Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

There she stood, looking at him with such love in her sparkling eyes, delight in her face at seeing him.

Reece, caught off guard, had to blink several times, wondering if it was real or just a figment of his imagination.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said. “I found your Legion brothers, and they told me I might find you at the banquet table.”

“Did they?” Reece said, still staring into her smiling eyes, hardly able to speak. He wanted to tell her so many things at once, how much he loved her, how he had never stopped thinking of her.

But instead he stood there, frozen with nervousness. The words would not come out. As he stood there awkwardly, silently, she began to look unsure, as if wondering whether he were interested in even speaking with her.

“I’ve wanted to speak to you since you left my village,” she said. “I tried to find you, and I learned you were gone.”

“Yes, in the Empire,” Reece said. “On a quest for the Sword. We only just came back. I did not think I would come back at all.”

“I’m glad you did,” she said.

He looked at her, wondering.

“Why?” he asked. “I thought, back in the village, you had said you didn’t like me.”

She cleared her throat and worry crossed her brow.

“I thought more about what you’d said to me. About how you love me. About how I said it was crazy.”

He stared back at her, nodding.

“But the thing is, I didn’t mean it,” she added. “You’re not crazy. Those feelings you felt, I feel them, too. You see, I didn’t come to Silesia for safe harbor. I came here to find you.”

Reece felt his heart soaring as he heard her words, hardly able to process them. She was saying the very same things that had been on his mind.

He raised a hand and ran it along her cheek.

“On my quest, I thought of you and nothing else,” he said. “You are what sustained me.”

She smiled wide, her eyes aglow.

“I prayed every day for your safe return,” she said.

The music rose again, and couples broke out dancing at the sound of the harp and the lyre.

Reece smiled and held out a hand.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked.

She looked down and smiled, and lay her hand in his. It was the softest feel of his life, and his fingers felt electrified at the touch.

“There is nothing I would love more.”

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.