Let the Storm Break

CHAPTER 32 AUDRA

My mother is in a Maelstrom.

I . . . don’t know what to feel.

I stare at the tiny bird roosting on my finger—drawn to me because of the gift my mother and I share—and try not to imagine her gray-blue, withered body dangling from the ceiling on a chain, her limbs twisted and tangled, her face contorted with agony.

I knew her punishment would be severe. But I never imagined . . .

“How long does she have left?” I whisper, wondering if I really want to know the answer.

The tiny bird tenses as Vane comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “She was only guessing when I talked to her. But she thought maybe a few weeks.”

Weeks.

My hand shakes so hard the bird flies away, and I grasp the windowsill to steady my balance.

“Did she look . . .” I can’t even ask. I don’t want to picture it.

Vane spins me around and pulls me against him. “She looked weaker,” he whispers. “Kind of pale and greasy. But not like someone who’s . . .”

“Dying,” I finish for him.

My mother is dying.

A slow, painful, horrifying death.

But she’s a murderer, I remind myself.

A cold, cruel monster who killed Vane’s parents and cost my father his life and let me blame myself for all of it.

And if I’d been weaker, she would’ve killed me.

But . . . does that mean she deserves to be eaten alive by the winds?

The winds.

“How could you do that?” I ask, turning to Os. “How could you ruin the wind?”

I can still hear the Easterly’s mindless wailing after Aston shattered it in front of me—still remember the restless spinning of the devouring winds in the Maelstrom.

“I thought my heart might break along with them,” Os whispers. “But my first priority is to protect our people, and your mother was uncontainable without the Maelstrom. I used the absolute bare minimum of winds that I could, stopping the second I had enough.”

“And how many was that?” I ask.

Os’s hand darts to his scar, his fingers tracing the thin red lines. “Twelve.”

Twelve.

Twelve times he called the wind to his side.

Twelve times he let them sweep around him like loyal friends, then watched them writhe and scream before their songs fell silent.

Tears blur my vision and I don’t want to smear them away. I don’t want to look at the man who could do something that horrible twelve times.

But the tears fall on their own when Os tells me, “Believe me, their cries will haunt me until my dying day. And I keep hoping that there’s a way to restore them. Perhaps with the power of four, or . . . just, somehow. I refuse to believe they’ll forever be this way.”

I can hear his grief in every crack in his voice.

He doesn’t seem like the power-crazed monster Aston described, but . . .

Hadn’t he been threatening to break our bond only a few minutes ago?

Aston sent me to Death Valley so I could see Raiden’s Maelstrom—see the depths of his horrors and the level the Gales would have to sink to in order to defeat him.

Is that what’s happening?

My knees can’t seem to hold me any longer, but Vane catches me and carries me to the bed. He lays me down and I want to pull the blankets over my head and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I settle for pulling him next to me and leaning against his side, soaking up as much of his heat as I can.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

I’m not sure how to answer.

I feel like I’ve just found out the sky is green, and can never see blue the same way again.

Os clears his throat. “We’re wasting precious time. None of this is going to help us face down Raiden.”

“You’re right,” Vane agrees after a second. “But we will be talking about all of this with the Gales when we’re done. No more secrets—for any of us.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Os says, his voice almost sounding sincere as he dips his head in a bow.

That’s when I realize why my world has turned sideways.

Not because of my mother. I lost the real her years ago in the same storm that stole my father.

Because of Os.

I don’t trust him.

I’ve dedicated my entire life to the service of the Gales—sacrificed food, water, even my childhood.

But I believe what Aston told me about ruining the winds coming at a cost.

No matter how careful Os was, he will still have to pay it.

“So . . . I guess we’re ready to go,” Vane’s mom says from the doorway, startling me back to the present.

She stands next to Vane’s dad, suitcases piled at her feet along with a thick stack of books.

Vane smiles sadly. “I don’t think you’ll need the family photo albums.”

“We thought it might be a good idea this time to bring the things we can’t replace,” she says quietly, and from the way she’s staring at Vane I can tell she wants to shove him in her bag and take him with her.

Instead she runs over and strangles Vane with a hug until he reminds her that he needs to breathe and she finally lets him go.

I’m completely caught off guard when she throws her arms around me.

“Take care of yourself, too,” she whispers.

Tears burn my eyes and I find myself hugging her tight before she pulls away. “We’ll see you soon.”

“You’d better,” Vane’s dad says before he wraps his arms around us both. “Try not to destroy the house.”

Vane forces a laugh. “Dang, there go all my plans.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” his mom says, lifting a tattered shred of black fabric from the top of her suitcase. “I’m so sorry. I guess your clothes can’t go in the washing machine. . . .”

It takes me a second to realize the scrap she’s holding is what’s left of my uniform, and another after that to realize my mistake. I’d forgotten that groundlings use machines for their washing instead of water and air. Our porous fabric must not be able to hold up.

“It’s fine,” I tell her, even though I have no idea what I’ll wear now. My shelter had nowhere to hide possessions, so I only had the one uniform. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe the Gales have an extra—”

“We’ve been keeping all the supplies at the Dustlands Base,” Os interrupts. “It’s an hour away from here.”

“I still have your jacket,” Vane offers, pointing to a crushed pile of black on the floor next to his bed. “But that’s probably not going to help much.”

“I’m sure I can make your mother’s pants work if I have a belt.”

Solana lets out a slow, heavy sigh. “Or, I have a few extra dresses.”

She doesn’t actually offer them, but Vane still tells her, “That would be awesome!” and before I can argue, she nods like it’s settled.

Vane’s parents rush through a teary goodbye—making Vane promise he’ll remember to text them this time. Then the house is quiet and Vane watches from his window as they drive away.

