Jim Butcher - Furies of Calderon

Odiana sniffed. "Soldiers. Crows take them all, I am sick to death of soldiers."

"Have you been here long?" Amara asked.

"Since just after the new year," the other said. "But there are rumors that we'll be leaving soon."

Amara's heart pounded. "Going where?"

Odiana looked at her with an amused smile. "You've not been around soldiers much, have you. It doesn't matter where you go. This," she gestured broadly, at the camp, "never changes. It's the same, if you're down by the ocean or up at the Wall. And the men never change. The sky never changes, and the earth doesn't change enough to notice. This is it."

"But still. You get to go to new places. See new things."

"Only new stains on uniforms," said Odiana. The soldiers passed, and the girls stepped out onto the track again. "But I've heard further north and maybe east a ways."

"Toward Aquitaine?"

Odiana shrugged. "Is that what's that way?" She walked along and opened the basket as they neared the stream, rummaging around inside. "Here," she

said. "Hold these." She thrust a pair of dirty plates into Amara's arms. "We can wash them while we're here. Crows, soldiers are so messy. But at least the le-gionares keep their tents clean." She fished out a bone and threw it toward a passing dog. Then an apple core, from which she took a judicious nibble before wrinkling up her nose and tossing it into the stream. Next came a piece of paper, which she hardly glanced at before flicking it aside.

Amara turned and stomped the paper flat with her foot, before the wind could catch it. Then she bent over and picked it up.

"What?" asked Odiana. "What are you doing?"

Amara picked up the paper. "Well. Um. It hardly seems like a good idea to just toss it on the ground if you're trying to clean up."

"If it isn't in the camp, no one will care," Odiana said. She tilted her head to one side, watching, as Amara unfolded the paper and studied the writing inside. "You can read?" the slave asked.

"Some," said Amara, distracted. She read the note, and her hands started shaking as she did.

Legion Commander, Second Legion,

You are hereby ordered to strike camp and make for the rendezvous -point. You should arrive no later than the tenth full moon of the year, in preparation for winter. Maintain drilling until you march, and dispatch the men in the usual manner.

There was more, but Amara skipped over it, barely skimming, to see what was at the bottom.

Atticus Quentin, High Lord of Attica

Amara's breath caught in her throat, her heart racing. Her fears were true. Insurrection. Rebellion. War.

"What does it say?" asked Odiana. She shoved another plate into Amara's hands and said, "Here. Put these in the stream."

"It says…" Amara fumbled with the plates, moving to the water's edge and leaning down to drop them in. "It, uh. I can't really read it." She fumbled with the note, sliding it away, into one of her shoes, mind racing with the implications.

"You know," said Odiana, voice bright and cheerful, "I think you're lying. You don't often run into literate slaves. Who ask questions about troop movements. And who are also politically learned enough to realize the wider implications of one little note. That's the kind of thing you expect from, oh, I don't know." Her voice dropped, and she almost purred, "One of the Cursori."

Amara stiffened and turned just in time to eaten Odiana's bare Keel in the chin. Pain flashed through her, dull and hot. The wasted-seeming girl had far more strength than Amara would have credited to her, and the blow stunned Amara and sent her tumbling back into the stream.

She stood up out of it, shaking water from her face and eyes and drawing in a breath to cry out to her furies-but water rushed down into her mouth and nose as she inhaled, and she began choking. Amara's heart raced with sudden panic, and she reached up to her face-only to find it coated to above the nose with a thin layer of water. She scraped at it with her fingers, but it didn't flow down, and she couldn't clear it away. She struggled and choked, but only more water rushed in, coating her like a layer of oil. She couldn't breathe. The world began to glaze over with darkness, and she grew dizzy.

The letter. She had to get the letter out, back to the First Lord. The proof he would need.

She made it to the bank before the water filling her lungs made her collapse. She writhed, smothering on dry land, and found herself staring at Odiana's bare, clean feet.

Amara looked up as the wasted slave girl stared down at her, a gentle smile on her face. "You needn't worry, love," the girl said. And she began to change. Her sunken cheeks filled out. The gangling limbs gained rondure, beauty. Hips and breasts began to curve in enticing lines, filling out the clothes she wore. Her hair grew a bit longer, lustrous, darker, and she shook it out with a little laugh, before kneeling down next to Amara.

Odiana reached out and stroked fingers through Amara's damp hair. "You needn't worry," she repeated. "We aren't going to kill you. We need you." Calmly, she removed a black sash from the basket, and tied it around her waist. "But you Cursori can be a slippery breed. We'll take no chances. Just go to sleep, Amara. It will be so much easier. And then I can send all the water back and let you breathe again."

Amara struggled and fought for simple breath, but none came. Darkness gathered, points of light appearing before her eyes. She clutched at Odiana, but her fingers had gone nerveless and weak.

The last thing she saw was the beautiful watercrafter leaning down to place a gentle kiss upon her forehead. "Sleep," she whispered. "Sleep."

And then Amara sank down, into the blackness.

Amara woke, buried to her armpits in the earth. Loose dirt had been piled over her arms and into her hair. Her face felt thick, heavy, and after a moment, she realized that her entire head had been liberally smeared with mud.

She struggled to gather her wits through a pounding headache, piecing together fragments of memories and perceptions until, with a dizzying rush of clarity, she remembered where she was and what had happened to her.

Her heart started to thud hard in her chest, and fear made her buried limbs feel cold.

She opened her eyes, and bits of dirt fell into them, so that she had to blink quickly. Tears formed to wash the dirt out. After a few moments, she was able to see.

She was in a tent. The commander's tent in the camp, she guessed. Light poured into it through a gap in the flap that served as a door, leaving the tent's interior described in terms of dimness, shadow, and dark.

"You awake yet?" croaked a voice from behind her. She turned her head, trying to look. She could barely see Fidelias out of the corner of her eye, but he was there, hanging in a cage of iron bars by straps around his shoulders and outstretched arms, leaving his feet dangling a good ten inches off of the floor. He had a swelling bruise on his face, and his lip had been split and was crusted with dry blood.

"Are you all right?" Amara whispered.

"Fine. Apart from being beaten, captured, and scheduled for torture and interrogation. You're the one who should be worried."

Amara swallowed. "Why me?"

"I think this can safely be considered a failing mark in your graduation exercise."

Amara felt her mouth curve into a smile, despite the circumstances. "We have to escape."

Fidelias tried to smile. The effort split his lip some more, and fresh blood welled. "Extra credit-but I'm afraid you won't get the chance to collect on it. These people know what they're doing."

Amara tried to move, but she couldn't struggle up out of the earth. She barely succeeded in freeing her arms enough to move them-and even so, they were thickly encrusted with dirt. "Cirrus," she whispered, sending her thoughts out, toward her fury. "Cirrus. Come pull me out."