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

The princess bowed her head solemnly. “Arrangements have already been made. The pyre will be ready by sundown. Rest. I’ll send someone to collect you when it’s time.”

For a second, she looked like she wanted to say something else. Touraine was glad when she didn’t. She dragged herself down the stairs and into her new room. A small bed rested against each of the three walls, each with crisp, clean bedclothes and pillows.

It was wonderfully, terribly empty.

Touraine stayed quiet in the carriage on the way to Émeline and Thierry’s funeral. Luca let the heavy silence hang, and Touraine was grateful. Touraine had avoided thinking about her friends’ deaths, letting the grief crouch at the edge of her mind, waiting until the shock of the last week wore off. It was unavoidable now. She hadn’t even begun to contemplate what it would mean to leave her squad.

Their pyre was built out in the desert just beyond the compound. The night was deep, and Touraine would have been able to see the stars if not for the lanterns and torches.

The princess and her retinue hung back. Gracious or indifferent?

There was barely enough wood for the pyre to be ceremonial. However, by chance or by choice, the scent of burning pine sap eased the smell of the fire’s main fuel—thick patties of camel shit.

And the bodies.

When the fire was set, Touraine went to her soldiers.

Aimée didn’t hesitate. She scooped Touraine into a great hug that made Touraine cry out. Aimée never was cautious about affection. She eased out of the embrace but supported Touraine with an arm at her back.

“Fuck me, sorry, Lieutenant. We just thought you’d be—” The sudden flash of joy was gone.

“Good to see you, too, Aimée.”

And it was. Touraine let herself be passed around her squad, to arm clasps and shoulder squeezes and tender head ruffles. She wanted to enjoy the love—and a part of her did—but she knew it wouldn’t last. After the funeral, she would be alone again, with the princess and her “small” house and her guards and servants.

This was the fairness she’d wanted. The future queen standing vigil over Sands’ funerals. And Touraine’s promotion wasn’t a soldier’s rise, but she’d never dreamed of wearing a silk shirt as a soldier. When the princess stood over her in the jail, that lantern hanging from her fist as she sized Touraine up, Touraine had calculated.

She was always good at the hard math.

Death and nothing out of it, or life and the chance to better the Sands’ lots.

That wasn’t even a question.

At the end of the line, her sergeants waited, and everyone else fell back. Tibeau stared into Émeline’s fire with his arms crossed, and Pruett stood close beside him, arms at her sides. Tears glistened amid Tibeau’s stubble. Touraine wanted to wrap him in her arms and hug him to her chest. She settled for a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Beau,” she whispered.

“We heard the princess got a new concubine.” Tibeau turned his head to look her up and down. He didn’t even try to hide his distaste.

“Concubine? No.” Touraine spoke to Pruett instead, searching the carefully blank look on the other woman’s face. “I’m just an assistant. Cantic stripped my rank. I can’t wear a uniform anymore.” It sounded unbelievable, even though she’d spent half the day saying it to herself and trying to figure out where she belonged. I’m not a soldier anymore.

“She really did court-martial you, then,” Pruett said in soft surprise.

“For treason. And murder.”

Tibeau squinted. “And you’re still alive? That’s gonna cost.”

Touraine glanced over her shoulder. Princess Luca and her guards waited patiently, for now.

“The cripple queen.” Tibeau sucked his teeth.

“Princess Luca promised to help me change things for us—for the Sands.” Balladaire owes the conscripts a great deal of thanks, the princess had said.

“Tour, you’re missing the point.” His wide hand slashed the air. “You’ve always missed the point. I want to be free of them. All of them. This includes their ‘help’ and anything else that comes with a collar.”

“Like their food? Their money?”

“Starve me, then. Been close enough to it on campaign. Give me hunger on my own terms.”

“You want to go die by yourself? End up some general’s boy when they catch you? Or would you let Pru hang you for a traitor? You go, and you bring every other one of us down with you.”

Tibeau’s face purpled and he opened his mouth, but Pruett stepped in with a hand on each of their chests.

“Fucking shut it, you two,” she whispered harshly. “We’re not in the barracks. Don’t wave your shit stains in front of the whole sky-falling army.” Her breath came heavily. “We’re safer together, and right now”—she moved her hand to Tibeau’s face to stop his interruption—“we’re safer with the Balladairans. And not because they’re looking out for us. No one is looking out for us. Not them, not the Qazāli. No matter what either of you do, we only have each other.”

When Pruett locked Touraine in her sights, though, her voice was bitter. “What’s she offering, hein? This pretty funeral?”

Layers in the question, in the voice—measured mediation over cold iron over a tremble.

“She’ll intervene for us.” Touraine gestured to the fire. “She already has.” She met Pruett’s eyes, pleading. “I can change things. I know what to say to them. I can do what they want me to do.”

Tibeau sneered. “You really are their pet monkey.”

The insult cracked like the whips of their youth. Like the whips, the epithet was a memory Touraine tried to keep buried. Tibeau had been the first to call her that, and it had clung to her with every test she’d passed with high marks. The Balladairans’ pet monkey, ready to dance for them. Even after the three of them became friends, he and Pruett teased her with it occasionally, but it hadn’t bit like this for years.

“Beau!” Pruett rounded on him and pointed to the other Sands. “Fucking leave.”

For a moment, Touraine thought he’d apologize. Instead, his