The Unbroken

by C. L. Clark

  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 if it was tangled up in holy wish fulfillment. Would they still be grateful if the magic came wrapped in a god’s trappings? Not a chance. If Shālan magic came from Shālan religion, her plan was finished. And yet… if the magic came from religion, was religion as uncivilized as they had been taught?

  Even LeRoche stayed far from praising religion. Simply stating the facts, like a good scholar, and connecting them to completely separate and unlike things, claiming they were, in fact, related.

  Most of the book was actually just history. The last Brigāni emperor, Djaya, her blind faith, and her overpowering greed. Somehow, she had managed to devastate swaths of Balladaire. There were rumors of magic here, too.

  Somewhere, the Shālans had the magic to make Luca into the queen she wanted to be.

  Before her father died, she would sit on his throne, try on his ceremonial crown, pretend to read his notes. She could feel the texture of the throne under her small bottom, the heavy weight of gold on her head supported by her father’s hands. Her memories might have been fashioned more by what Gil had told her than by reality, but Luca held them close anyway.

  Now, when she imagined herself on the throne as an adult, she always thought of her father. He’d brought Qazāl into the empire. She wanted to be better even than him, the king who “spread his wings and covered the earth,” as a more poetic scholar wrote. She couldn’t surpass him if she wasn’t willing to risk her reputation.

  A sharp rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. At some point, it had become late afternoon. Touraine hadn’t reported back yet.

  “Your Highness?” Guérin looked in. “Guard Captain Gillett is here for training.”

  Luca stood too quickly, and the tight muscles in her hip recoiled as she overstretched them. She hunched over, gasping. She waved Guérin away and eased up slowly. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The tingles in her ass hadn’t started up, at least. She limped down to the sitting room, where Gillett was waiting.

  “I’m going to need a long warm-up today.” She sighed and went for her practice steel. “Has Touraine come back? She’s been gone all day.”

  Gil shook his head tersely. “She might be taking her leisure with it. Worth speaking to her.”

  Luca nodded, but deep down something felt wrong. Touraine didn’t seem the type to take her leisure with an order.

  Fencing lessons with Gil were always grueling, but today she performed exceedingly poorly. Gil wormed inside her guard several times with a blunt dagger, pretending to be a footpad, and once caught her by the neck in a maneuver she should have been able to roll out of. She took too long to react every time.

  He released her and squared off with her side-on. “What’s on your mind, Luca?”

  Luca lowered her eyes. “What if she’s hurt?”

  Gil grunted. “You knew the risks before you sent her. That’s why you sent her.”

  Because Touraine was disposable. She wouldn’t be missed from the soldiers’ ranks, and she had no necessary function elsewhere. If she vanished, Balladaire could try another method to subdue the rebellion.

  Gil raised a goading eyebrow. “Is it not?”

  His expression left a sour taste in her mouth. “Hmph. Again, old man.”

  He smirked and pressed her again. This time, she forced him back with a touch, then another. She rotated as he sidestepped, keeping him at a distance—

  And faced Touraine, breathing as if she’d run all the way from the city. A bead of sweat curled around one dark eyebrow and down the gentle slope of Touraine’s nose. The woman’s mouth hung slack in surprise.

  A moment later, Gil’s blunt blade rested at her throat.

  Luca blushed and stepped away from him. “Hello, Touraine.” She told herself that it was just the exertion that had left her flushed.

  “Your Highness.” The other woman bowed.

  Luca grunted and dropped into the sitting room’s single chaise, stretching her legs out on it. She rolled her fist over her leg muscles, hoping to lessen the pain later. Like smoothing wrinkles out of crumpled parchment—futile. She hissed whenever she hit a tender spot. Touraine was still waiting.

  Luca waved her over. “Sit, sit. Did you find the book?”

  “No—but I—he took me to a meeting. With the heads of the rebellion, I think.” The other woman practically vibrated in her seat.

