Cole regains power

  Without Tessa weighing him down, Cole immediately felt more buoyant. The slipstream tore at him, threatening to carry him away. He hooked one foot beneath a large rock on the floor of the channel, leaned into the current more, and struggled to think heavy, immovable thoughts.

  A blizzard of ether lashed at him relentlessly, howling around him, interlaced with the heart-melting melody of the homesong. If he tried to take a step, he would be swept away. He could barely maintain his present position. If the current surged just a little stronger, he would be washed away.

  Might somebody throw him a rope? Lower a branch? Extend a wing?

  He kept glancing at the jittery surface, but no saviors appeared.

  It was just him and the slipstream.

  Maybe he should let the current take him. At this point, wasn’t he resisting the inevitable? Wasn’t it just a matter of time?

  But somebody had to save Tessa. And so many others. He had to hold on.

  There seemed to be power in his defiance. He felt a little more firmly anchored to the channel floor.

  He had to think. Maybe there was a way out of this. He wasn’t going to suffocate. He wasn’t going to get tired. He might be able to stay put for a good while. If he lasted long enough, maybe somebody would help him.

  He needed to live. He had to see his family again. He had to help Dalton and Jenna find their way home.

  As Cole embraced those thoughts, once again he felt a little more firmly planted against the turbulence. The sensation of the ether was changing. The windy fluid still mostly whooshed around him, but now it felt like some of it flowed through him. As he paid attention to the sensation, it gradually increased.

  Was the slipstream really penetrating him? It made him feel intangible, like a ghost. Like his very substance was diminishing.

  The call of the Other rang more clearly than earlier. In fact, as the ether passed through him, he could almost feel the homesong inside of him. When he focused on the call, a greater portion of the slipstream slid right through him. Having the ether stream through him reduced the drag, making him feel a little more stable. But it also felt like he was disappearing. Was he being washed away one particle at a time? How long before nothing was left?

  “No!” he cried, his voice small against the banshee chorus. A memory stirred. When had he heard wind like this? The terminal void behind the cloudwall! He wondered if the swirling maelstrom might be composed of this same ether.

  He hunkered a bit lower and leaned into the current a bit more. The slipstream hardly seemed to flow around him anymore. Yet the current still threatened to carry him away. The pull was reduced, but not as much as it should have been if he completely lacked substance.

  Cole began to feel hot inside. Although the ether penetrated his body, something within him resisted the shrieking gale, causing incredible friction. The heat became uncomfortable before Cole recognized the scalding element as his power.

  He was feeling his power! It had been so long! He had barely learned to recognize it before it was blocked. He had never gotten to enjoy it. And he couldn’t enjoy it now as it continued to burn hotter.

  What was going on? Would he burst into flames?

  His entire body began to vibrate. The friction against his power was becoming more powerful than the pull against his body. Would his soul get ripped out? His lifespark? Was this how that felt?

  Cole gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let the slipstream take him. Since he could feel his power, Cole reached for it. The effort caused physical pain. It was scorching, white hot, unfit to be used.

  And then he could no longer hear the song of the slipstream. It was replaced by the homesong in a fullness he had never experienced. The current kept pulling but seemed remote. More important was the heavenly music washing over him. The peace coursing through him. The sublime assurances.

  Somewhere deep inside he knew and loved the homesong. He adored it completely and instinctively. Was this how an orphan might feel, reunited with his mother, her beloved voice and smell reviving dormant memories? Cole had lost everything—his home, his family, his friends, his future—but this song promised restoration. Peace and joy and an endless abundance that included all he believed he had lost.

  This song had been sacred to Cole since before he was born. His life had been an illusion. This music was home.

  And the music was only a promise! What would it be like to actually go there? Why was he resisting? Why wasn’t he rushing toward this greatest of all destinations?

  The searing heat of his power blazed inside of him. Noticing it helped the homesong recede slightly. Was his power charring him from the inside? Was he turning to ashes? Maybe that was why the slipstream gushed through him, as if he were a hologram.

  The homesong resurged, more hopeful and joyous than he could absorb. Why not embrace it? Why not get lost in it?

  Tessa.

  Mira.

  Dalton.

  Jace.

  Jenna.

  Hunter.

  People needed him.

  The call of the Other decreased in volume. He could hear the slipstream again. It physically tugged at him a bit more.

  Sando had taken Tessa. Mira was imprisoned at the Fallen Temple. Jace and Joe were at Gamat Rue. And it was all his fault.

  The slipstream was going through him less, flowing around him more. His power was cooling, the friction decreasing.

  Dalton was counting on him to return. He had promised to find Jenna. Somebody had to stop Stafford Pemberton and Nazeem. He needed to get home to his family and to help the other kids from his neighborhood do the same.

  The homesong would have to wait.

  The slipstream howled around him, tearing at him, but no longer sifting through him. The call of the Other remained present but not overpowering.

  People needed him. They needed his help. They needed his power.

  His power.

  He felt it clearly. Not hot anymore. Not catching against the slipstream.

  Not gone.

  His power was there more clearly than he had ever felt it, even when he had used it in the fight against Morgassa, even when the Founding Stone had helped it awaken. After all this time, it was back.

  And he was stuck at the bottom of a channel, on the fringe of the echolands, the fury of the slipstream threatening to peel him from his position at any moment. Cole could envision himself hurtling along the channel, a rag doll in a tornado.

  But his power was back.

  The glow of it gave him confidence.

  And now he knew what to do.

  Cole drew the Jumping Sword and pushed some of his power into it. Flames danced along the blade, bright even in the frantic blur of the ether.

  He pointed the blade at the surface of the slipstream, angling it toward the near shore of the channel.

  “Away!” he shouted.

  And away he flew.

  Cole erupted from the slipstream, soaring up over the field beside the channel. The Jumping Sword always knew where he was pointing, but in his excitement, Cole had aimed too high. He rose about thirty feet over the field, then slowed at the apex of his flight before plummeting down.

  Fortunately, Cole was no rookie with the Jumping Sword. As he landed, he pointed to a spot up ahead, shouted the command word, and greatly reduced the impact by taking a second smaller jump.

  After coming to a stop, Cole looked around, his sword ready.

Chapters 31-32