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

“The Qazāli priests and priestess in their temples said the people’s faith in Shāl was too weak. The scholars at Briga’s university agreed—there were books in the Scorpion Library that showed this—droughts had been recorded in the past, whenever great comfort and technological advances dulled the need for faith. They took for granted the healing gifts of the priests and needed to be shown Shāl’s power again.”

The woman paused to take a drink of water. She looked as if the telling drained her, but her eyes glittered with life, sharp as a dagger beneath the ribs. The look filled Touraine with unease. She fought the instinct to lean closer. It was a betrayal, to want to know this in her own right, but she clung to every word.

“Djaya sent her army north, across the narrow strip of sea. The very first Balladairan raid. On a small town, one not likely to be missed, perhaps. The Balladairans were known for their mysterious agricultural talents. Their god of the fields was generous and their fields bountiful. Briga had traded with them before. No one knows quite why Emperor Djaya turned to violence instead of seeking aid. Perhaps she did and was denied. Perhaps it was greed after all. Either way, she broke Shāl’s One Tenet—peace over all.”

The Jackal cut in. “And she kept breaking it and breaking it until they went to war, and Balladaire started invading everyone who worshipped a god so that they’d never have to deal with screaming holy hordes.” The woman lay on one elbow, picking at her fingernails again, now stretched out more like a cat than a dog. “That’s what Djaya did for the Shālans she claimed to protect.”

The Jackal’s interruption broke Touraine out of the spell. Enough for her to be glad the Jackal treated everyone like shit, not just her. The Apostate glared at the other woman and grunted low in her throat.

“If you’d like”—the Apostate made a welcoming gesture—“you’re more than welcome to finish your version.”

“Gladly.” The Jackal pushed herself upright and glared at Touraine. “Empress Djaya was glorious, they said. Burned their armies down in their armor. They say the blood ran so thick”—she paused and winked at the Brigāni—“that you could’ve drunk it from the streets.”

The Apostate rolled her eyes. “They didn’t fight in the streets.”

The Jackal shrugged. “Just a saying.”

Touraine reassessed their relationship. They bantered like old friends, however morbid the subject, however vicious the cuts. They reminded her of a crueler version of her and Tibeau and Pruett, the edges sharpened by time instead of dulled. Touraine looked harder at them. No distinguishing features but the Brigāni’s eyes. Where the Brigāni moved almost like an elder now, the Jackal bounced like a cocksure new blackcoat.

“Djaya makes the other Shālans believe, though,” the Jackal continued. “They hear the stories of how Shāl works through her. They believe. They pray and they heal. The food grows again; the animals are born healthy. Across the empire, people live again.”

“Except for Emperor Djaya and her Brigāni.” The Apostate slid in smoothly. “They abandoned the One Tenet, so Shāl banished them and cursed the city so that they couldn’t return home until one hundred and one hundred years had passed. Those who trespassed would sicken mysteriously or have ill-born children. The magic that Shāl had taught the Brigāni, the blessed powers Djaya and her forebears used to create and protect the empire, were lost, never intended to be used again, unless we learned restraint.”

“Some of the powers. The Qazāli priests kept the faith and held fast to the Tenet. Peace over all. And your master would take that gift from us,” the Jackal growled.

Touraine had thought the two women had forgotten about her and the other rebels, but the Jackal turned on her fiercely. Touraine sat back, off her guard, lulled by the story. The history. The history Balladaire had never told her.

“So the magic is real.” Touraine’s voice came out shakier than she wanted it to, with fear or awe, she didn’t know. Probably both—two sides of the same coin, really. And she remembered the first story the Apostate ever told her, about a young, gifted healer who had lost her family to a young Cantic. “And Balladaire has its own magic?”

The woman’s golden eyes crinkled even more. “Don’t be silly. No one here is uncivilized enough to believe that old nonsense. They’re just fire stories we tell to deal with the systematic expunging of our culture and history. They keep us warm and make us feel grander than we actually are. That’s all.” She shared a look with the Jackal, head tilted. “We can’t even agree on a single version of the tale.”

It took a long moment for Touraine to regain her purpose. She cleared her throat. “The Second City. Across the river. That’s Briga’s capital? Is there anything that could help there?”

The Qazāli rebels flinched, and the Apostate shook her head sharply. “That’s not a wise avenue. For many reasons. She won’t find what she’s looking for, and we don’t control that territory or the river crossing.”

This was the first Touraine had heard of any territory “controlled” by anyone other than Balladaire. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you should trust me and leave the Cursed City alone. There’s nothing there.”

“How do you know?”

The Apostate’s golden eyes locked on Touraine’s, her mouth set. “Because I’ve been. I used to be curious like your princess. Now I’m paying the price for that ambition.”

The woman was deadly serious, her body still with a threat Touraine couldn’t name. Despite the fit she had had last time, her voice was steady and strong. If she felt weakness or pain, she didn’t show it to Touraine. The illness… Was that the price she paid? A shiver coursed up her back.

Still, Touraine said, “We need it. The magic will help the sick in Balladaire. And if Balladaire has its own magic, maybe that will help.”

The Apostate leaned over her