  “Is this—they met with you. They met with you!” She jumped up, heedless of the sore muscles, fists clenched in victory. This was even better than The Last Emperor. “This is—wait. It was the rebels? The bookseller is a rebel? Does he know you work with me now?”

  “He does. They all do. Do you remember I mentioned Malika Abdelnour last night?”

  Luca raised an eyebrow. “She leads them?”

  The soldier allowed herself a small smile. “No. It looked more like a council.”

  “Who else was there?”

  Touraine’s face darkened. “The two who held me captive. The Brigāni and the bastard who broke my ribs. I think they’re the ones highest in the hierarchy.”

  “The magic user.”

  “I never said I believed it. I don’t, I swear—I’m not—” Touraine shook her head hard.

  Luca knew that fear in her eyes. She’d felt it in her office not an hour before. The fear that someone would suspect you of thinking there was something greater in the world than logic and humanity.

  “It’s all right. What did they say?” It was happening, sooner than she’d expected, and effortlessly.

  “They’re grateful for your offer to send the children to school. They also want full amnesty for Qazāli arrested for sedition.”

  “What?” Luca said, incredulous.

  Touraine nodded. She seemed irritated. “I know. I only said you might be interested in negotiating. I didn’t promise anything.”

  Luca buzzed, pacing back and forth, one hand on her cane, the other in her hair.

  “I overstepped. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Touraine said. “But I saw the opportunity. You have to take the open shots as you get them. You don’t always get a second opening.”

  “No, yes, you’re right.” Luca stilled and pressed her hand to her forehead as if she were shading her eyes. “It’s just—this has to be a secret, Touraine. An absolute secret. None of the nobles, the merchants, no Qazāli. Even Cantic cannot know any terms we propose until a deal is inked and signed. I… I need to have control over how and when I enact any demands. If Cantic disagrees with any of them, she’ll stop negotiations. Worse, she’ll bring the military down on them instead. They have to promise secrecy, or it’s all null.”

  She looked around the room and caught everyone in her glance. Lanquette, who stood by the door. Gil. Even Adile in the corner, where she was preparing refreshments.

  “Understood, Your Highness. But why—” Touraine shrugged helplessly. “Why not just arrest the ones we know? It would compromise their council—we can hunt the rest down and rout the rebellion that way.”

  This was the Cantic in her speaking. Touraine thought like the other soldiers. Maybe the strength of the military could crush the rebellion now. But what about later, when the next generation grew discontented? There would always be new rebellions if they didn’t try peace first.

  Luca stopped pacing and sat down, her leg finally reminding her of its pain.

  “Because. I truly do want to work with them. Once you start making arrests, it
’s hard to turn back.” Luca rubbed her eyes. She noticed Touraine held a parcel. “I take it that’s not a copy of The Last Emperor?”

  Touraine looked disinterested as she picked it up, but she handed it to Luca so gingerly that Luca knew the disinterest was affectation. There were two books, a worn old Shālan primer like the one Luca had used as a child—probably as old—and a slim book that, upon closer inspection, was full of poems. The first poem appeared to be about water—“We pray for rain,” the first line read. A reasonable subject for a desert poet.

  “But you can’t read these.”

  “He—er, the bookseller picked it out for me. Said to read them when I learned enough.” Touraine’s chin dipped toward her chest.

  She seemed embarrassed and nervous. Vulnerable in a way Luca hadn’t expected to see her.

  “Do you want to learn?” Luca asked softly.

  “No, Your Highness. He just gave them to me.”

  Luca gave it a moment, wondering if Touraine would change her mind. When she didn’t, Luca let it be and gave the books back before easing deeper into the chaise.

  Touraine stood to leave. She hesitated. “Your Highness, I had one more question. Could I take a day of leave tomorrow?”

  “For what?” Luca asked, surprised.

  “I—”

  “Never mind.” Luca realized too late that her question, however innocent, wouldn’t come across that way. “You don’t need to account for it. You can take the day.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ANOTHER BROADSIDE

  Judging by the sun, it was late when Touraine woke the next morning. Guérin and Lanquette were already gone. Her cheeks warmed as she remembered Guérin’s bleary curiosity when Touraine had stumbled into their bedroom near dawn after the ball.

