The Unbroken C. Clark (best books to read for self development .txt) 📖

grains clean, no matter how the farmhands shouted or shot them. Abnormal, maybe, but that was only bad luck. Wasn’t it? It was a coincidence, but even she couldn’t figure out how the rebels could have managed to control wild animals. All of her and Bastien’s research pointed to the Shālans having healing magic, nothing else. The Taargens and their bears were up north… Could the rebels have allied with the Taargens so quickly? Could they do something like this?

“Is it possible that the animals were taken by hyenas or lions?” Cantic turned her back dismissively on Beau-Sang and paced the wide storeroom. “If game is scarce because of the drought, maybe it’s emboldened them.”

“That many lions? That many hyenas?” Beau-Sang clenched and unclenched his fists. He was the kind of man Luca could imagine liked to strangle things. He probably would have liked to strangle Cantic, but the older woman would have his entrails looped tidily around his own throat before he could get a good grip on her. “They’ve picked the sky-falling fields clean, woman!”

“Beau-Sang. Watch your tone.” Luca stepped between the two before her imaginary vision could come true. “General, I’m inclined to agree with the governor. The birds are one thing. But the livestock… especially with the blood…”

They all shuddered. One of the Sands had reported it, and Luca insisted on seeing it for herself. She still wished she hadn’t. Someone had painted We pray for rain in blood across the paving stones. Blood clung stickily to shop doors. The air was thick with the cloying scent of blood spoiling in the heat. She’d retched in the cab. The curtains couldn’t keep the stench out. The words were familiar; she’d read that line in the poetry book Touraine had brought, but she couldn’t remember enough of it to find another copy and look for clues. If Touraine were alive—no, if Touraine were alive and hadn’t betrayed her—Luca would have sent her to investigate how the rebels were doing this.

“Your Highness, let me help.” Beau-Sang smoothed his shirt over his barrel of a torso. “We’ve gone over this before. We need to repurpose this energy the Qazāli have. If we put the strongest youth to work in the quarries—”

“Can we stop with the labor camps!” Luca waved her hand toward the room. “These provisions won’t last the army a month if we have to feed civilians, too. Balladairan and Qazāli. No one knows when the dry season will stop. We can’t eat rocks.”

Beau-Sang’s face went as stony as his quarry, his beady blue eyes watery with anger.

Luca was about to lose the nobles for good. They were already terrified, and if she wasn’t careful, they’d be the ones leading the riots. Beau-Sang was meant to have this in hand, but he’d spent most of his time as governor-general trying to sneak in benefits for his own businesses. She glared at him as she swept into the sunlight of the compound.

The frustrating stalemate with Beau-Sang and Cantic drove Luca home to her fighting practice with Gil with more vigor than she’d felt in some time.

After a particularly vigorous lunge, her right leg seized, shooting a brief spasm of pain up her spine—and across her face.

Gil gave her a supporting arm immediately. “Easy, Highness. Easy.”

As Luca walked the pain off, the old guard captain asked, “Do you remember when you decided to challenge Sabine de Durfort to a duel?”

“Yes?” She took her position and lunged at him again.

He dodged the blow with a slight twist of his hips. “You couldn’t even hold a sword. How did you beat her?”

She stopped and considered him as he held her gaze expectantly. She sensed a test.

“I learned.”

“How?”

“I practiced every day.”

He smiled. “You did. You were such a determined child. You reminded me—”

“Of my father, I know.”

“Of your mother. Étienne was bold in success but even more brilliant after failure.” He stepped out of his guard stance and cupped Luca’s shoulders. “You and her are so much alike. You worked yourself sick, though. You have room to be a little kinder to yourself.”

“Kinder?” Luca laughed in his face. “And who will be kind to me if I fail?”

“All the more reason for you to be. Be patient. Be methodic. If you break yourself now, you’ll be too broken to rule.”

She held her arms stiffly at her sides as he placed a scratchy kiss upon her forehead.

And what if I already feel broken?

At the edge of the room, the doorman daintily cleared his throat.

“Your Highness. The younger LeRoche is here to see you.”

“Without notice?” Luca asked. That wasn’t like Bastien, not unless it was an emergency. Like when his sister, Aliez, had been kidnapped. Luca’s heart leapt into her throat. She didn’t need more trouble. She nodded to the doorman to show him in. “Give me a moment, Gil?”

“Of course.” Then he surprised her by wrapping her in a tight hug and whispering, “It will be fine.”

He left her in the sitting room they’d been using as a practice room just as Aliez LeRoche stepped inside.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness. Please forgive my interruption.”

The warmth from Gil’s embrace was sucked very suddenly away. Luca gripped her thin practice sword tightly. She had not forgotten the young woman’s mocking voice that day in the bookshop. Months ago, perhaps, but Luca rarely forgot these things.

“Mademoiselle LeRoche. This is unexpected. Is Paul-Sebastien all right?”

Aliez nodded. Her hair was a purer blond than Luca’s, golden like wheat under a clear blue sky with none of the soil beneath. Like many of the Balladairans born in Qazāl, she wore the sun on her skin—in her case, as a dense smattering of freckles across the nose and cheeks. She also wore one of Madame Abdelnour’s hybrid Balladairan-Qazāli outfits: trousers and a blouse, half-flowing, half-structured.

“I’m here on my own behalf, actually,” Aliez said.

Luca waited.

“I want to apologize. For the things I said with Marie Bel-Jadot. About the broadside.”

Bel-Jadot. The menagerie girl. Giraffe.

“It was cruel of me to go along with her,