Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

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.”

Thor stood somberly beside his Legion brothers—Reece, Elden, O’Connor, and Conven, along with the dozen other Legion who survived Andronicus’ invasion—all of them lined up, holding torches. Late in the night, the festivities winding down, they stood amongst a huge crowd in the city square, Gwen facing them as a heavy silence overcame the crowd. Behind him an immense funeral pyre was erected. It stood a dozen feet high and stretched a hundred feet, and on it were laid all the brave souls who had been murdered by Andronicus’ men.

Among them, Thor had been pained to learn, was his former commander, Kolk, along with dozens of his Legion brothers and Silver. It weighed heavily on his heart, to think all these brave warriors had died defending the Ring while he had not made it back in time to help. If only he had found the Sword sooner, he thought, perhaps none of this would have happened.

Gwendolyn had called for this funeral service, in the midst of the celebrations, to mark and remember the dead, all those who had fallen defending the city. Thor was so proud of her, standing up there, before these thousands, all looking to her with hope, all looking to her as their leader.

She bowed her head and thousands followed suit. In the thick silence, all that could be heard were the flickering of the torches and the howling of the wind. In her somber expression, Thor could see her own suffering in her face. She could truly empathize with those in grief, and Thor knew that whatever words she was about to utter would not be empty ones.

“In the midst of our greatest joy,” Gwendolyn began gravely, her voice booming out, the voice of a leader, “we must pause to honor our greatest tragedy. These brave souls gave their lives to defend our country, our city, our honor. You fought side-by-side with them. We were the lucky ones to survive. They were not.”

She breathed.

“May their souls be taken by the gods, and may we make a place for each of them in our memory. They fought for a cause which we carry on. The Empire still remains within our borders and each one of us must fight to the death until we have driven out the invaders from our precious Ring for good.”

“HEAR, HEAR!” screamed the crowd as one, the chant of thousands rising up to the midnight air.

She turned and held her torch high, and Thor followed with the others. They gravely approached the pyre, then each leaned forward and set their flames to the wood.

In moments the flames spread throughout the night, creating a massive fire and lighting the city square. The flames rose high in the cold night, and Thor could feel the heat even from here. He forced himself not to recoil, forced himself to stare into the fire, to remember all the brothers he had lost, to remember Kolk. He owed Kolk a great deal: he had accepted him into the Legion, even if grudgingly, and had helped train him. They’d had their differences, but Thor never wanted to see him dead. On the contrary, Thor had been looking forward to seeing Kolk’s expression when he returned with the Sword in hand. It was yet another reason for vengeance.

As the fire blazed towards the heavens, Thor saw the distraught faces of his remaining Legion brothers. None were more distraught than Conven, whose faced was still etched with grief for the loss of his twin brother.