  She dressed and pulled the books she’d gotten from Saïd out of their hiding place and left for the city without looking to see if Luca had woken up. She’d learned the hard way not to waste a day of leave, and she suspected that the talks with the rebels were going to mean few restful days to come.

  Touraine wandered the sun-bright streets leisurely, still avoiding people’s eyes, Qazāli and Balladairan alike. In the daylight, it was easy to see how varied the city actually was. For every Qazāli with loose dark hair, there was another with skin Brigāni dark, even though their eyes were brown, not gold. She even saw a woman who was blond enough to be a Balladairan—Touraine thought she was, until she snapped back at a merchant in rapid-fire Shālan. It was the Sands writ large—all of them had been taken from all over the Shālan Empire, from Qazāl to Masridān to Lunāb, but not all of them looked the same.

  She thought of the stormy oceans in Pruett’s eyes. She needed to see if Pruett was all right.

  Touraine was relieved to spot Noé standing at attention outside the guardhouse. The thought of going inside, being surrounded by other Sands, made her shoulders tense up. This is my squad, she tried to tell herself. These are my people.

  Noé snapped her a salute and smiled. Then, when she got close enough, he wrapped her in a quick hug. The embrace reminded her how delicate he had always been and how surprising it was that he had made it as a soldier. Like all of them, though, he’d found his ways to survive.

  “It’s good to see you, Lieutenant,” Noé said, his voice as sweet and clear as ever. A wave of longing almost pulled her under. She’d missed him.

  “It’s good to see you, too. Are Tibeau and Pruett around?”

  He nodded behind him, toward the guardhouse. “Beau’s inside, but Pru is out. Don’t know where or how long.” He shrugged apologetically.

  Touraine clapped him on the shoulder and headed inside.

  “Oh, and, Lieutenant?”

  Touraine turned back to Noé.

  “Rogan’s gone for now, too.”

  That, at least, was a true relief. She wasn’t ready to face him yet, not after the disaster at Luca’s ball.

  She found Tibeau in the courtyard of the riad-turned-guardhouse. Its fountain was still dry and now draped indecorously with the shirts of a couple Sands sparring on the dusty tiles. One of them was Tibeau, sweat streaming down his big hairy belly. He noticed her first. His opponent took advantage of his distraction and cramped his leg with a kick.

  He roared as he fell, his injured leg curled and spasming. “Sky above, Aimée, you are such an asshole!”

  Touraine chuckled. At least some things didn’t change.

  “And what are you doing here, oh esteemed—what are you now, exactly?” Aimée gave Tibeau a hand up, but she was talking to Touraine. They both looked curiously at her and the package in her hand.

  “I brought a present. Call it a peace offering or an apology. Something like that.” Touraine handed the parcel to Tibeau, keenly aware of the other off-duty Sands’ eyes on her. Luckily, almost everyone was on patrol or guard duty somewhere in the city. Everyone else was just being polite. The Sands had a lot of practice politely ignoring each other for privacy.

  Tibeau tore open the corners of the paper, enough to see the Shālan letters of the poetry book peek through. Sudden excitement shone bright in his eyes.

  Aimée looked at it dubiously. “I was hoping for something more… edible.”

  Touraine slapped Aimée gently on the chest. “Can you even read it anymore?” Touraine asked Tibeau.

  “Can’t be too hard, can it? I knew it before.” He slid the book a little farther out of its paper to better peek at the first page. He sounded out the words slowly. Something about it sounded familiar, but Touraine couldn’t place it.

  “What’s it mean?” she asked.

  “We pray to rain, maybe? I’ll practice.” He shrugged carelessly, but Touraine recognized that squint he got when he was frustrated. Still, he forced a smile. “Maybe I have something to show you, too.” He grabbed his shirt from the fountain and mopped his face with it while he led Touraine up the stairs. “Aimée. I need your lockpick set.”

