Shannon Messenger - Let the Storm Break

I don’t know if it’s some trick of Aston’s or a sign or something more, but I need to find a way back to Vane.

“A throne for Her Majesty,” Aston says, setting me down on a flat-faced rock just outside the cave’s entrance. “Or do you prefer Her Highness?”

“I prefer Audra.”

He shakes his head. “You’re going to make an interesting queen.”

It’s hard not to cringe at the word.

I may be bonded to the king, but I doubt the Gales will ever do more than tolerate our connection. There’s still a chance I could be charged with treason.

The thought makes me want to squirm, but the rope around my waist is too restricting, cutting into my skin with every breath.

I resist the urge to call a Northerly to sever it.

“I knew you were a clever girl,” Aston says, hissing a word that makes a draft slice through my restraints. “And yet you still foolishly believe your worthless army can stand against Raiden.”

“The Gales aren’t worthless.”

“Oh, but they are. Let me show you the many ways.”

He calls an Easterly, using the command I’ve said thousands of times over the years.

“You’ve been taught to give the wind a choice,” he says as a swift draft streaks between us and coils into a small funnel. “You tell it to come to you swiftly and you expect that it will. And most of the time it does. But the wind still has a say. Which is why you will never truly be in control.”

“I don’t need to be.”

“Really? It looked to me like you nearly died several times this afternoon when the winds abandoned you.”

“But I’m still alive. And they only did that because you made them.”

“Which is why the Gales will never win. You can’t beat someone who doesn’t play fair, and they aren’t willing to cross the line between request and demand—most of them, at least. And if they did, it would only destroy them.”

He points to the Easterly in front of me and I have a horrible feeling I know what he’s going to do. I want to send the wind away—save it before it’s too late. But I have to know Raiden’s secret.

Aston snarls a harsh word I can’t understand, and the draft howls. A deep, primal wail that shreds every part of me as I watch the wind of my heritage—my kin—stripped bare.

Everything good and pure crumbles away.

Its energy.

Its drive.

All that’s left is a pale, sickly gust that hovers lifelessly between us.

Still.

Silent.

I feel a tear streak down my cheek.

Aston crouches in front of me and wipes it away.

“I wanted to strangle Raiden the first time I saw him do that,” he whispers. “Wanted to beat him bloody until he understood the kind of pain he just caused. And when he ordered me to learn the skill, I refused, not caring that he would punish me. I wasn’t going to turn into a monster.”

“What changed?” I ask, unable to hide the anger in my voice.

He laughs and slips his cloak off his left shoulder, running his hand along a line of holes that trace his collarbone. They’re different from the small, jagged holes covering the rest of him. Perfectly round—and twice as big. And they go through skin and bone.

“He gave me one for each day I resisted. Twenty-nine in all. I almost made it to thirty, but then he found a better way to break me.”

He doesn’t explain further, and I decide not to push him. I already know where the story ends.

“So why keep ruining the winds?” I ask, watching the sickly draft groan and hover. “Why not—”

“Because breaking the winds breaks you. The power becomes a craving, like . . . part of you dies and the only way to fill the emptiness is to spoil everything around you. And you can’t fight it because you don’t want to fight it, because then you’d never be able to experience the rush again. It’s why the Gales can’t win, Audra. They can’t compete with this kind of ultimate control. And if they tried to embrace it, they’d just be consumed by it.”

I stare at the sallow wind swirling between us, hating that he’s right.

It would explain how Raiden commands such loyalty from his Stormers. I’d always assumed they were fueled by fear or greed. But maybe they’re also slaves to their bad choices.

“That’s why you never came back, isn’t it?” I whisper. “Why you hid in a cave, let us all think you died?”

“Aston did die. This thing I’ve become”—he stares at his ruined hands—“I’m not going to let anyone know it exists.”

There’s a darkness in his final words.

A warning.

I know what he’s going to tell me, but I still have to ask the question anyway.

“What about me?”

His lips curl into a smile, but it’s the coldest smile I’ve ever seen. “We both know I enjoy your company. And if you ever try to leave, I’ll kill you.”

Arella’s lying.

She has to be. There’s no way Os would . . .

The thought stops me cold as I remember what Os told me about hungry winds. And as I watch Arella rub her pale, sickly arms, I realize there’s a thin dust sweeping off her skin that I hadn’t noticed.

It floats toward the walls like a sheer mist and disappears into the swirling sand.

“Relax,” Arella tells me as I run for the metal curtain blocking my exit and try to pry it open.

Stupid thing won’t budge—and when I pound on it, it swallows the sound.

I can’t breathe.

“Calm down!” Arella shouts as I wobble on my feet. “The Maelstrom only affects me. I’m the one it was built for. Do you really think Os would bring his king here otherwise?”

I guess that wouldn’t make sense.

I may be driving the Gales crazy, but they definitely need me alive.

But still, if it’s affecting Arella, then she’s . . .

I drop to the ground and put my head between my knees, trying to keep myself together.

“So you’re . . .”

“Dying?” Arella asks when I can’t finish.

I force myself to nod.

She holds out her hands, staring at her fingers. They’re practically skin and bone, so it shouldn’t surprise me when she says, “Yes.” But I still have to fight off another dizzy fit.

Arella is dying .

Audra’s mom is dying.

“How long do you have?” I whisper.

“It’s hard to say. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. But if I had to guess, I’d say probably a few more weeks.”

“Weeks?”   That’s a lot less time than I was expecting. I don’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

No . . . I guess she’s right.

I have to remember—Arella’s not just a murderer. She’s a serial killer . Humans have the death penalty for crimes like that. Why should sylphs be any different?

But I hate it.

I hate knowing about it, and I hate that I’m wondering if I have the power to stop it, and I especially hate that I’m sort of responsible for it.

If I hadn’t turned her in and made sure the Gales knew what she’d done, she’d . . .

Still be crazy and killing people.

This is her fault—not mine.

She stays quiet after that, and I close my eyes, trying to make this awful night worth it. If I don’t get some sleep, Os might make me stay here again, and I’m pretty sure I will lose it if that happens.

But every passing minute makes the ground harder and the air thicker and my skin itchier. So I’m ready to cry with relief when the mesh curtain to my cell finally opens and Os walks in.

He frowns as he looks at me. “You don’t look rested.”

“This isn’t exactly the most relaxing place.”