A Rite of Swords

CHAPTER TWELVE

Luanda stood beneath the torchlight, against the stone wall on the periphery of the courtyard of Silesia, watching the festivities, and seething. There was her sister, Gwendolyn, in the center of it all, as she had always been since they were kids, adored by everyone. It was just like it had been growing up: she, Luanda, the oldest, had been passed over by their father, who had showered all his affections on his youngest daughter. Her father had treated her, Luanda, as if she’d barely existed. He had always reserved the best of everything for Gwendolyn. Especially his love.

Luanda burned as she thought of it now, as she watched Gwendolyn, the charmed one, and it brought back fresh memories. Now here they were, so many years later, their father dead, and Gwendolyn still in the center of it all, still the one who was celebrated, adored by everyone. Luanda had never been very good at making friends, had never had the charisma or personality or natural joy for life that Gwendolyn had. She did not have the kindness or graciousness either; it just wasn’t natural to her.

But Luanda didn’t care. In place of Gwendolyn’s kindness and charm and sweetness, Luanda had outright ambition, even aggression when she needed it. She displayed all the aggressive qualities of her father, while Gwendolyn displayed all the sweet ones. Luanda did not apologize for it; in her view, that was how people got ahead. She could be blunt and direct and even mean when she had to be. She knew what she wanted and she got things done, no matter who or what got in her way. And for that, she had always assumed people would admire and respect her.

But instead, she had piled up a long list of enemies along the way—unlike Gwen, who had a million friends, who had never sought anything, and yet who somehow managed to get it all. Luanda watched one person after another cheer for Gwendolyn, hoist her up on their shoulders, watched her with Thorgrin, her perfect mate, while here she was, stuck with Bronson, a McCloud, maimed from his father’s attack. It wasn’t fair. Her father had treated her like chattel, had married her off to the McClouds to further his own political ambitions. She should have refused. She should have stayed here at home, and she should have been the one to inherit King’s Court when her father died.

She was not prepared to give it up, to let it go. She wanted what Gwendolyn had. She wanted to be queen, here in her own home. And she would get what she wanted.

“They treat her as if she’s a Queen,” Luanda hissed to Bronson, standing by her side. He stood there stupidly, like a commoner, with a smile on his face and a mug of ale in his hand, and she hated him. What did he have to be so happy about?

Bronson turned to her, annoyed.

“She is a Queen,” he said. “Why shouldn’t they?”

“Put down that mug and stop celebrating,” she ordered, needing to let her anger out at someone.

“Why should I?” he shot back. “We’re celebrating after all. You should try it—it won’t hurt you.”

She glowered back at him.

“You are a stupid waste of a man,” she scolded him. “Do you not even realize what this means? My little sister is now Queen. We will all now have to answer to her. Including you.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked. “She seems nice enough.”

She screamed, reached up, and shoved Bronson.

“You’ll never understand,” she snapped. “I, for one, am going to do something about it.”

“Do what?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

Luanda turned and began to storm off, and Bronson hurried to catch up with her.

“I don’t like that look in your eye,” he said. “I know that look. It never leads to anything good. Where are you going?”

She glared back at him, impatient.

“I will speak to my mother, the former Queen. She still holds a good deal of power. Of all people, she should understand. I am her firstborn, after all. The throne deserves to be mine. She will establish it for me.”

She turned to go but felt a cold hand on her arm as Bronson stopped her and stared back. He was not smiling now.

“You’re a fool,” he said back coldly. “You are not the woman I once knew. Your ambition has changed you. Your sister has been more than gracious to us. She took us in when we fled from the McClouds, when we had nowhere to go. Do you not remember? She trusted us. Would you return the favor this way? She is a kind and wise Queen. She was chosen by your father. Her. Not you. You would only make a fool of yourself to meddle in the affairs of King’s Court.”

Luanda glowered back, about to explode.

“We are not in King’s Court anymore,” she hissed. “And these affairs you speak of—these are my affairs. I am a MacGil. The first MacGil.” She raised a finger and jabbed him in the chest. “And don’t you ever tell me what to do again.”