The tense line of his shoulders makes me want to hug him. But Solana turns to me. “My stuff’s in the living room.”

She looks about as thrilled with this arrangement as I am, which somehow makes it easier to follow her down the hall. Until she shows me my choices.

One is nothing more than a tube of shiny teal—and not nearly enough of that. Another is sheer peach and dips almost as low in the front as it does in the back. And the third is bright red.

I’m positive it would take the fabric from all three to actually cover me—especially considering I’m at least two inches taller than her. But, clearly, the point of these dresses is to be seen.

And to catch the eye of a certain Westerly king.

The thought has me reaching for the red one, though I tell myself it’s mostly because it looks longer than the others.

I realize on my way to the bathroom that I’d forgotten about my black shifting dress, tucked away in the eaves of my old shelter. I want to believe that I don’t switch to that because I don’t want to waste any time—and not because I want Vane to see me in something new. But if I’m being honest, the thought did cross my mind.

Apparently, I am turning into one of “those girls.”

I’m even more disgusted with myself when I slip the silky red fabric over my head and glance in the mirror. The V of the neckline dips low enough to make me blush, and the thin straps tie around my neck, leaving my shoulders—and most of my back—bare. The sides at least come up high enough to cover my bandage, and the skirt is longer than the other dress options—but only in the back. In the front it cuts much higher, and the flowy design has me wondering what I’m supposed to do if I catch an updraft.

But the truly horrifying part is that I can’t help imagining Vane’s reaction when he sees me. I want to believe he’ll be pleased—but what if he isn’t?

What if he thinks I look as ridiculous as I feel?

I’m this close to raiding his mom’s closet—she’s only a few sizes bigger than me, surely there’s something I can make work—when I step under the vent in the ceiling. The air sinks effortlessly through the thin material, cooling my skin and giving me a boost of strength.

Sylph fabrics breathe better than groundling ones—and I’m going to need all the energy I can get. Embarrassing as it is, this dress is my best option.

I start to braid my hair, but that leaves far too much skin on display, so I smooth the strands as best as I can and force myself to walk away from the mirror.

Solana’s waiting for me outside the bathroom, and her frustrated sigh makes my lips curl into a smile.

I must look better than I think.

It’s an incredibly foolish thought to have when preparing for a fight, but Solana seems to bring out the foolishness in me. Maybe because she’s changed into the even tinier flesh-toned dress, which almost makes her look naked.

“You have an interesting battle wardrobe,” I tell her, pulling at the hem of my skirt.

“Not that I need to explain myself, considering I just bailed you out, but it’s because of my gift.”

“Your gift?”

“I’m a windcatcher. So I need to keep my skin exposed to the air so I can absorb as many drafts as possible.”

That explains what Os meant earlier—and why she looked so frustrated at the way he belittled her. Those who can windcatch are especially rare, and the gift requires continual sacrifice in order to maintain.

We both know that’s not the only reason for her dresses, though. But since we seem to have reached a truce, I bite my tongue as I follow her back to Vane’s bedroom.

I can hear some sort of argument going on, but my heart is pounding too loud for me to pick out the words. I keep my eyes glued to the floor as I slink through the doorway, cringing when the room falls silent.

Someone finally coughs and I brave a quick glance at Vane.

I’m sure my face is turning as red as my dress, but I can’t help smiling at the intensity of his stare.

“Okay, so, new plan,” Gus says after a second. “Let’s just let the girls fly out there dressed like that and give them all heart attacks.”

Os sighs. “We’re facing an army of Living Storms. Pretty girls are hardly going to be an effective distraction.”

Gus rolls his eyes. “I was joking.”

“Now is not the time for jokes.” Os holds his hands toward the window. “The winds are starting to flee, and there’s only one reason they would leave. And there’s only one thing we can do to give ourselves a fighting chance.” He turns back to Vane. “Are you finally ready to teach us Westerly?”

“How do you know it’s going to help?” I ask, feeling extra exposed as Os’s eyes narrow at me.

“Are you saying that you don’t think the power of four is useful?”

“No, but”—my mind flashes back to my disastrous escape attempt from Aston’s cave—“how do you know the Westerlies’ aversion to violence won’t be triggered with the breakthrough?”

“The same way I didn’t become steady and sluggish when I learned Southerly,” Os snaps back. “That’s exactly why it’s so crucial that Vane share his language. We’ll harness his power in ways he’ll never be able to.”

I open my mouth to argue but stop myself just in time. He doesn’t know I’m part Westerly now.

And maybe he’s right. I learned the language through a bond. Maybe breakthroughs are different.

But the thought of Westerly words being whispered by the same man who shattered enough drafts to build a Maelstrom makes me physically ill.

I can see the uncertainty in Vane’s eyes, and I want to grab him and run far away before he can say another word—or at least beg him not to share his secrets.

I stop myself from doing either.

Westerly is his heritage—and even though he shared it with me, this should still be his decision. It’s his kinsmen who gave up their lives in Raiden’s interrogations, his parents who were stolen because of Raiden’s greed. And if anything happens to the sanctity of his language, no one will suffer greater than he will.

He runs his hands through his hair as he turns to Gus. “What do you think?”

“The only reason we escaped that valley alive is because you could control the Westerlies,” Gus says quietly, “but you were also able to handle it without me.”

I notice he doesn’t mention anything about me, and when he glances my way I realize he did that on purpose.

Maybe I’m not the only one who doesn’t trust Os.

Vane starts to pace.

Every time he crosses the room, Os’s scowl deepens. “We don’t have time for indecision, Vane. Only action.”

“Fine.” Vane turns back to me, and I can see his answer in his eyes.

It breaks my heart, but I press my lips together and keep silent as he says, “I’ll teach you Westerly.”