There aren’t many willing to brave this weather, but a handful of sparrows responds as I tell Vane, “It’s a heat-driven dust storm.”
“How is that different than a haboob?” he asks. “Besides the way less awesome name, of course.”
He winks and I can’t help smiling.
Now is definitely not the time for another round of his infamous boob jokes.
But I love that he always manages to ease the tension.
“Haboobs are formed by sudden downdrafts. Simooms are cyclonic,” I explain. “And they carry heat along with the dust, and sweep through an area so fast they choke everything in their path and scorch it.”
“I’ve heard stories of whole pastures of dead animals after a Simoom passes,” Solana adds. “And men with blistered skin.”
“That definitely doesn’t sound like anything I want to be signed up for,” Vane says. “Are we sure the Gales can survive it?”
“We’re not sure of anything,” I hate to admit. “Except that our winds are telling us the command, and they haven’t failed us yet.”
“If it helps,” Aston adds, “the Gales are as good as dead in this battle anyway. At least this gives them a chance.”
No. That doesn’t help.
But I can hear Gus’s voice whispering through my memories.
Trust the wind.
Keep fighting.
“So how do we actually do this?” Vane asks. “Do we stay up here and watch, or . . .”
I wish.
“I think we’ll have to follow through on foot, don’t you?” I ask Aston.
He nods. “I doubt the simoom will have much affect on the Living Storms. They don’t breathe or have skin to burn.”
“Wait a second,” Vane says. “Are you telling me that once we use up half of our winds to make this simoom thing, we’re still going to have to fight”—he turns to the battle and counts—“thirty-six Storms?”
“You’re the one who thought we should listen to the wind,” Aston tells him. “If you don’t like their plan, take it up with them.”
Vane checks the drafts’ songs again, and I find myself doing the same. They’re still focused on the simoom, and they’ve added another lyric about hoping in the unknown.
“Well then,” Vane says. “Anyone got any plans for fighting the Living Storms? Last time it didn’t go very awesome.”
He rubs his injured elbow, and I try not to remember how many Gales died in that battle—or the fact that we were only facing twenty-nine Storms at the time.
“I have a few ideas,” Aston murmurs. “But most of them require wind, so we’ll have to hope the simoom wipes out whatever the Stormers are doing to keep the sky empty. And another involves breaking the rest of the drafts in this wind spike. Or breaking the ones I’m capable of shattering, at least.”
“Why would that matter?” Vane asks.
“Simple math,” Aston tells him. “If shattering one draft boosts its strength, breaking the others should triple the effect.”
Vane doesn’t look thrilled with his reasoning.
But he nods.
“Try to focus on the Gales you’re hoping to save—not on saving yourself,” Solana advises, before Aston can give the command. “Keep saying it over and over in your mind and make yourself believe it. Then say whatever words the need tells you.”
Aston sighs. “You’re really killing all the fun of this.”
“It’s not supposed to be fun,” I snap. “Those winds are being sacrificed to save us—at least give them some small choice in the matter.”
Aston sighs again, but closes his eyes and lets several seconds slip by before he hisses a string of commands.
The wind spike crackles and shifts to a shade of yellow so bright it practically glows.
I can feel the power radiating from it, sick and scratchy but so intense it gives me hope. Until Vane tries to command it to “come” and the spike refuses to respond.
“Maybe it needs you to say the command in the power of pain?” Vane suggests.
Aston and Solana both try, to no avail.
“At least that makes it harder to steal,” Aston says, slashing it a few times.
“It also means you’ll probably only get one shot,” Vane reminds him.
“Then I’ll make it count,” Aston says, slashing the spike several times. “And hopefully build more when I have access to wind.”
Vane turns to the battlefield, probably taking another count of the Storms. “I’m not sure I want to know the answer to this,” he says quietly, “but . . . do we know who these Storms are—or were—or whatever the right phrase is?”
“I’d wager they’re the Stormers who failed to capture us on the mountain,” Aston tells him. “And the ones who allowed you to escape from Brezengarde. Raiden wouldn’t let such failure go unpunished.”
I know I shouldn’t feel sympathy for the Stormer who tore my dress and tried to assault me. Or Nalani, who was happy to let Gus die in that cell.
But it’s all such an incredible waste.
So many lives stolen.
So much pain and ruin.
And for what?
For one sylph’s greed for ultimate power—a sylph who couldn’t even bother showing up to fight his own battle.