It smells in this tunnel.
And it’s too dark to see anything.
And I’m pretty sure I just brushed my hand against some sort of mutant-size rat.
But we’re finally getting close to Audra.
At least, I think we are.
Right now we’re just walking and walking and walking.
“How long is the Royal Passage?” I ask Solana, who’s right behind me, followed by Arella, with Aston bringing up the rear.
We have to walk single file—don’t ask me how I ended up the leader.
Solana doesn’t reply. It doesn’t even seem like she hears me.
“Is there a problem?” Aston asks her.
“I’m . . . not sure. The tunnel was wider in my father’s memories. And the Southwell crest was carved into the wall.”
“How can you see anything?” I ask.
“I can’t—but that’s another problem. The tunnel my father used had a bluish glow. I think it was some type of bioluminescence—and maybe the frost is messing with it, but . . . the walls were also made of stone.”
I run my hand over the muddy sides, trying to feel if there’s something solid underneath.
All I find is squishy stuff and creepy-crawlies.
“Well . . . maybe we’re in a different part?” I say, shaking the yuck off my hand. “Or maybe your dad remembered it wrong?”
“Or,” Aston says slowly, “the mythical tunnel was too mythical.”
“That sounds like Raiden,” Arella whispers.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” I ask.
“Ask yourself this,” Aston says. “What would Raiden do if he heard a legend of a secret tunnel?”
“How would I know?” I tell him. “I’ve never read the evil murderer’s handbook.”
“And there’s no way he could’ve heard about the passage,” Solana adds. “My family are the only ones who know.”
“He’s interrogated members of your family,” Aston reminds her. “And Raiden would use that knowledge to his advantage. He’d make sure that anyone searching for the passage finds what they’re looking for—only it wouldn’t be what they’re looking for.”
I stop walking. “So . . . you’re saying this tunnel is fake?”
“I’m saying it’s a trap,” Aston corrects. “This path probably leads to a dungeon, or some perfectly coordinated ambush. And I’m sure Raiden also has Stormers waiting at the entrance we used, in case we backtrack.”
“But we found the entrance right where I remembered it being,” Solana argues.
“Exactly my point,” Aston tells her. “Raiden would stick to the legend as closely as possible.”
“There were two sets of train tracks,” Arella whispers. “They circled both sides of the tower. And the stone we moved was marked with the Southwell crest. The symbol was small, but it does seem too easy.”
“Okay, so . . . what do we do?” I ask, fighting to stay calm.
Aston scratches at the walls. “I don’t know about you—but I’ll claw my way out of here if I have to.”
“The ground is too frozen,” Arella tells him. “And the Stormers will hear you escape.”
“Then I’ll destroy as many of them as I can until they crush the life out of me,” Aston snarls. “There’s no way I’m letting them take me again.”
“Awesome as that plan sounds,” I jump in, “there has to be a better way.”
Aston snorts a laugh. “All right then—how do you propose we get out of this?”
He goes back to clawing at the wall, and I focus on my Westerly shield. It’s only one little draft—but that was all Audra needed to start that haboob in Death Valley.
I don’t have her way with the wind, but surely I can convince my own kin to help me.
“Please,” I whisper to the draft in the Westerly tongue. “We need a way out of here. Can you use your force somehow?”
Great wording, man—what is this, Star Wars?
“Can you blast us a new exit from the tunnel?” I try again. “Or—um, what other way is there to get out from underground?”
“Oh yes, I can see why Raiden has killed so many for this power,” Aston says when nothing happens. “I almost wish I could be there when he discovers its pointlessness.”
“Come on!” I beg in Westerly. “Aren’t you getting tired of everyone thinking you’re worthless?”
That seems to get the wind’s attention.
Its song shifts, flooding my head with new lyrics that definitely aren’t what I’d been expecting.
I’d assumed the plan would involve a lot of running and hiding. But my Westerly wants something with a bit more flare.
“I don’t suppose anyone has a lighter in their pocket,” I mumble.
“By lighter you mean something to spark a fire?” Aston asks.
“Yeah. The wind wants us to head to the end of the tunnel and make something called a firewhirl.”
“That’s a Westerly plan?” Arella asks.
“Do you think I could make it up?” I ask.
“Definitely not,” Aston says.
The manic edge to his voice seems to be fading as he adds, “It’s not a terrible idea. But it depends on how large of a welcome party Raiden has waiting for us. One wind might not be enough.”
“What about eleven winds?” Solana asks. “I have eight stored under my skin. And Vane and I can give up the Southerlies keeping us warm.”
“None of that matters if we can’t light a fire,” I remind them.
“I have you covered there.” Aston snarls a strange command and snaps his fingers.
Sparks flash through the darkness.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
“We control air,” Aston says. “And what does fire feed on?”
He snaps again, and I realize he’s clicking the bits of his exposed bone together to make enough friction.
It’s beyond nasty, but all I care about is “So you think this will work?”
“It might,” Aston says, a slow smile curling his lips. “Get us to the exit and have your drafts ready. I’ll make sure the winds burn.”