The Unbroken by C. Clark (ebook reader .txt) 📕

the old empress.” The Apostate, overall, didn’t seem to approve of Shāl.

The priestess glowered at Touraine. “What about her? Empress Djaya was a fanatic and a murderer. Don’t take her for a model of faith.”

“She took on the Balladairans with Shāl’s magic.”

“If you come to gods seeking power, you’ll only find ruin. Has Djasha done something?”

A dark weight on the word done.

Touraine looked away, focused on the incense dust under her fingernails. “Did Cantic really kill her family?”

“Yes.”

“People say a Brigāni… destroyed Cantic’s company after that. Was that Djasha? Did she really?”

“Yes.”

“With the magic.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why she can’t do Shāl’s magic anymore?”

Aranen looked sharply at her.

Touraine shrugged. “I figured it out. Is it why she’s sick, too?”

Aranen rubbed her hands over her knees, almost as if distracted. “When she lost her family, she lost her faith. That’s why she’s called the Apostate. We don’t know if it’s why she’s sick. Maybe something of Shāl’s curse on Djaya lingers, passed on in the blood.”

“I’m sorry,” Touraine said softly.

“Don’t mistake me. Shāl isn’t dangerous. Shāl is balanced. Shāl is… so many things. I can’t teach them all to you. But Shāl values peace above all. That you should understand.”

“I do.” In theory. The first thing Djasha and Jaghotai had done was beat her, after all. Touraine gathered that Jaghotai was only marginally more devout than the Apostate. What she didn’t understand was what place a god of peace had in war if he wasn’t going to end it.

“You need to get out more. Listen less to Djasha’s theology lessons. Come here instead.”

After a few moments of silence, Touraine couldn’t help asking, “What is wrong with her?”

The priestess inhaled sharply and closed her eyes. Her exhalation came out with a visible shudder. “Essentially, her body is attacking itself. I can’t stop it. I have to help the patients who may actually survive. She and I both know this. I was thinking to stay home with her tomorrow, though.” Her hands trembled.

Touraine hesitantly reached out and squeezed them.

“I’m sorry,” Aranen said. “You can’t possibly…” She looked up, but instead of seeing Touraine, she was looking somewhere else. The frown lines around her mouth were deep, but so were the smile creases in her cheeks. “This is what I do. This is what I have.”

Then Aranen snapped herself upright and alert. She pointed at the dirty basket of blankets and scraps of cloth from bandages that she had carried upstairs from the infirmary, and then to the pot on the fire. “Next, we need clean linens, and I’ve got to prepare the people’s lunch.” She meant the free food the rebels made sure all the Qazāli could have, even with the food shortages.

Touraine nodded, realizing the pot on the fire held only hot water. Her nose twitched at the familiarity of the grim stains and smells wafting up from the basket. How long since she’d been on campaign against the Taargens? A little more than a year?

“I can handle it,” she said.

While Aranen stacked a tray of empty bowls, Touraine poked the coals until the water was boiling again and then dumped in everything that would fit into the pot. She stirred with a long, heavy stick. The methodical stretch and pull of the muscles comforted her, and she lost herself in the quiet camaraderie of their work.

CHAPTER 33A FAMILY, BROKEN (REPRISE)

Then a heavy knock resounded through the temple. It wasn’t loud to the ear, but Touraine felt the vibration through her body. Aranen looked up sharply.

“Expecting someone else?” Touraine asked her.

Aranen frowned. Her eyes were alert, but her shoulders sagged with weariness beyond the day’s efforts. “Shālans use the side door.”

“Excellent,” Touraine grumbled. She pulled the heavy stirring stick from the water, letting it drip onto the ground.

Aranen reached into one of the little kitchen boxes and pulled out a small knife. She tucked it into the gray-and-yellow sash around her waist.

Together, they left the hidden priests’ passage for the main hall. Aranen sealed the door behind them and headed briskly to the main doors just as they echoed again with another knock. This time, the sound was like a god clapping in her ears. Maybe that had been the intent of the architect.

“You’re still not supposed to be alive,” Aranen said as Touraine trailed her. “Stay back. If I need help, I’m sure you’ll know.”

Touraine nodded, fighting the impulse to say, “Yes, sir.” She took her stick and hunkered down behind one of the marble columns, still close enough to hear what happened at the door. She pulled up her hood and covered her face with her scarf.

With a heave, the priestess opened the door.

“Sun shine upon you, sirs.” Aranen greeted the visitors in the Balladairan she used only with Balladairans—and Touraine.

“And upon you, I’m sure.”

Touraine’s stomach was seized with rage and fear the moment she recognized the entitled lilt of a Balladairan accent.

“I’m Captain Rogan. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” His voice oozed insincere charm; the word pleasure dripped with condescension. Touraine could see the expression on his face without even peeking around the pillar.

She swore under her breath. In battle, a second could be the difference between life and death. Wait too long to act, and you could lose an advantage. Move too soon, though, and you could lose an entire company. She let Aranen speak, waiting. Her forearms strained as she gripped the stick, and she forced her hand to relax.

“My name is Aranen. I’m not practicing religion here, if that’s why you’re here.”

“Then what is it, exactly, that you use this place for?”

“We feed the hungry, as we can, and we use it as an overflow space for any wounded who need care.” Aranen’s voice turned sharper as she said, “We’ve had so many of both, of late.”

“And you are a doctor, then?” Rogan asked idly.

“Yes,” Aranen said defensively.

“Excellent. Arrest her.”

A sudden rush of movement and Aranen’s protests rose to a shriek. A soldier cried out in pain, and Touraine remembered