  “Only welcome when I’m useful, hein?” Aimée grumbled, but she sounded excited, too.

  They trailed past the room Touraine had shared with Pruett and Tibeau. Where was Pruett? Would she be back before Touraine left? Would she refuse to see Touraine outright?

  The door they stopped before was nondescript. It took Aimée only a moment of fiddling with the lock to open it.

  Her friends ushered her in and stood back with pride. Inside the room were books. Not as many as in Luca’s scattered library or Saïd’s bookshop, but more than a dozen. The room was dusty and dark, clearly unused. She remembered dimly that Cantic had mentioned books in the guardhouses. Touraine hadn’t had a chance to check before the guardhouse was no longer hers.

  “We’re not supposed to have access, and to be honest, a lot of them are in Shālan, so most of us can’t read them,” Aimée said, shrugging.

  Tibeau waved the book of poems. “But I’ll practice.”

  Touraine stepped over to browse the spines of the books on their shelves. The room looked like it might have been a reading room. There was no furniture, not even pillows on the ground like the rebels had, which made her think it had all been repurposed.

  “Do you mind if I take a few of these?” Touraine asked.

  “You can’t afford your own books?” Aimée crossed her arms and shrugged, but she was still smiling.

  “Luca—the princess sends me on errands sometimes.”

  “Luca?” Tibeau raised his eyebrow. “That familiar already.”

  Touraine’s face warmed with something between embarrassment and shame. She rushed to talk over it. “There’s a bookseller in the Puddle District.”

  “A bookseller sold you a book of Shālan poems. Not Balladairan, were they?”

  He slid back into his teasing lilt so easily that Touraine’s shoulders relaxed. He was on his best behavior, so Touraine could be, too.

  Aimée, on the other hand, frowned sideways at her. “You call her by name. She lets you wander about like a stray dog. She’s even giving you weapons.”

/>   Touraine followed Aimée’s glance to the knife Luca had gifted her. She imagined how it looked, flaunting this new privilege. “The gold stripes were going to have me shot, Aimée. This way, I stay alive and the princess promises to help the Sands out. I don’t have a choice.”

  Still, Touraine liked the knife. She liked the clothes and the food and the doctors.

  Aimée reached over to pluck at the fabric of Touraine’s new sleeveless shirt, eyed the new trousers and boots, and whistled. “I’m sure you’re right. But your lack of choice looks a sight more comfortable than ours.”

  Touraine clenched her fists, ready to hit something. Then Aimée looked at her full on for the first time. The emotions on her face made Touraine ache.

  Wry jealousy, disappointment, frustration. Even if Touraine was stuck with Luca, in her bed or playing traitor in the dead of night, it would be hard for any Sand to see her as worse off. With Luca’s favor, she was effectively immune from being shat on by Balladairan officers. Rogan would never touch her again. But Touraine was alone now. The Sands had each other.

  “Aimée.” Tibeau put a warning arm across Aimée’s chest. “Keep it up and I’ll shove sand in places you didn’t even know you had holes.”

  “All right, easy, Sergeant. Sorry, Lieutenant,” Aimée said, pushing Tibeau’s arm away. “Anylight. I’d stay close to her now.” She glanced behind Touraine, back toward the door. “Rogan went into a shitting rage when he found out you’d be let off. If he and his friends liked you before…”

  As if summoned, a shadow blotted out the light from the open door. Touraine spun around, a cold fist of fear at her throat. It’s okay, she told herself. You’re Luca’s now. He can’t touch you.

  The thought was cold comfort when Touraine saw Pruett framed in the doorway instead.

  “Pru. Hey.” Touraine’s throat was too dry for words.

  “That’s all you have to say?” Pruett sauntered in. Something crinkled in her fist as she crossed her arms. A broadside and her cap. She’d cut her hair, too, and her face was narrow without the frame. The bags under her eyes could’ve carried corpses.

  “Pruett, I—” Instead of talking, Touraine held her arms open.