The Unbroken (Magic of the Lost, #1)

by C.L. Clark

“I’m twenty-eight years old, Gillett. I should have been crowned this year. The only reason I agreed to this test of his is so we don’t end up mired in another ten-year civil war. You know I have as strong a grasp of strategy and economics as Nicolas. I’ve read everything there is to read. I’ve been tutored in Shālan since before I could walk.”

“You’re going to need people to do this, though. The right people.” Luca made a delicate, peeved sound in her throat. “The right people?” “Like Cheminade. Cantic. Even Beau-Sang. Never overlook a good weapon.”

Later, however, her thoughts drifted to the handsome conscript. Perhaps she would make a good weapon, too.

Thinking of using her

Touraine could never imagine living in a place like this. And yet Cheminade was the first Balladairan she’d met to suggest that Balladairans treated the Sands… less well than they deserved.

“It’s nothing, Lord Governor,” she said into her cup. “We’re used to it.” “Yes, well. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

It was so unfair that the anger pulled tears from Touraine’s eyes. There had to be something better than this.

Look at Cheminade, she told herself. Married to a Qazāli! If that was possible, why not a promotion? Why not a Qazāli-born captain? General, even?

Even if Touraine wanted to meet Jaghotai, it would be impossible to open the doors to her past and keep her vision of a golden future in Balladaire’s army. And that was what she’d always wanted.

Those children should have been in a charity school. Balladaire made provisions for children. What kind of mother would keep her children from those benefits?

this perspective, that the qazali should take the charity of balladaire and be grateful for it instead of wanting their own freedom, their own culture. ugh.

The woman crouched in front of Touraine. She wore dark trousers tucked into heavy boots, and one of those Qazāli vests, with the hood up and the dark veil pulled over her nose and mouth. Lantern light reflected on dark, dark brown eyes shaded by angry eyebrows and outlined in crow’s-feet.

“You’re the highest-ranking soldier of the Balladairan Colonial. They made you an officer. Technically, you’re a gold stripe.” She scanned Touraine over, from the bristles on her scalp to her bound fists and worn boots. The slang sounded strange on her tongue. “Gold stripe” was the nickname for Balladairan officers—or really, anyone with government favor—so called because of the gold on their collars or sleeves.

The Sands were never called blackcoats, even though their coats were just as dark. They were something apart.

The other woman rolled her eyes. “We’d actually prefer not to hurt any of the dāyiein.

“Not feeling very benefited. What’s a dayeen?” She tried to repeat the word, but it didn’t fit right in her throat. “The Lost Ones. We can… give you a place. Reunite you with family, if they live.”

“It’s always personal.” A grief-stricken grimace passed over the woman’s face. “They’re using you. Like they used you in their latest Taargen war.”

The Sands had started fighting for Balladaire in earnest during the second Taargen war. Five years ago, now. They were always the first to fight and the last to get relief.

“Balladaire and Taargen haven’t been on good terms since the Balladairans started their purges to ‘civilize’ anyone who believes in a god. Balladaire is picking fights and throwing you in the middle.”

The day Touraine was captured, seventy-six soldiers died. Fifty-eight on the field. The rest of wounds and frostbite. They’d been lucky it was only a small group of the bearfuckers. Just over two years ago, now. They’d promoted her after that battle.

“You’ll have to fight for one side or the other. Why not fight for the side that gives you freedom?” “Because I can fight for the side that’s winning.”

“Winning isn’t everything. It’s how you win that matters most.”

She had woken this morning to a small unmarked parcel. It was a book about Shālan history. There was no name card or note, though it seemed like the sort of gift Cheminade might give. But why wouldn’t the governor leave a note?

In the back of her mind, however, she thought about how easy it would be to rule Balladaire if she had magic on her side. If magic actually existed. How people would look at her if she managed what her father could not.

Did they wage war against religion because a king was mad he couldnt use magic?

And if she failed? How would people look at her then? If they thought she was chasing down gods to worship, as uncivilized as the colonials? She wasn’t doing that, though. She had no interest in savage gods or prayers. She just wanted to learn magic. To see its proof, to use it for Balladaire.

They were two very different things. Magic was a tool, perhaps even a weapon. Religion ...

Luca wanted to hurt them, to punish them, but what, realistically, could she do besides harbor a grudge against them and call the debt later? She lingered on the notion of having Lanquette shatter their legs slowly. With a blacksmith’s hammer. Actually, she’d rather do it herself. Ah, but for diplomacy.

