The Unbroken by C. Clark (best novels to read for students TXT) 📗

To the institutions and homes that made my research and travel possible: Qalam wa Lawh, Marouane, and Khadijah in Morocco; Young and Happy Hostel and Simon in Paris; Sylvia and Octavia and Shakespeare and Company, all who gave me a home and hospitality while I wrote and did research (especially David who let me wreak havoc reshelving the science fiction and fantasy section); and L’Institut du Monde Arabe.

Thank you to my cohort at Indiana, who read chapters of this over and over, especially Bix and Joe, who fed me in all ways. To Romayne, for being so unfailingly kind, always. To Black Planet and the pub and the Blind Taste Testers plus Jess for the writing dates and more. To Kelsey, who always believed this book would exist from the very beginning.

To my mother, Rachel, who wrote before me, and my grandmother Dorothy, who remembers lineages like a bard. To my father, Cedric, and stepmother, Cindy, and my grandparents Becky and Frank, who taught me to work hard and play hard. To my grandparents Darsie and Clarence, who first taught me the joy of travel.

To Sara and Jovita, who were home and heart throughout this process.

And finally, to you, the reader. Be the rain.

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meet the author

Photo Credit: Jovita McCleod

C. L. CLARK graduated from Indiana University’s creative writing MFA program and was a 2012 Lambda Literary Fellow. She’s been a personal trainer, an English teacher, and an editor, and is some combination thereof as she travels the world. When she’s not writing or working, she’s learning languages, doing P90something, or reading about war and (post)colonial history. Her short fiction has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, FIYAH, and Uncanny, and on PodCastle, where she is currently a coeditor. You can follow her on Twitter: @c_l_clark.

Find out more about C. L. Clark and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at orbitbooks.net.

if you enjoyed

THE UNBROKEN

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THE JASMINE THRONE

Book One of The Burning Kingdoms

by

Tasha Suri

Set in a world inspired by historical India, The Jasmine Throne begins a sweeping new epic fantasy trilogy in which a captive princess and a servant in possession of forbidden magic become unlikely allies—and eventually, much more than allies—on a dark journey to save their empire.

Imprisoned by her tyrannical brother, Malini spends her days in isolation in the Hirana: an ancient temple that was once the source of the powerful, magical deathless waters—but is now little more than a decaying ruin.

Priya is a maidservant, one among several who make the treacherous journey to the top of the Hirana every night to clean Malini’s chambers. She is happy to be an anonymous drudge, so long as it keeps anyone from guessing the dangerous secret she hides.

But when Malini accidentally bears witness to Priya’s true nature, their destinies become irrevocably tangled. One is a vengeful princess seeking to claim a throne. The other is a priestess seeking to find her family. Together, they will change the fate of an empire.

PROLOGUECHANDRA

In the court of the imperial mahal, the pyre was being built.

The fragrance of the gardens drifted in through the high windows—sweet roses, and even sweeter imperial needle-flower, pale and fragile, growing in such thick profusion that it poured in through the lattice, its white petals unfurled against the sandstone walls. The priests flung petals on the pyre, murmuring prayers as the servants carried in wood and arranged it carefully, applying camphor and ghee, scattering drops of perfumed oil.

On his throne, Emperor Chandra murmured along with his priests. In his hands, he held a string of prayer stones, each an acorn seeded with the name of a mother of flame: Divyanshi, Ahamara, Nanvishi, Suhana, Meenakshi. As he recited, his courtiers—the kings of Parijatdvipa’s city-states, their princely sons, their bravest warriors—recited along with him. Only the king of Alor and his brood of nameless sons were notably, pointedly, silent.

Emperor Chandra’s sister was brought into the court.

Her ladies-in-waiting stood on either side of her. To her left, a nameless princess of Alor, commonly referred to only as Alori; to her right, a high-blooded lady, Narina, daughter of a notable mathematician from Srugna and a highborn Parijati mother. The ladies-in-waiting wore red, bloody and bridal. In their hair, they wore crowns of kindling, bound with thread to mimic stars. As they entered the room, the watching men bowed, pressing their faces to the floor, their palms flat on the marble. The women had been dressed with reverence, marked with blessed water, prayed over for a day and a night until dawn had touched the sky. They were as holy as women could be.

Chandra did not bow his head. He watched his sister.

She wore no crown. Her hair was loose—tangled, trailing across her shoulders. He had sent maids to prepare her, but she had denied them all, gnashing her teeth and weeping. He had sent her a sari of crimson, embroidered in the finest Dwarali gold, scented with needle-flower and perfume. She had refused it, choosing instead to wear palest mourning white. He had ordered the cooks to lace her food with opium, but she had refused to eat. She had not been blessed. She stood in the court, her head unadorned and her hair wild, like a living curse.

His sister was a fool and a petulant child. They would not be here, he reminded himself, if she had not proven herself thoroughly unwomanly. If she had not tried to ruin it all.

The head priest kissed the nameless princess upon the forehead. He did the same to Lady Narina. When he reached for Chandra’s sister, she flinched, turning her cheek.

The priest stepped back. His gaze—and his voice—were tranquil.

“You may rise,” he said. “Rise, and become mothers