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

the nobility on her side, with their money and regional militia and influence in the cities on and off Balladairan soil, the less likely she and her uncle would come to bloodshed over her rightful position.

It was a small trade.

The correct application of a tool results in its efficiency, avoiding waste.

“I’ve been looking for a suitable successor to the late Lord Governor Cheminade, and I would like to appoint you.”

His reaction was immediate and calculated. First, eyes wide in modest shock before his brows lowered in determination. Luca could have seen his every change of expression with her eyes closed. His courtly mask was so tight that not even a hint of concern or grief for his missing daughter escaped onto his face. If there was any.

“I would be honored, Your Highness, to give the Qazāli a steady guiding hand.”

Luca held in a snort. He was overplaying the role; they both knew it. She played hers in turn, nodding and leaning forward warmly. She was gambling, to surrender this power to him, but that was what it meant to be queen. Not always to be strong and rigid—like that, she would snap. To bend, to entice and trap.

Like Touraine made traps.

Like échecs, writ large.

“You would, of course, report directly to me. All orders would come from me. This is governmental, not military.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“I will make the announcement tomorrow in the bazaar, so that they remember the power we have and why we’re using it. I’ll send a carriage for you.”

When he left, Luca held herself stiff, her eager smile brittle.

“Like siccing a rabid dog on the hunt,” Gil murmured. “Watch yourself, lest it bite you, too.”

Luca frowned. “I know. So stay close in case I need to put him down.”

CHAPTER 27WAKING UP

Touraine stared at the low ceiling, sweaty with nightmare, clenching her blanket and her jaw. Her jaw. She couldn’t pry it open. Rest. Let it rest. A candle flickered, giving the clay-white walls a blend of yellow and shadow. It wasn’t the room she shared with Lanquette. The room next to Luca’s. The dyed blanket scratching over her bare skin wasn’t hers.

A scar puckered her middle, smooth and shining like brown candle wax that had melted and cooled again. Her stomach lurched. She’d never seen a wound heal like this.

Nearby, people spoke in hushed voices. An earthy, spicy smell wafted to her, and her belly cramped for it. She scanned for her clothing and found the room was full of people-shaped lumps on pallets under thin blankets.

Her clothes weren’t there. She found a pair of loose trousers and one of those hooded vests instead and began to dress. There was enough slack in the trousers’ drawstring that she had to loop the string around her waist one full go before knotting it. Her only belongings were what had been in her pockets: a dirty handkerchief, a few sovereigns, a letter of writ to Luca’s account, and the pass with Luca’s seal. She shoved those in her new pockets.

Someone had also retrieved her knife. Touraine traced the leaves on the handle with her thumb. Like Luca, it had grown familiar over the last couple of months. She hesitated. Qazāli weren’t allowed to carry weapons in the city. If she had it, she’d draw attention to herself. The wrong kind. She didn’t want to leave it behind, though. She buckled it on.

Finally, she twisted to examine herself. A white jolt of pain shot from her waist to her toes. She doubled over, gasping, trying to compress whatever she had stretched too far. Whatever they had done wasn’t finished healing.

“Lodgings not to your liking, Mulāzim?”

Aranen stood in the doorway. Touraine gingerly pulled the sleeveless shirt over her head.

“Where am I? How long?”

“The temple. You’ve been sleeping for almost two weeks.”

Two weeks. She scrubbed her head with her hands. The stiff bristles were dry and had started to curl. No wonder she was starving.

“I need to go back,” Touraine said. “You shouldn’t have brought me here.”

“You want to go back to the Balladairans so they can try to kill you again?” Aranen spoke slowly, as if she were talking to a really stupid rock.

Memory came back to Touraine in trickles, so she dammed the flow again. She would be stupider than a whole bag of rocks to go back to that.

How stupid would she have to be to stay with the rebellion she’d betrayed?

“Where’s everyone else? Djasha?” Jaghotai?

Aranen’s face tightened, and she glanced across from Touraine. Another blanket-covered figure. As her eyes adjusted, Touraine recognized Djasha. The woman’s cheeks were gaunt, her dark skin pallid, even accounting for the poor lighting.

“Is she—”

“She’s fine,” Aranen said sharply. “But running around after you is not helping her.”

Touraine had actually been wondering if Djasha was contagious. Her face burned.

“Can’t you just…” Touraine gestured at her own body.

For a second, the doctor—the healer—let worry breach her scowl. “We don’t know. I’ve tried. Whatever I do is temporary before it comes back, sometimes worse than before. Sometimes it’s dormant for months. Sometimes weeks.”

Touraine had seen Djasha over the last month. Whatever illness this was, it wasn’t dormant.

Aranen sniffed sharply. “What are your plans now, Mulāzim? Are you finally with these fools?”

“Am I being held hostage, or can I leave?”

Aranen made a noise of disgust. Touraine didn’t blame her. She sounded ungrateful and ungracious in her own ears. She couldn’t stay. This was too much.

“This way. Close your eyes.”

She dragged Touraine by the wrist until the heat of the sun warmed Touraine’s face. A door slammed shut with an echo.

Touraine opened her eyes and was blinded. The sun turned the white domes of the temple into mirrors that radiated light on everything around the massive building. A god might actually be proud of something like that. A god whose magic could keep her alive, pull her back together.

She hadn’t meant to sound ungrateful. She didn’t want to be dead. If magic is what kept her here, breathing underneath the sun, what did it