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

put a hand to her abdomen before recovering. She sat up straighter. Touraine could see the sharp jut of shoulder and elbow through the loose fabric of her robe. Even from the ground, she gave Touraine the same measuring eye the princess had used in the prison. Always, always someone weighed her. Always, someone looked for the flaw.

Finally, the Apostate said, “If your princess wants to show us she means well, she should release any prisoners arrested on suspicion of rebellion. Full amnesty.”

“I’ll ask.” Touraine thought the likelihood was slim, though.

Her doubt must have shown in her voice. The Apostate added, “Even the so-called violent crimes. Until she and hers are locked up for the violent crimes they’ve committed against us, I don’t think we should be locked up for retaliation.” She shared a look with the bitch on the floor. “Shāl’s peace or no.”

“Anything else?”

“She’ll also close down all of the Droitist schools in the region. No children will be taken to any of them, anywhere in Qazāl.”

That took Touraine aback. “I thought you were happy about her offer for the orphans?”

“It proves she is a political animal, offering us what she thinks is valuable. That is all.” The Apostate grimaced and put a hand to her body again. “Besides, do you think they treat students at a school for Balladairan children the same way they treat students at a school especially for us lowly, uncivilized colonials?”

The Jackal snorted. Saïd looked at Malika, who looked down at her hands, eyes vacant.

“It’s not an easy life, either,” Malika said, “being one of the few Qazāli at a Balladairan school, but it will teach the children a few things.” Then she met Touraine’s eyes with a dark, crooked smile that was mostly a grimace. “I’m sure you understand.”

Touraine only partly understood. She was proud of her Balladairan education. It was extensive and effective. But any child who went to a Balladairan school risked coming out… like the Sands. Too Balladairan and not Shālan enough. What would the Qazāli do when their new batch of orphans came out like Touraine?

Touraine was starting to think it was impossible to come from one land and learn to live in another and feel whole. That you would always stand on shaky, hole-ridden ground, half of your identity dug out of you and tossed away.

A sharp wheezing sound brought all eyes to the Apostate. The woman sank back into her cushions. A spasm racked her, and she grimaced in fierce pain.

The Jackal moved first, diving to cradle the woman’s head in her lap as she writhed in pain. The Jackal jerked her head at Malika.

“Malika, get her out of here.”

Touraine thought that Malika was going to take the Apostate to safety, but it was her own arm that the modiste’s daughter grabbed.

Malika dragged Touraine down the stairs, but in her distress, she forgot to blindfold Touraine with a scarf when they were outside. The smell of baking bread and hot stone filled the air. Youths carried long trays of bread and dough up and down the streets. She caught the eyes of one, gangly and pimpled, a tray balanced on his shoulder while he smoked a cigarette against a whitewashed wall covered in a peeling broadside. The young man glared at her, even though he couldn’t possibly know who she was.

And then Malika yanked her away, tugging her through the warren of the Old Medina until they were somewhere more familiar: the edge of the New Medina, at the Blue Gate, which opened onto the road to the Quartier and the compound.

“I trust you can find your way from here. I’m sure we’ll talk soon.” Though her face was covered again in that beautiful gray scarf, Touraine could hear the worry in her voice.

“What? How will I tell you what she says?”

“We’ll contact you.” Then the other woman said something in Shālan, already backing away.

“Hold on—”

“It means goodbye.” And then Malika was gone.

While Touraine was gone, Luca spent the day obsessing about the last thing any decent Balladairan citizen should even be considering.

Religion.

Gods. Prayer and faith and magical beings that granted wishes, and the kinds of people who communed with so-called deities and only ended up looking like madmen.

She had begun to feel like one of those madmen.

She should have been combing through Cheminade’s notes and getting the city under her feet. Merchants were complaining about raids from the desert tribes along the southern routes. She should have been acting.

Her eyes throbbed. She took off her spectacles and rested her forehead against the heels of her palms. That stupid little book Paul-Sebastien had given her hadn’t been stupid at all. It just left her with still more questions.

She couldn’t believe that Paul-Sebastien LeRoche de Beau-Sang had written it. The intricate knowledge of the Qazāli—of Shālan customs and religion—spoke of someone intimate with the culture, someone who had spent time around Shālans, if not with them. The last time scholars had done that peacefully was before the religious bans, before half the nations in the Shālan Empire became Balladairan colonies.

LeRoche posited that Shālan magic, if it existed at all, was actually connected to the religion. The theory was flimsy, though, based only on the Taargens, Balladaire’s hostile neighbors to the east. The Taargens worshipped a bear god, and the bed tales to scare children spoke of magical bears ravaging the Taargens’ enemies after human sacrifice.

The Taargens and their animal god. The Shālans and their god of the body. Luca had heard that far to the south in the monks’ mountains, they worshipped a god of the mind. Before they’d developed their science, even Balladaire had fallen prey to its collective imagination: a god of harvests that wanted bloodletting in the fields.

It was exactly the kind of sky-falling nonsense that made Balladaire ban religion in the first place. By leaving behind religion, they were able to build an empire instead.

She wanted her people to be grateful to her for bringing magic to them. And that couldn’t happen