Another explosion of wind spikes rocks us, and we both whisper soothing words to calm the terrified shield.
“The three Westerlies we have might be enough, though,”Audra says quietly. “Two in the spikes, plus the one wrapped over us. We need only a few minutes so we can get to higher ground and find the winds to blast out of here.”
“Right, but in the meantime we’d have no weapons, no shield, no nothing.”
“I don’t see another option—do you?”
No.
But . . . “I’ve been training with the Westerlies, and it’s very tricky to make them do anything violent. They’re about peace and calm and shelter.”
“I know, I’ve found the same thing. But haboobs are just a frenzy of force and dust. We’re not hurting anyone. We’re simply creating enough chaos to distract Raiden so he lets his guard down and a few healthy winds can seep in.”
Another whammy of wind spikes attacks, and this time dust and rocks sprinkle through small gaps forming in our shield. The Westerly’s not going to hold on much longer.
“So what do you want to do?” Audra asks me.
I can’t make this decision.
If something goes wrong and Gus or Audra gets taken . . .
I take her hands, clearing my throat so I can force my next words out. “Listen. Raiden’s not going to kill me. I could make a deal with him—”
“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.