Let the Sky Fall (20 page)

I nod. “You ready?”

He licks his lips and swallows, watching the winds spin and race.

I think he must need another minute. But then he squeezes my hand and meets my eyes. “With you, I am.”

Goose bumps prickle my skin. Chills mixing with the warmth of his touch.

I pull him into the vortex, letting the winds launch us into the sky.

CHAPTER 29

VANE

I
expect to dream of Audra that night.

Not because it took us at least a dozen trips up the wind funnel for me to figure out how to call the stupid Southerly and wrap it around us so Audra wouldn’t have to step in.

And not because holding her hand that long left my skin humming with energy—though that does make me want to close my eyes and let a few of my favorite Audra fantasies play out.

It’s because falling through the sky with her was so eerily like the memory I saw in my dream, I expected to drift off to sleep and pick up where I left off. And I wanted to. I want to know what happened next. How she survived the fall. Who saved her.

But I don’t dream of young Audra, screaming and thrashing as she plummets through the sky. I see my father.

My
real
father.

I cling to the dream, committing it to memory before it slips out of my reach. I want to zoom in, adjust focus, and stare at his face forever.

For so long I’ve had absolutely no memories of what he looked like. Now I can see his dark, wavy hair, his pale blue eyes, and his square jaw.

He looked like me.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is.

My. Dad. Looked. Like. Me.

I don’t want to let go of his face, but I can’t forget the rest of the memory. I play the dream back, trying to find something to help me place it into the broken time line of my life.

I stand next to my dad at the edge of a glassy lake. My legs are skinny and my hair flops around my eyes, so I guess I’m about seven. Snowcapped mountains reflect off the water’s surface. My dad has his hand on my shoulder, but I don’t look at him—too busy skipping rocks over the water. Watching the tiny ripples distort the perfect reflection.

“It’s time to go, Vane.” His voice is clear and deep. Cutting through the tranquil silence around us.

I skip another rock. Harder this time. Breaking the water. “I don’t want to.”

“I know.” He pulls me against his side. “But Arella can feel them coming. If we don’t leave, they’ll catch us.”

More rocks splash into the water. I fling them hard this time. “How do they keep finding us?”

“I don’t know,” my dad whispers.

I turn to look at him.

He stares into the distance, frowning. “But we have to leave.”

He reaches for my hand, and even though I want to jerk away—want to run so fast and so far he’ll never catch me—I take it. He squeezes my fingers. Not hard. More to reassure. Then he whispers something that sounds like a dragged-out sigh.

I can’t understand what he says, but I know what’s coming. I hold on tight as the cool breeze closes us in, then lifts us into the sky and floats us away.

A wind bubble.

I remember calling them that—and the way my mom would laugh and tell me I was silly when I said it. I can’t see her face, but her deep, rich laugh fills my mind.

Tears sting my eyes.

I love my adopted parents, and I always will. But to see the father I lost? Hear his voice in my mind? Hear my mom’s laugh? It feels like I have them back—for a few minutes, anyway.

But the memory raises just as many questions as it answers, and the gaps feel almost painful. I need the missing pieces.

I lie back down, trying to clear my head.

Deep breaths. Think it through
.

If I was seven, then the memory is from not that long before my parents were killed. Which makes sense. It seemed like we were on the run for our lives. But where were we? I saw the lake in the first dream too, but I don’t recognize it. It could be anywhere. And who’s Arella? The article said my mom’s name was Lani, so it has to be someone else. Audra’s mom, maybe? How did she know it was time to run?

It’s tempting to ask Audra, but I can’t think of a way to do it without giving away that my memories are coming back.

I’ll have to solve the puzzle myself. The answers are in my mind. I just need time to let the memories resurface.

I glance at the clock: 3:24 a.m. Audra will be here at dawn, but I still have time to see what further memories sleep will give me.

Come on, dreams. Give me the missing pieces.

