Let the Sky Fall (19 page)

She barely blinks.

I hear her whisper, “Catch me gently, hear my call. Sweep me softly before I fall,” and a Southerly uncoils from the funnel—at least, I think it’s a Southerly. It feels warm, but it’s hard to tell. The breeze wraps around her waist and sets her safely on the ground.

“Whoa.”

Audra smiles her small half smile as she whips the windslicer from her scabbard and slices the funnel to shreds. The winds howl as they unravel and streak away, tearing at my clothes and hair. I cough as sand peppers my face.

Okay, maybe windslicers are more powerful than I realized.

She sheaths the blade, dusts off her hands, and turns to me. “Your turn.”

“Good one.”

“I’m serious.”

“You expect me to fly up a giant funnel and hope I’m fast enough to call a draft to catch me—and avoid all these blades of doom all around us?”

She nods, and that kind of kills my laughter.

“Okay, you’re starting to scare me, because I don’t think you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

I cough. “Need I remind you that the last time I ‘practiced,’ I knocked myself flat on my back—and all I was doing was standing there?”

“Do you ever pay attention?” She points to the shadowed space between us. “Do you see a funnel? Am I asking you to step into it and shoot into the air right now?”

“I . . . guess not.”

“Exactly. First you have to create the funnel. And believe me, if you can master the skill to create it, you’ll be able to catch yourself when you fall.”

Somehow I find that hard to believe, but I’m willing to see where she’s going with this.

“Okay. You need to learn how to make what we call wind melds—specific groups of drafts woven together in a specific order. Making them is like following a recipe. You have to do it precisely in order to get the right result.”

I resist telling her that the few times my mom’s tried to teach me how to follow a recipe, the only thing I made were inedible black lumps.

“The funnel I just showed you is called a pipeline. It’s a rapid method of transport, and it’s an important skill for you to master, because you can use it offensively, to hurl your enemy away from you, or defensively, to quickly escape a dangerous area. You can bend
them in any direction you need to go. And it’s a basic formula, so even you should be able to complete it.”

I want to protest her whole “even you” thing. But I have a feeling I’m going to suck at this.

“Okay, the formula for a pipeline is three Northerlies blended with two Southerlies. Once they’re combined, you add four Easterlies one by one, and when that’s done you say the final command and jump back as the funnel expands. Memorize that.”

Yeah—I’m going to need that written on my hand or something.

Mental note: Bring a Sharpie to training next time.

“Start by calling the Northerlies and Southerlies to your side, so you can tell them what you want them to do. You’ll have to call each draft on its own, so the faster you get at calling winds the better. And each type of wind has its own call. I’ve already taught you the one for Easterlies. To call a Northerly you say, ‘Obey my command. Follow my voice. Race to my side and surrender your choice.’ ”

Her voice sounds like a sharp hiss—almost a snarl—and it takes a second for my brain to translate the words into the Northerly language. Making my mouth replicate the sounds is even harder. My tongue doesn’t want to bend the right ways. But I reach toward the Northerlies she’s shown me earlier and concentrate on the pins and needles in my palm as I whisper the call. After two tries I finally say it right, and a Northerly sweeps to my side, the cool air licking my skin.

“Cooooooool.”

“Not bad,” Audra agrees as I call two more Northerlies to join the other. “Now you need two Southerlies. Their call is, “ ‘Sweep
to my side, please don’t delay. Share your warmth as you swirl and sway.’ ”

The Southerly tongue is sleepy, and the words flow into each other, almost like the command is one long sigh. I get it right on my third try, and make two Southerlies streak toward me. They feel like a hair dryer blasting my face.

“How do I make them stay?” I ask as the Northerlies push forward, ready to break free.

“You don’t want to make them stay. You want to make them merge.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“The wind doesn’t care what you meant. It’s extremely specific, and very literal. It won’t make assumptions, or read between the lines and figure out what you need. You have to be clear and precise. Give the exact command, or it won’t cooperate.”

