Page 7 of A Song of Air
Because they spent weeks plotting, tracking, and killing those humans. They would intercept them along roads as they transported Fae away to their camps and bring the bounty back to camp with them.
Arlo always looked at Fae like investments; his own commodities that he’d collected throughout the years since the war. Everything at the camp was based on give-and-take. Arlo rescued them, and so everyone had to give in return. That was probably a cold way of looking at it, but Bryson tried to be practical. Yes, while they were all a family, she didn’t delude herself to believing that Arlo didn’t benefit from them.
Especially her and Malika, as they were the only Fae there with gifted abilities.
“You heard Ev,” Bryson replied. “It went well.”
He was quiet, regarding her. “Will you help them find their place?”
Her shoulders lowered, and she hadn’t even realized how tense she felt. “Of course.” She always would. Perhaps she was not the best shoulder to lean on, but sometimes other Fae looked at her—at the scars around her eyes—and counted their own blessings.
She hated being treated like a simple attraction at a circus, but she was proud of who she was and her own survival. She wanted the others to be proud too, despite the scars or injuries they may have carried or garnered.
Bryson had her many uses, and this was only a drop in the cup, in Arlo’s opinion.
“Good. Go help Malika.”
Bryson didn’t wait for further instruction. She walked in the direction of the medical tents, where Malika had set up near the herbal garden.
“And Bryson?”
She stopped.
“When you’re finished, join the celebration. I know how hard days like this are for you.”
Her chest tightened with his words, while simultaneously something warmed within her. Sometimes, Arlo was very harsh. Others like this, he was almost fatherly in his affections. He wouldn’t show his feelings with a heavy-handed touch like Malika or gentle, clinging hugs and kisses like Everett. It was in other ways, like the softening of his voice to balance out his rough exterior.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She walked towards the medical tent, and he didn’t call after her again. Not even to tell her that she hadn’t promised she would attend the celebration.
He was right. Days like this were hard for her, and instead of dizzying herself with dance and drink, she preferred to decompress in a quiet place.
“Brood,”Malika claimed. Perhaps that’s what it was. Perhaps Bryson wallowed. But it didn’t matter.
Because she had a job to do. And Bryson would do it.
Within the medical tent, the scent of herbs, oils, blood, and pain mingled.
And magic.
It bubbled through the enclosed space, sharp and biting and yet somehow soothing. Even the soft, suffering groans of the people clustered within brought with it a sort of comfort. Pain was good, Bryson thought. Pain meant they were alive. That they would heal.
Malika’s feet were loud as they rushed around the tent, going from tables of herbs and medicines and back to the injured. There were the softertap-tap-tapof several other footsteps as well, followed by the chittering squeak of the voices of the camp brownies.
Bryson was careful walking in, weaving her way around bleary, small bodies. Back when she still had her full sight, when she still lived in Tir na Faie, back when they had their family manor, she remembered the brownies that scampered through the halls on thin legs.
She remembered how they all looked like small trees, with textured skin like bark that ranged from colors of white, gray, green, and brown, and dripped sap, moss, and magic. Their limbs creaked as they walked, and their excited chatter as they cleaned made magic burst like works of fire through the sky.
Brownies expelled magic through cleaning, and theylovedto clean. Bryson could already feel the charge of magic in the air, and it gave her a small boost of energy as she followed Malika’s scent of lavender, ginger, and lemon over towards the table.
Bryson was careful not to touch anything, lest she knock something important over.
“What can I do?” Her voice was soft and cautious.
Even though she already had her purpose within the tents, Bryson still always deferred to Malika, as it washerdomain.
Malika huffed a breath. Her tall frame towered over her worktable, muscular arms furiously whipping together her concoctions in her rush to heal the Fae. She used magic, of course, but because the price of using it meant her energy waned, she had to substitute with other methods as well, at least for the more minor injuries.