CHAPTER 30

AUDRA

V
ane is already awake when I come get him for training.

And he’s dressed.

And his hair is combed.

“You’re up,” I say, trying to recover from my surprise.

He laughs. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

He’s right. Stupid, idiotic thing to say. I just didn’t expect him to be awake. Or to look so . . . good. His plain blue shirt is unrumpled—for once. And the color makes his eyes look like the sky on a warm, breezy day. The kind of sky that begs,
Fly with me
.

I smooth my braid. “Could you not sleep?”

He shrugs—those infernal shrugs of his—and stands. “I slept most of the night. Anyway, I left my parents a note telling them I’ll be training with you all day, so we don’t have to rush back. You ready to go?”

It throws me, the way he’s taking charge of everything. But I follow his lead, climbing through the window and padding across the grass in the purple predawn light.

He waves away the gnats swarming our faces. “Where are we training today?”

“My place. We can only train by the windmills after dark. We’ll be too conspicuous otherwise.”

He nods, and we walk in silence. I fall back a step so I can study him unobserved.

He walks taller. Straighter. Shoulders set with confidence.

He’s falling into his role. Owning it.

Finally
.

The more seriously he takes his training, the better chance we have.

He hesitates outside my pathetic house, glancing around. “Where’s that evil bird of yours?”

“On his morning hunt. Don’t worry, the big scary birdie won’t get you.”

He whips around to face me. “Are you teasing me?”

I stop short.

I
am
.

I feel my lips stretch wider.

“Whoa,” he says, stepping closer. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you really smile.”

Blood rushes to my face. Apparently, Vane isn’t the only one changing.

Time to get back to business
.

I march to the corner to retrieve the windslicer. “It’s time to teach you some basic attacks. I’ll be the main offensive fighter in the battle, but you still need to learn how to deal with the Stormers.”

I strap the sword to my waist and call two Easterlies—grateful the air has plenty of breezes swirling through the trees before the day’s heat chases them away. I order the winds to twist into a tight vortex, about the width of my leg. They spin so fast I see nothing more than a blur in the air in front of me. “This is called a wind spike,” I tell Vane. “Or it will be in a second.”

I call a Northerly and braid it through the Easterlies. When the winds are properly entwined, I switch to Easterly and say, “Concentrate,” and the winds lock together, tightening into a narrow pole of whipping drafts the same height as me.

Vane leans in for a closer look. “Awesome.”

“Grab it.”

“You can’t—” He stops himself. “Never mind. None of the stuff we do makes any sense. Why would this?”

He reaches out, his hand changing positions several times, like he can’t figure out how to get a grip. Finally he just grabs it. “Whoa, it’s squishy.”

I can’t help laughing at that. “Wind is never fully tangible, but if woven tight enough, there’s something for us to take hold of.”

“I guess.” He tosses it back and forth between his hands. “Now what?”

“Line up your aim and launch it as hard as you can. Try to hit that tree.” I point to an easy target—a stocky palm, branches heavy with unharvested dates.

Vane raises the wind spike over his shoulder. “This is so weird,” he says as he makes a few practice thrusts. Then he lets the spike fly.

His throw is strong, but his aim isn’t true, and the spike curves right, hitting a palm to the side of his target.

The tree explodes. Bark, sand, rocks, and bits of leaves rain on us, sticking to our sweaty faces as the thunderous crack echoes off the trees.

Vane stares at the destruction.

I wipe the filth from my cheeks. “We’ll have to work on your aim, or you’ll never be able to hit a moving target.”

He starts to nod, then turns to face me. “What kinds of things am I supposed to hit?”

“Well, ideally you’ll hit the Stormers. I doubt you’ll be good enough to catch one, but maybe you’ll get a lucky shot.”

He recoils, his skin fading to a ghostly pallor. “I’m supposed to hit
people
with those things?”

“Only the Stormers. I’ll try to make sure you don’t hit anyone else.”