“Fine, whatever.” I wish she’d lecture me another time. The Northerlies have tangled around my legs, trying to knock me over.

“You want the drafts to merge, so you need to command the Northerlies. They’re conquering winds. They want to dominate. They won’t merge unless you force them to. You have to tell them, ‘Yield.’ ”

I hiss the strange Northerly sound, and the drafts bend around each other into a small funnel.

“I did it.” I bounce on the balls of my feet. I can’t believe I made a tornado. A really tiny, wimpy one—but still. A
tornado
!

“You did it,” she repeats, and the surprise in her voice makes me meet her eyes. There’s a shine to them, a light that hasn’t been there before.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just . . . that’s not an easy thing to do. I was lying earlier when I said it’s a basic formula. I figured if you knew how hard it was, you wouldn’t even try.”

“Hey, I’m not
that
stubborn.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not,” I insist.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is you did it.” She grins at me through the darkness. Not quite a full smile, but much, much closer than she normally gets. “You’re very talented, Vane.”

My cheeks get hot. That might be the first compliment she’s ever given me. “What do I do now?”

“You need to add four Easterlies one by one. You already know how to call them. And to combine them, you say, ‘Connect.’ Make sure you count to five between each draft.”

I do as she says, and with each draft I add, the funnel in front of me grows, until I have a narrow cylinder of force shooting into the sky almost as high as Audra’s did.

So awesome.

“Now you concentrate on all the winds under your control. And you whisper ‘Amplify’ to the Northerlies. Then you jump back as far and fast as you can, or you’ll be in for the ride of your life.”

I jump back as the command is still leaving my lips, and the funnel triples, stretching wide enough to suck up a car, and soaring at least a hundred feet high.

“Holy crap, I can’t believe I did that,” I breathe.

“I can’t either.” But she doesn’t say it meanly. She looks at me and laughs.

Laughs
.

It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.

And then she has to kill the buzz and say, “Now step into the funnel.”

My insides bunch up. “You’re still serious about that?”

“You need to get used to keeping your bearings in a windstorm. And stopping yourself from falling is pretty much the most important skill you can master.”

“Yeah, but isn’t there a way to help me master it that doesn’t involve a hundred-foot free fall from the top of a cyclone?”

“Nothing will motivate you more to get it right. Come on. You can do this, Vane. Do you remember the command I used to call the Southerly to catch me?”

I have a feeling it’s only going to make her more gung ho with her
make Vane step into the giant vortex of death
plan, but I love seeing her so confident in my skills. So I tell her, “Catch me gently, hear my call. Sweep me softly before I fall.”

“Perfect. Wait till you’re actually falling before you whisper the command. But don’t wait too long, or it won’t have enough time to slow your landing.”

I stare at the funnel.

“Want me to push you in?” she offers.

Stepping into a tornado screams
This is the dumbest thing you will ever do.
But I’m
finally
impressing her.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and kind of walk/fall into the funnel.

The roar of the winds drowns out my scream as the gusts shove
me skyward so fast I’m certain I’ll throw up. As soon as my stomach returns to its rightful place in my body, that is.

The winds tug at my skin, making it ripple from the force, and for one brilliant second, I’m weightless. Not flying. Not falling. Just floating above it all, nothing but me and the sky. Then I start to drop and can’t—for the life of me—remember a single word of the command I need.

Think, Vane. Remember the freaking command or you will splatter on the ground into a million pieces.

But I can’t. My mind is blank. Except for one sickening thought.

I’m going to die.

CHAPTER 28

AUDRA

W
atching Vane plummet from the sky rips me back to the past.

A man floats above me in the Stormer’s trap. A tangle of dark clothes and thrashing limbs and wind.

For one horrifying second I think it’s my father and my body shakes with sobs. Then I get a better look at his face.

Not my dad.

Vane’s dad.

I hate myself for being relieved—but I can’t help it.

