I try to focus on moving forward and solving the riddle of this labyrinth.
But every time I hear the Living Storm wail, I can’t help thinking: It could be Vane.
It could also be my mother—which is more terrifying than heartbreaking.
Who could stand against a tempest of my mother’s greed and rage?
“You okay?” Gus asks. “Are your wounds making you woozy?”
Actually, I’d forgotten all about the cuts on my back.
“Do you think Raiden would kill him?” I whisper. “Now that he knows we’ve had the fourth breakthrough—do you think that makes Vane expendable?”
“I guess it’s possible,” Gus says. “But I feel like Raiden would still want to bring him in alive. He’ll want to make sure one of us gives him the power. Then he’ll take us all out. So the better question is, can we get out of here before Vane gets himself captured? Because I really don’t want to have to turn our escape into a rescue.”
That makes two of us.
There has to be a trick to getting around this maze.
I concentrate on my shield, letting the Westerly language drift across my tongue.
“We need to reach the surface. Can you guide us?” I whisper.
My shield doesn’t respond, but I continue repeating my request. Sometimes the wind needs to know how much you mean it.
A soft tug slows my feet as we near the top of a staircase, and I feel my shield pulling my shoulders to turn them.
I don’t understand what it wants until I remember the day I was nearly assaulted. The scarred Stormer pulled me through a hidden door.
Could there be another path hidden here?
My Westerly seems to think so. It’s singing of stronger air waiting on the other side. But when I search the wall, I see no handle—no seam. And I can’t use the power of pain.
I wonder if the power of four could have some effect.
I stretch out my hands, trying to feel for the air the Westerly is singing about. The stone dulls my senses, but my shield switches to a lyric about trusting the unknown. So I close my eyes and whisper the words I’ve said more than any others. The call of my heritage.
“Come to me swiftly. Carry no trace. Lift me softly. Then flow and race.”
The last syllable has barely left my lips when a gentle rush slips through an imperfection in the wall and coils around me like an embrace from an old friend—and in a way it is. The strong, healthy Easterly is every bit as brave and loyal as my shield.
“How did you do that?” Gus whispers.
“I think it was the wind. It seems to want to help.”
I try calling a Northerly or a Southerly, but none respond. So there’s no way to channel the power of four.
“Do you think east and west are enough?” I ask Gus when he’s unable to summon any drafts either.
“It might be. Those winds belong to your natural heritage and your bonded heritage.”
I open my mouth to remind him that I’m not bonded to Vane anymore, but even thinking the words triggers a jolt of pain deep in my chest.
That’s new.
And yet, the sensation is also familiar. A slow, steady tugging, almost like . . .
I shake the thoughts away.
Now is not the time to be pondering my bond to Vane.
The Easterly and Westerly dance around each other, and I listen to their songs. The lyrics seem vague, singing of dual strength, dual force. But the final verse keeps championing the power to sever.
“Sever,” I whisper, trying the Westerly tongue first.
Nothing happens, so I repeat the command in my native tongue.
I should’ve known from the beginning that Westerly was too peaceful. Only a tricky Easterly would be willing to tear anything apart.
And it does.
The drafts stretch thin and slam into the rock. A narrow cloud of dust erupts from a seam I never would’ve been able to see on my own.
But the door remains shut.
“Now what?” I ask, listening to the drafts, but their song gives me no other clues.
“I wonder,” Gus says, stepping forward and giving the rock a hard shove.
The door swings open with a scratchy crumble.
“I guess we need to do some of the work too,” he says, coughing on the floating dust.
He’s right.
It’s going to take all of our efforts combined to make our way through this maze.
But if we work together, we have a chance.