I’m right there with him.
I’ve always hated hiking. Hiking through ice and snow—without the right shoes or gear—is a million times worse. Hiking through ice and snow, when every creak or crackle could be an evil soldier coming to murder us?
Yeah . . . every minute pretty much feels like a thousand years.
I have no idea how long we’ve been trekking when Arella hisses for silence, waving her arms around, testing the air.
“I feel something,” she whispers. “A deep shiver down my spine.”
“I feel nothing,” Aston tells her. “I think it’s—”
A soft squeaking cuts him off, and we all focus on Arella’s hip, where the silver anemometer has started spinning.
Aston grabs my arm. “Get us airborne—now! And use Westerlies!”
There aren’t many around, but I manage to tangle a handful into a wind bubble. Solana, Aston, and Arella cling to me as I rocket us into the sky.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Aston pulls the anemometer from Arella’s belt. “These only spin around other Stormers. Things are about to get very . . . explosive.”
The word is still bouncing around our wind bubble when a thunderous crack erupts behind us, and one of the trees blasts into a million jagged pieces.
“Care to fly a little faster?” Aston asks. “And maybe make us a bit of a harder target?”
“On it!” I beg more Westerlies to join the bubble and command them to dash around in whatever random pattern they want.
It seems to help—the next few explosions are nowhere near us. But it’s definitely not awesome on my stomach.
“What is the anemometer sensing?” Arella asks. “I’ve never felt anything so cold and hollow.”
“It’s the suicide draft,” Aston tells her. “I’m surprised you could detect it. Clearly the rumors of your talents have not been exaggerated.”
“Of course they weren’t.”
I roll my eyes, glad when Solana asks, “What’s a suicide draft?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Aston says. “Think of it as Raiden’s ultimate control. He doesn’t allow his Stormers to be taken prisoner, but he doesn’t trust that they’ll all have—shall we say—the dedication to honor the requirement if they’re captured. So he forms a suicide draft around their necks when they swear their fealty, and then all he has to do is give the command and . . .”
He mimes his neck being snapped.
“Does he really keep tabs on every single soldier?” I ask.
“He lets his ruined drafts do it for him. It’s amazing how efficient the wind is when it has to obey. Meanwhile you seem to leave it all up to whatever whim a draft might feel.”
“Uh, it’s keeping us alive so far,” I remind him, as yet another explosion misses us. “The wind knows what it’s doing way more than I do. Why boss it around?”
Aston laughs. “That’s either noble or incredibly naive.”
“I see the tower!” Solana shouts. “Can you get us lower?”
I try several different commands, but the Westerlies won’t go below the tops of the trees. “If you need me to go lower, we’ll have to be on foot again.”
“And the Stormers will ambush us in minutes,” Aston warns. “Our only chance right now is in the air.”
“Not if we split up,” Arella says. “I’ll go with Solana. She can search for the passage, and I can keep watch for any nearby Stormers. I doubt they’ll be searching the ground if you two are buzzing around the sky, distracting them.”
It’s not a horrible plan, but . . . “What if you guys get caught?”
“Same thing you’ll do if you’re caught—fight,” Arella says, patting her windslicer. “And if we find the tunnel, I’ll send a bird to signal you.”
I don’t see any better options, so I ask the Westerlies to hold steady long enough for Solana and Arella to jump.
“Be careful,” I call as Solana uses a Southerly to slow their fall.
“You do realize you just left your fiancée with your girlfriend’s rather violent mother?” Aston asks as we get moving again, just in time to dodge another explosion.
“Solana can handle herself—and she’s my ex-fiancée.”
“It’s adorable that you believe that. Though honestly, we should probably be more worried about your future mother-in-law. Our princess is quite a natural with the power of pain.”
The words make my stomach squirm worse than the Westerlies’ next evasive maneuver.
It’s not a good time for this conversation, but I have to ask, “Is there seriously no way to heal after using that power?”
“So you do care,” he says, and I really regret asking. “Hm . . . the look on your face tells me you won’t like this answer. She’s in early stages still, so it’s possible she could reverse the effect. But it would take something . . . dramatic.”
“Like what?”
“You can’t guess?”
“Little busy here controlling a dozen Westerlies!”