Page 5 of A Song of Air
Like always, the answer came to her with the flying, deadly precision of one of her arrows.
Bryson was both.
Arlo Blackwood
There was comfort inthe steady sound of routine, yet the thrumming pulse of it made her restless at the same time. It was like a heartbeat echoing the same tempo over and over. Camp was like that, and the things they did to survive had become an integral part of day-to-day life. Nothing was new except for the voices that belonged to the latest hazy faces, and even those faded into the background over time.
But never their stories. Never their fear. Never their need for vengeance.
Or their need for a good party.
She knew from the blur of running bodies, the drumming beat of footsteps on the ground, the raucous cries of voices, and the slightest hint of magical Fae wine bubbling through the air that they were preparing for a celebration. She knew the sight of it would surprise the captives they’d saved from the wagon, because they hadn’t contemplated their freedom before this moment. They were being greeted with it now, though.
Arlo said it helped them forget.
Bryson remembered her own experience from so long ago. She always bit her tongue when Arlo spoke about how the celebrations helped captives feel morealive. Back then, she hadn’t felt what he was describing.
She still didn’t.
Because the upbeat rhythm of the lute and pounding feet on the ground only served to bring with it flashbacks.
She’d clung to the remnants of her past long after her family’s bodies had gone cold, too afraid to stand up and face the darkness that plagued her vision. Blood streamed into her mouth, and she choked on it as easily as if it were tears.
Then there were shouts of rage, and humans dug through the rubble. Strong arms yanked at her fragile, aching body and she swung on instinct, too shocked to muster her magic so she lashed out with her fists instead. She screamed, flinging herself back down where their bodies lay.
She didn’t want to leave them. It was the cruel, twisting hand of Mana that had taken them from her in the first place. She swore she could hear death laughing somewhere, even as she begged to join them. Or maybe that sound she heard wasn’t death at all.
It was something far worse.
Her arms were nearly yanked out of socket as they jerked her backwards. She screamed as they manhandled her, swallowing a mouthful of blood in the process. They shoved her to the ground. Disoriented, her head jerked from side to side. She tried to sense them, but in her panic, she couldn’t focus, hone in on her magic. The pain and blood in her eyes blinded her and the ashwood in her nostrils choked through her lungs.
Her eyelids blinked furiously, trying to expel the shards of iron stuck through. Even as she felt them slide out, the blood didn’t stop flowing, and her vision didn’t return.
“Looks like we caught an injured one.” The unsettling voice slid down her spine as it approached. She scrambled away from it, but it was no use.
A collar went around her neck, snuffing out her magic completely. It didn’t matter how hard she fought, how loud she screamed, or how desperately she prayed.
