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

the Jackal a wry look. “Jaghotai. A truce. Remember what that means? Peace over all?”

Jaghotai the Jackal rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, waving a hand as if batting away flies. “Yes, yes. I’ll leave the diplomacy to the diplomats.”

As Djasha led them around the circle of fires, anxiety built in Luca’s chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a celebration. She would have been young—to attend a gathering without wondering who wanted her influence or who was judging her fitness for the throne. Her own party in the Quartier had been no exception. Above all, she hated dances.

She loved music, though.

In Balladaire, stringed instruments provided subtle, elegant background accompaniment. Musicians were to be heard, not seen, and even the sound was not meant to attract attention.

Here, though! The drummers beat their hide-bound instruments and shouted with joy. Their rhythms sounded broken to Luca’s ear until she understood their patterns.

And the smells—spices filled the air as people cooked at almost every fire. Luca’s stomach growled. People scooped stews out of clay bowls with round bread and ate small pastries with their bare hands.

The dancers, Jaghotai among them, started up again. They jumped over each other, swinging their legs as if they meant to kick one another. Other dancers simply stomped and clapped their hands as they moved around in circles. It looked so disorganized. What were the partner formulae? How did people know who they could dance with, and when? What was appropriate for what song? She was so entranced that she almost forgot why she was there.

Djasha followed Luca’s attention. “Do you like to dance, princess?”

“Dancing is not my strength, all things considered, Djasha din.” She held up her cane.

However, Djasha’s attention was captured by someone else, and a bright smile cracked over her tired face.

They had reached a fire where sat a middle-aged Qazāli woman with deep brown eyes and short, curling spikes of brown hair spread with shocks of white. She was undeniably beautiful. The woman stood as Djasha approached. Where Touraine’s physical grace was dangerous, a snake ready to strike, this woman moved like a stream, at peace with its inevitable course.

“This is my wife, Aranen din Djasha.” Djasha clasped the other woman close, and Aranen fell into her. The couple stumbled, laughing. It was the strangest, giddiest thing she could have imagined the Brigāni woman doing. This was the witch? The woman Touraine had said to pay attention to?

“Enchanted,” Luca said, bowing slightly to the other woman.

If their positions had been reversed, Luca would not have shown Djasha whom she loved. That knowledge was only another weapon to be wielded.

Gillett and Touraine introduced themselves, as well, but Touraine’s attention was clearly elsewhere as her knee jiggled in time with the beat. Touraine hadn’t acknowledged Jaghotai as her mother at all, but Luca saw where her gaze drifted almost idly.

“Would you like to dance, Touraine?” Aranen asked. She smiled rakishly, and Luca had to calm the warm spike of jealousy in her stomach. “Shāl moves within you.”

Touraine only looked once to Luca before allowing the other woman to lead her away. Soon, her soldier was clapping like the others, flicking and waving her hands. She even picked up the cross-step jumps that Luca couldn’t even follow with her eyes.

Djasha caught Luca staring at the dancing couple.

Luca’s cheeks burned. “What?”

Djasha shrugged. “You want to dance. Why don’t you? I’ll take my wife back, and you can go dance with Touraine. She can teach you—she learned quick. She moves like it’s her life.”

“She was a soldier. It is her life. I, on the other hand, am not particularly graceful.” She tapped her cane into the ground again.

“You keep waving that thing around like it means something.”

“It does. It means dancing is difficult for me. At the very least, I won’t manage like everyone out there.”

Djasha shook her head. “Perhaps.” She pointed to an old man in the crowd. “Elder Ebrahm manages.”

Elder Ebrahm moved slowly, shuffling only side to side, within a pace. He kept rhythm with everyone else, and the drummers near him hooted while he clapped.

“I think I know my body better than you do. Why don’t you go out, if you’re so keen? Or we could discuss the reason I’m here.”

The woman’s smile flickered like a lantern going dim. “I don’t dance, because I haven’t been feeling well. My doctor-wife has ordered me to rest. If you won’t dance, sit and eat. It’s hard to talk peace on an empty stomach.”

They sat on wood-and-hide stools, and another Qazāli at the fire held out two bowls of beans and a hunk of bread. Gil sniffed his bowl, then attacked it like a soldier. How did he know it was safe?

Instead of accepting the other bowl, Luca reached into her satchel and pulled out a waxed leather tube. Their months of hard work, distilled into a few sheets of paper. The rebels’ copy of the accord.

“Thank you, but—”

Djasha took the bowl from the other Qazāli and put it in Luca’s hands, deftly taking the sealed tube and tucking it away. “Eat, Your Highness. We’ll have time for this later. And don’t worry about poison,” she added wryly. “You’re too big a prize. Your death would help us a little but hurt us a lot. Besides, you’re a guest.”

Gil nodded subtly in encouragement, his cheeks full.

Before Luca realized it, her bowl was empty and Touraine was swaggering back, beaming and breathing hard, a cup in her hand. She gulped down the contents, shuddered, and had it refilled.

“What is this stuff?” Touraine asked Djasha.

“That, girl, is Shāl’s holy water. It will make you the most honest woman alive. So tell me—where did you put my wife?”

Touraine pointed behind her. Aranen waved from a group of older Qazāli, and Djasha went out to meet her. Despite her smiles, the woman did move as if everything hurt.

Touraine turned to Luca, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Do as you like. I have my guards tonight.”

“Would you like some?”