His wide, terrified eyes meet mine and he tries to twist his arms free. But he’s too tightly bound by the winds to move. He’ll never escape on his own.

I have to help him. I have to fix this—make this right somehow.

Before I can decide what to do, a gust untangles from the wall of the storm, coils around the dark trunk of a dislodged tree, and whips it toward me like someone’s controlling it. I drop to the ground, covering my head with my skinny arms, and wait to be shredded by the jagged branches. But the wind shifts again and I hear Vane’s dad cry out.

Something red and wet drips on my arm.

It’s too bright among the gray and black of the storm. I don’t understand what it is or where it came from. Until another drop splatters my cheek.

I look back up and see crooked branches protruding from his arms, his neck, his chest. Streams of red trickle from the wounds.

I scream, harder and louder than I’ve ever screamed before.

Vane’s scream snaps me out of it, and I command the draft I’d wrapped around me to “Rush!”

I don’t breathe until I snag Vane by the waist and pull him into the nest of winds supporting me.

“Told you that was a bad idea,” he mutters with a shaky voice.

He’s right.

He’s even more helpless than his parents were.

I can’t let myself forget that—no matter how much promise he shows.

Our feet touch the ground and I realize I’m leaning on Vane more than he’s leaning on me.

I can’t let him end up the same way his parents did.

I can’t.

I won’t.

I pull away from him. “What happened up there?”

“I don’t know. I guess I blanked.”

“You
blanked
?” He’s being too easy on himself. His parents didn’t push themselves, and now they’re both dead.

“Hey, I’m not exactly used to being shot through wind funnels like a Vane-bullet. I don’t even like heights.”

“You don’t like
heights
?”

His cheeks flush. “I didn’t say I’m afraid of them. I’m just not used to them.”

“Well—you’d better get used to them.”

“I know.”

“Before the Stormers come.”

“I said I know—I’m not an idiot, okay?”

I sigh, trying to get ahold of myself. “Look, Vane. I know I’m pushing you really hard. But I’m trying to protect you. I have to teach you as many basic lifesaving skills as I can. And stopping yourself from falling is essential. So we’re going to have to practice this until you get it right.”

He pales as I point to the wind funnel, still swirling away in the darkness.

“Try to relax this time,” I suggest.

He runs his hands down his face as he stares at the funnel. “I can’t.”

“You have to.”

Endless seconds pass as he watches the winds swirl. “Come with me, then,” he finally whispers.

“What?”

“Come with me.” He holds out his hand. “Maybe having you there will help me keep calm enough to remember the command.”

“I’m not always going to be at your side during the fight. You need—”

“I know what I need. But right now, when I’m still trying to get the hang of all this, and still trying to make sense of the three crazy wind languages in my head, and still sore from almost dying yesterday, and still trying to wrap my head around all the impossible things you’ve told me. Maybe with all that, you could help me learn this very complicated—and, by the way, terrifying—new skill. I know you think you can teach me how to swim by just dropping me in the deep end and telling me to paddle, but sometimes people need floaties.”

“Floaties?”

“Those dorky inflatable things that go on your arms, to keep you floating when you’re first learning how to swim.”

I have less than zero idea what he’s talking about.

“Never mind.” He kicks the ground. “I’m just saying that maybe I need help when I’m trying to do a skill that makes every single part of my brain scream,
This will be the death of me.
”

I can tell he hates admitting the weakness.

And I guess I can’t blame him for being frustrated. I haven’t been holding his hand through this process. I’ve told myself it’s because no one needed to do that for me. But deep down I know it’s more than that.

I don’t want to get close to him. I can’t let myself get close to him.

But I have to get him through this. No matter what it takes.

I reach for him. “You’re right. I’ll ride with you this time.”

He stares at my hand for a second, like he can’t believe his eyes. Then, slowly—tentatively, even—he twines our fingers together. The
familiar jolt of heat shoots up my arm, and I hope he can’t feel my racing pulse.

“Thank you,” he whispers.