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

You’re lying. You haven’t been doing the best at anything but moping like a jilted lover.

“I don’t know,” he said. The bitter taunt was gone from his voice, replaced with desperation. “You’re my queen. I need you to do something.”

He laid his bait well.

To ignore it was to ignore everything she’d been trying to prove—to her uncle, to the Balladairans. To herself. The throne was hers, and so was the weight of the crown. Already it threatened to bow her shoulders.

Without Touraine, she’d lost her emissary to the rebels. No one to explain to the rebels that she had nothing to do with the assault on the city. No one to explain to Luca why they had taken Balladairan citizens. Oh, yes. That was in Cantic’s note. Aliez must have been one of them.

That was only one front. A general who sees only one battlefront will find herself hamstrung by the end of the war. Was that from The Rule of Rule, too? She couldn’t remember.

Beau-Sang and the Balladairans in Qazāl represented the other front. And to keep that relationship from decaying any more than it already had—

“Bastien.” She put her hand on his. “Bastien? My soldiers will find her. I promise. I’ll personally oversee it.”

He turned his hand over to squeeze hers. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He ducked his head as if to kiss her knuckles but hesitated awkwardly, bumbling. The knot of his throat bobbed with emotion. “My father will be grateful. Aliez is his jewel.” He gave a rueful smile.

Of course she was.

“Also… I’m sorry about your soldier.” He squeezed her hand again.

She flinched away. His condolences sounded surprisingly sincere. It was an extra twist of the knife that made her lungs hitch, showing her a new depth to this pain, to the crushing loss of something she’d only just realized she had. And he could see it, her nakedness. She slammed down her court mask and nodded curtly. He reached his hand out again for hers but stopped halfway. He bowed instead and allowed himself to be led away.

She stared hard at her hand where he’d held it, the touch echoing. She rubbed her fingers together, as if Bastien’s hand had left a tangible film. A stack of letters she’d left unanswered this week waited for her. One of them from Cantic. She called for pen and paper.

“Who are you writing to?” Gil asked, sliding into Bastien’s seat.

“Cantic. And Beau-Sang. I’m going to let Cantic disband the Qazāli magistrates.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” No. “They can’t be trusted. None of them can.” The part of her that wanted—hoped—for Qazāli allies rebelled at this. If they wanted allies, they would behave better. The part of her that would be queen began to write.

“You don’t want to give Beau-Sang too much rope, Luca.”

“I know, but I think I need him,” Luca told Gil, who sat in Touraine’s chair by the échecs table while Luca paced. The movement hurt her hip, but it was a reassuring sort of pain, like biting one’s lips or digging one’s fingernails into the palms or bashing one’s head into a wall. It distracted her from another, different pain that blossomed when she looked quickly past Gil and he became another person in that chair.

After Bastien’s visit a few days ago, Luca had written to Cantic about disbanding the Qazāli magistrates. She just needed to figure out how to replace them. She was governor-general; consolidating power under herself was the obvious choice. Share a little power, though, and you’ll have stronger allies. The rebels weren’t her allies. Instead of Bastien’s tear-streaked face in her mind, she saw his father’s, sly under the ruddy blustering.

Before Gil could reply, a blackcoat knocked outside.

“Come in,” she called.

“Your Highness.” The soldier bowed after he was let in. “This was labeled for you, from the main guardhouse, but I think Guard Captain Gillett should—” The soldier glanced at Gil.

Luca snatched the box. It was plain, with a letter affixed. She opened the letter first.

The paper shook as she read. For some reason, she had been hoping for something good, a gift, even if she didn’t deserve one. Anything but a ransom note. It ended with a list of names, and she recognized them from the families whose complaints were scribbled on expensive paper on her desk. Aliez LeRoche’s name included.

“Your Highness?” Gil asked.

“They’re going to torture one Balladairan for every day we remain in Qazāl.” Her voice trembled like the paper.

Gillett crossed the room and grabbed the box away from her. He barely opened the lid before grimacing. The smell of decaying flesh curled through the room and hung like a dead man. Luca retched.

Gil shoved the box back at the soldier, whose eyes darted between her and Gil. “Get rid of that and keep quiet, or I’ll put your balls in a box, too.”

“Let me see.” Luca held out a hand. Gil hesitated. It took one long breath before he proffered it to her. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep the bile down.

A gray finger, dried brown at the end, a nub of bone sticking out. Blood crusted the grooves in the skin. It curled stiff, beckoning her close. Tufts of fair hair sprouted from the thick knuckles. She exhaled sharply as she handed it back to Gil, trying to blow the stench away from her before she inhaled again. Not Aliez’s delicate hand.

“I have to fix this,” Luca said numbly after the blackcoat left. She stood in the middle of the room, hand open as if still holding the box. She squinted up at Gil from behind her spectacles and then looked back down at the paper, hoping the words would arrange themselves into a different story.

He looked grim. “You’re thinking Beau-Sang again.”

“No,” she lied quickly. Luca rubbed her forehead with the heel of her palm. There was nothing useful in The Rule of Rule on the topic of ransom and the torture of subjects. Nothing useful to