his Stormers scramble over each other to get out of the way.
The massive funnel roars into the valley, pelting everyone with sand and rocks as it tears across the basin, destroying the careful trails etched by the sailing stones. It comes to a stop directly in front of Raiden as the clouds swell above, blocking out the sun.
I clench my fists so tight my nails make my palms bleed.
The boy I love—the only thing that’s ever mattered—could be tangled inside that storm.
I have to save him.
Have to.
But as I stare at the power-hungry faces of the Stormers, I realize something even more frightening.
I have to stay alive.
Vane will never surrender to Raiden’s interrogation. He’ll protect the Westerly tongue until his dying breath. So if Raiden has him, and I can’t rescue him . . .
I will be the last Westerly.
I wish I could strip the language from my mind—go back to being a worthless Easterly who can sacrifice myself to save him.
But the language is part of who I am now.
I have to protect it accordingly.
The crowd crushes forward as the tornado unravels and three figures step out of the funnel. Two Stormers with splashes of red staining their angry faces. And a bloodied, limping prisoner in a black uniform, his hands bound in ruined yellow winds.
His face is covered with a hood and I try to tell myself it’s not him.
Vane hated the Gale Force uniforms. I can’t imagine he’d be willing to wear one.
But the pain of our bond feels more like an empty longing. Like all I would need to do is reach out and hold him and everything would be okay.
It would feel that way only if Vane were here.