Shes a pretty vindictive person

She wondered if it was meant to be Duke Regent Nicolas Ancier, who was known for his belly, as Luca was known for her leg. “Puppets of the Empire’s Hunger” was printed in large block letters across the top. She scowled.

It had felt good to intimidate the poor bookseller, but he wasn’t the one she should have directed her anger toward. He was helpless against her.

“The problem’s not with me. It never has been.”

She had tried to offer them something else—as a child, she gave them precociousness, a memory for facts and languages that astounded her tutors. When she was older, she thought to impress suitors with her musical talent, since dancing made her bones ache. Now she was trying to prove to her empire that she didn’t have to ride into battle to be a worthy ruler. That her mind was weapon enough.

By the sky above, she wanted to be enough. No. More than enough. She wanted to be a queen for the histories. Someone who changed Balladaire for the better. Someone who changed the world.

She wondered if Guérin judged her silently for not being the right kind of queen.

“Might be best to stay prepared instead of spending the money to keep a pack of jackals in line. Instead of teaching them, we could teach our own. I know a few kids back home who’d love a decent book, or to know how to read one.”

Still, it was hard to reconcile that with how much Balladaire’s economy was fueled by controlled trade—which was to say, control that benefited Balladaire first and foremost—with the Shālan colonies.

When she was young, after that horse had trampled her leg to pieces, she noticed the young nobles wearing beautiful new swords, gifts for their comings-out, and she made the mistake of saying aloud that she’d like one, someday. Later, she overheard Sabine, the lordling of Durfort, laughing at her earnestness.

With one hand on her cane, she yanked another blade from the hanging rack. She had never wanted a sword, never wanted to be a fighter, before the accident. Now she needed it.

At best, she would end the rebellion without bloodshed and turn enemies into allies. At worst, she would have someone close to the seat of the rebellion’s power. She would have a glimpse at the rebels’ plans and resources in a way Cantic clearly hadn’t managed.

Émeline knelt behind a pillar to fire back. Touraine dropped to the floor, hunting for the gunman. They fell into the roles so seamlessly that her blood sang with the beauty of it.

Touraine spun, ready to help Émeline finish off their attacker. The bayonet of an ancient musket stuck out of Émeline’s stomach. Her eyes and mouth were wide, fishlike with shock. Even the rebel looked surprised at what they had done, their eyes wide above their hooded veil. The blade glistened wetly with blood in the dim moonlight that came in through the courtyard.

Émeline’s blood smelled earthy and metallic—shit was mixing with her blood. The bastard rebel had gotten her in the bowels.

Tibeau had run silently with her in his arms, but Touraine knew they’d shared at least some of the same thoughts. Don’t die. Of course she’ll die. Please don’t die. This is my fault. Fuck the rebels. Fuck Balladaire. Fuck me. Please don’t die.

They’d died coming after her. Being their captain wouldn’t stop moments like this.

She really cares

A finer person, like Tibeau, would feel some pure selfless grief. Or like Pruett, a tender empathy for the grieving. She would know how to comfort them. Touraine felt only rage.

The Sands, the Qazāli, wouldn’t win that battle, and no one in their right mind chose starvation over food and pay. The problem here was Rogan and his ilk, not Balladaire.

She really doesnt see that it's a systemic issue yet

if the Sands didn’t have to be soldiers at all, they wouldn’t have to die. If only they were given the choice.

“You need the infirmary, Tour. Don’t be stupid.” “Nope. The infirmary needs us. Without us, the medics would be out a job.”

So she drank while Pruett wiped down her back and chest, going carefully over the cuts, murmuring and soothing, until Touraine didn’t feel the ropes around her wrists anymore.

“Lieutenant Touraine, you’re under arrest for sedition and the murder of a Balladairan soldier.”

“You won’t take the seat yourself? You’re the highest-ranking official here—” The general bent her neck as if to stretch out tightness. She cleared her throat. “No, Your Highness. I’m not.” Ah. No, indeed, she wasn’t.

As governor-general, there would be no middle official to wrangle. She could change policies in Qazāl herself, without weighing them over meeting after meeting. She would rule this city, the nation, every colony in the region, and the success would be hers. It would show her uncle and the people that she was formidable and sensible. A worthy ruler. The rebellion would be hers to end.

Surprisingly, she reminded Luca of Gillett. They were both so rigid, and it made them capable. They were like oak trees, deep rooted and unbending.