With that, Luanda turned on her heel and hurried across the courtyard, down the steps to lower Silesia, determined to find her mother and to oust her sister once and for all.

Luanda stormed through the corridors of the castle in Lower Silesia, twisting and turning her way past guards until she finally reached her mother’s chamber. Without knocking or acknowledging the attendants, she barged in.

The former Queen sat there, her back to Luanda, in a tall wooden chair, flanked by two attendants and Hafold, staring out a small window into the blackness of night. Through the window, Luanda could see all the torches lining lower Silesia, a thousand sparks of light, and could hear the distant cries of celebration.

“You never learned to knock, Luanda,” her mother said flatly.

Luanda stopped in her tracks, surprised that her mother knew it was her.

“How did you know it was me?” Luanda asked.

Her mother shook her head, her back still to her.

“You always had a certain gait about you. Too rushed. Too impatient. Like your father.”

Luanda frowned.

“I wish to speak with you in private,” she said.

“That never amounts to anything good, does it?” her mother retorted.

After a long silence, finally her mother waved her hand; her two attendants and Hafold left, crossing the room and slamming the oak door behind them.

Luanda stood there in the silence and then hurried forward, walking around to the other side of her mother’s chair, determined to face her.

She stood across from her and looked down and was surprised to see how much her mother had aged, had dwindled, since she’d last seen her. She was healthy again since the poisoning, yet she looked much older than she ever had. Her eyes had a deadness to them, as if a part of her had died long ago, with her husband.

“I’m happy to see you again mother,” she said.

“No you’re not,” her mother said back, staring at her blankly, coldly. “Tell me what it is you want from me.”

Luanda was irked by her, as always.

“Who is to say that I want anything from you other than to say hello and wish you well? I am your daughter after all. Your firstborn daughter.”

Her mother blinked.

“You’ve always wanted something from me,” her mother said.

Luanda clenched her jaws, steeling herself. She was wasting time.

“I want justice,” Luanda finally said.

Her mother paused.

“And what form should that take?” her mother asked carefully.

Luanda stepped forward, determined.

“I want the throne. The queenship. The title and rank my sister has snatched from me. It is mine by right. I am firstborn. Not she. I was born to you and father first. It is not right. I’ve been passed over.”

Her mother sighed, unmoved.

“You were passed over by no one. You were given first choice of marriage. You chose a McCloud. You chose to leave us, to have your own queenship elsewhere.”

“My father chose McCloud for me,” Luanda countered.

“Your father asked you. And you chose it,” the Queen said. “You chose to be Queen in a distant land rather than to stay here with your own. If you had chosen otherwise, perhaps you would be queen now. But you are not.”

Luanda reddened.

“But that is not fair!” she insisted. “I am older than she!”

“But your father loved her more,” her mother said simply.

The words cut into her like a dagger, and Luanda’s whole body went cold. Finally, she knew her mother had spoken the truth.

“And who did you love more, mother?” Luanda asked.

Her mother looked up at her, held her gaze for a long time, expressionless, as if summing her up.

“Neither of you, I suppose,” she finally said. “You were too ambitious for your own good. And Gwendolyn….” But her mother trailed off with a puzzled expression.

Luanda shivered.

“You don’t love anyone, do you?” she asked. “You never did. You’re just an old, loveless woman.”

Her mother smiled back.

“And you are powerless,” she replied. “Or else you would not be visiting an old, loveless woman.”

Luanda stepped forward, impassioned.

“I demand that you give me my throne! Order Gwendolyn to hand power to me!”

Her mother laughed.

“And why would I do that?” she asked. “She makes a better Queen than you ever would.”

Luanda turned red and felt her whole body on fire.

“You shall regret this mother,” she seethed, her voice filled with rage.

Luanda turned and stormed from the room, and the last thing she heard before she slammed the door were her mother’s final words, haunting her:

“When you reach my age,” she said, “you will find there are few things left in life that you do not regret.”