He swallows, and his face twists as he does, like he’s ill.

“What’s wrong?”

“I never realized you’d expect me to kill people.” He takes another step back, leaning against a tree for support.

I move toward him slowly, trying to understand his reaction. “It’s a battle. What do you expect?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was thinking, like, punching and stuff. Maybe a few wind tricks to knock them unconscious. I never thought I’d be
killing
them.”

He starts to shake—hard. I reach for his shoulder to steady him, but he flinches at my touch.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong, Vane.”

“Neither do I.” He sinks to the ground. “It’s just . . . the thought of killing people. Making them explode like that tree.” He shudders, pulling his legs into his chest and leaning his head against them.

“They’re hardly people,” I mutter as I lower myself next to him. “
People
don’t massacre hundreds of innocent Windwalkers. They don’t tear innocent children limb from limb. They don’t launch tornados and hurricanes into human cities because they suspect the Gales are hiding there—oh yeah, the Stormers do that,” I add when he turns toward me. “Raiden will stop at nothing to wipe out the resistance. Not to mention they’re coming here to capture you and force you to share your language. All so Raiden can be strong enough to control the world.”

I glance at him, expecting him to look calmer. But he’s paler than ever. I don’t see what his problem is.

“Remember, Vane. We’re at war.”

We’re at war
.

My father said those exact words to Vane’s father, pleading with him to take his training seriously.

A memory flashes back.

I hide in the shadows on the edge of the field, watching my parents train the Westons. The four adults stand in a circle and my father demonstrates how to make a crusher, a thick funnel that tightens on command, annihilating anything inside.

The Westons shake and turn away.

Vane’s dad says they won’t learn.

Not can’t.

Won’t.

Winds rage as my mother screams at them. Calls them selfish. How dare they expect others to risk their lives to protect them when they aren’t even willing to learn basic self-defense?

Vane’s parents just cling to each other in her storm, shake their heads, and say, “No.”

I want to tear across the field and shout at the Westons like my mother. My life is miserable because of them—because my family has to protect them. How can they stand back and let us make all the sacrifices?

But I stay in the shadows.

I ask my father about it when he tucks me in that night. He stares into the night and says, “Westerlies are the peaceful winds.” Nothing more.

I didn’t understand what he meant. What the problem really was. Not until right now, looking at the green tinge to Vane’s skin.

Westerlies are the peaceful winds.

Violence makes them physically ill.

Now I know why none of the Westerlies surrendered to Raiden’s threats and taught him their language. Why they were willing to die to protect it. They aren’t just brave or stubborn, like I thought. Violence goes against their very nature, triggering an actual physical reaction.

Honestly, it’s quite noble. Except it renders them completely vulnerable. And useless.

My jaw locks as I work through the ramifications of this new development.

My only fighting companion is
incapable
of killing. Which means even if Vane has the fourth breakthrough, it won’t matter. He won’t use it to fight.

My anger kindles, deep and hot.

So
I
have to die because he refuses to harm a Stormer—the people there to kidnap him? The people who had no problem killing his parents?

Their
lives are worth more than
mine
?

Maybe their lives aren’t. But that doesn’t change the oath I willingly swore. And with that thought, I’m able to snuff the fire out.

I’ve already accepted that I might not survive the fight. All this means is that my job of protecting Vane during the storm will be twice as hard. Five times as hard. As if the water hadn’t complicated things enough.

Vane takes a deep, heaving breath and wipes away the sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I do. You’re a Westerly. Westerlies are peaceful. Violence is abhorrent to you. Your nature rejects it.”

His fingers tear through his hair, mussing it into wild peaks. “That actually makes sense. But that probably makes me pretty useless in a battle, doesn’t it?”

Yes.

I can’t say that, though. “I just want you to be able to defend yourself in case you get into a bind. You don’t have to hurt anyone—but I think you should at least know how. Do you think you can handle that?”