Page 19 of Storm Caller

“My father is High Commander Summit Athira, leader of the Veil, which presides over this region. You call us Solitudes, but we are united, and we are free. Free from the rules of your Societies and the hierarchy your Shield created to benefit only those at the top.

“My mother is Commander Faroe Athira, chief strategist for our army. I have two brothers and one sister, all of whom are soldiers in the war against The Shield and New Manhattan. You’ve been lied to your entire life, Poet, and though I never intended to tell you the truth about everything when we met, it seems fate had other plans.”

He says the entire thing in a controlled rush, like he’s practiced this speech for my benefit.

“I was being honest when I said I came to Amery to find out more about what I am. What I didn’t tell you is that I’m known as a Storm Caller. Very few people know we exist at all, and for now, my father wants to keep it that way. Discovering you was a shock. I was being truthful when I said I’ve never met anyone like us. We’ve found evidence of other Storm Callers in the Tiera Frais, but we’ve never been able to locate them. Either way, we’re sure that The Shield, and specifically General Sol, has more information, and I need it. It could mean the difference between life and death for our world.”

While he talks, I barely move but for the rapid thumping of my heart. I must be holding my breath because I start to feel woozy. It’s so much to process that this barrage of information sticks in my head like a snarl of wet threads. I have even more questions, but I can’t seem to tease them out.

The sound of footsteps approaching has us snapping apart. I immediately miss his warmth. He shoves his hands in his pockets but offers me a look that begs me to be silent. I nod to tell him I understand, and he exhales a long, shuddering breath.

A moment later, a trio of Solitudes appears. Not Solitudes. People of the Tiera Frais. The Veil. These new words settle heavy and thick in my head, like layers of paint coating the inside of my skull.

The Wastes were never a lonely, desolate plain.

This is a nation.

The trio approaches, carrying a comatose Keeper between them.

“Hey,” the one out front says, his eyes narrowing. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“We were just trying to find our way to the bunker,” Rook says. “There wasn’t time to ask anyone for directions.”

“Right,” the guy says. “You’re Rook? The high commander’s son?”

He nods. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Simon,” he says, pointing toward himself. “I was just heading to the gathering point if you want to follow me.”

“That would be great.”

Simon approaches, his gaze landing on me.

“This is Poet,” Rook says.

“Hi,” I say, lost and unsure, prepared for an insult. No one has been very friendly so far.

“The Crust,” he says, but there’s no harshness in it. Simon shakes his head. “Sorry. Nice to meet you, Poet.”

“Thanks,” I say, practically gushing because he used my actual name. I’ll take what I can get.

“This way,” he says, and we turn to follow him while the other two people trudge behind us with the Keeper between them. We approach an intersection, and Simon leads us left while the rest of our party turns right.

“Where are they taking her?” I ask. “Is she okay?”

Simon glances at their retreating forms and then back at me, darkness flashing in his gaze.

“Poet,” Rook says. “People have . . . opinions about how they treat Whispers in New Manhattan.”

Simon huffs, but he must take pity on me because he answers. “We keep them safe. They’re given a sedative that suspends them in a comatose state until they can safely be released.”

“Safely?” I ask. “As in . . . they’re cured?”

“Yes,” Simon answers. “That’s the goal.”

I have more questions. So many things don’t make sense.

“But where do you keep them all? How many are there?”