Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

“They trust me,” she replied. “I am a MacGil. I am family. I will send them a message telling them I have brokered a truce. That you have agreed to surrender. That Thorgrin must come alone to accept your surrender. When he does, you can capture him.”

Andronicus surveyed her.

“And why would they trust a traitor like you?” Andronicus asked.

She reddened, insulted by his words.

“They will trust me, because I’m family. And I am not a traitor. The Ring is mine by right. I am firstborn.”

Andronicus shook his head.

“Family, most of all, are least to be trusted.”

She bunched her fists, defiant, feeling her plan slipping away.

“They will trust me,” she said, “because they have no reason not to. And because they are a trusting people. And most of all, because it makes sense: they, of course, believe you will surrender. Who would think otherwise? You are completely surrounded. Half your men have been wiped out. Your surrender would be expected. My message should come as no surprise to them.”

“And when Thor arrives here,” he said, “just how do you propose I capture him? He who, as you say, has wiped out half my men?”

Luanda shrugged.

“That is not my problem. I will deliver the lamb to slaughter. I am sure you have your own ways of treachery.”

Andronicus looked her up and down, and as he did, she felt her heart pounding. Luanda wanted to be queen so bad she could taste it. Even more, she wanted to one-up her little sister; there was a small part of her that felt bad—but there was a much bigger part of her that felt entitled, that felt bad for herself. She could not imagine living in a kingdom where her little sister ruled over her, and if that meant selling out her own people, so be it. After all, they didn’t deserve it after what they had done to her.

Luanda shivered as Andronicus stepped closer, reached out and lay his long claws on her shoulder. She felt his slimy palms run over her bare skin, run up and down her throat.

“King MacGil should be proud of his issue,” he said. “Yes, very proud indeed.”

He sighed.

“I will accept your offer. And you will have your queenship.”

Luanda’s heart was pounding so fast, it was all a blur as she was ushered out of the tent, two guards coming up behind her and herding her out. The next thing she knew she was back outside, in the cold night, Bronson coming up beside her as they walked quickly away, back through the camp and towards their horses.

“What happened!?” Bronson asked impatiently.

Luanda walked quickly, her heart thumping, trying to gather her thoughts—and trying to figure out how best to word it to Bronson. She knew she had to say the right things if she were going to manipulate Bronson successfully.

“It went very well,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Andronicus has agreed to surrender.”

Bronson looked at her, puzzled.

“I have a hard time believing that,” he replied. “He agreed to surrender? As easily as that?”

Luanda wheeled on Bronson and put on her fiercest face and voice, desperate to convince him.

“Andronicus is outnumbered,” she said coldly. “In another day he will be dead. He was grateful for the chance. I was right. You were wrong. He has conditions: his army must be allowed to leave the Ring unharmed. He will forfeit himself as a prisoner. And he will surrender only to Thor, and to Thor alone. He has asked us to bring our offer to Thor at once, before the attack at dawn. This is our chance to make peace, to save lives, and to oust his men once and for all.”

Bronson stared back at her, and she could see his mind working, see him thinking it through. He was smart, but not nearly as smart as her, and his gullible streak worked in her favor.

“Well,” he said, “I guess that sounds like a fair offer. All he’s asking for is for his men to leave safely. As you say, it will spare a lot of lives on both sides, and liberate the Ring. It sounds reasonable. I can’t imagine that Thor and Gwendolyn would not want to agree to this. You have done well to serve the Ring as you have. What you have done here is selfless. You have saved many lives, and your family will be proud. You were right, and I was wrong.”

Inside, Luanda smiled. She had deceived him.

“Go then,” she urged. “Be our messenger. Deliver the message to Thor and the others. I will await you here. Ride throughout the night and don’t stop until you deliver them the good news. The fate of the Ring now rests on your shoulders.”

She waited, hopeful. She knew, being the chivalrous fool that he was, that if she appealed to his sense of honor and duty, he would be blind to reason.

Bronson nodded solemnly, mounted his horse, and took off at a gallop, racing through the night.

She watched his horse disappear into the blackness, and she smiled openly at the night.

Finally, she would be Queen.

Steffen felt his palms go raw as he stood before the huge mill, pushing on the wooden crank with all the other laborers. It was backbreaking labor, what he was used to, and it made him blot out the worries of the world. He had been given just enough grain and water to get by, sleeping on the floor like an animal with all the other indentured servants. It was not a life: it was an existence. The rest of his life, as it had been once before, would be filled with labor and pain and monotony.

But Steffen no longer cared. This was the sort of life he had led in King’s Castle, working for King MacGil in the basement, tending the fires. That had been a harsh life, too, and really an extension of his entire life, of his home life, of his parents, who had been so ashamed of him because of how he looked, who had beat him and kicked him out of the house. His entire life had been one long bout of pain and bullying and scorn.

Until he had met Gwendolyn. She had been the only person he had ever known who had looked at him as something other than a deformed creature; who had actually had faith in him, who had actually cared for him. The time he had spent protecting her he valued as the most meaningful days of his life. For the first time, it had lent his life purpose and meaning; it had made him dream, for a brief moment, that maybe he could be something more than an object of loathing, that maybe everyone in his life had been wrong, and that he did have some value after all.

When Gwen had entered the Tower of Refuge and that door had slammed shut behind her, he felt as if a door had been closed on his own life. It had sunk a dagger into his heart. He respected, and even understood, her decision; but it had been the worst day of his life. He had stood there and waited outside the Tower for he did not know how long, hoping beyond hope that Gwen might change her mind, might come back out those doors. But they had remained closed, like a coffin on his heart.

With no direction or purpose left in his life, Steffen had wandered and had come here, to this small village high on this hilltop, and he checked over his shoulder once again, as he did every hour since his arrival, at the Tower of Refuge, keeping it in sight at all times, hoping beyond all expectation that he might see Gwendolyn walk out those doors, that he might have a chance to take up his old life again.

But watch as he did, there was no activity at the tower, no one in or out, day and night.

Steffen suddenly heard the crack of a whip and felt a sharp shooting pain across his back; he realized he had been whipped again by his boss. The sting of the whip snapped him out of his thoughts and made him focus on his duty before him. He looked around and saw he had cranked out more grain than any of the other servants, and his face reddened: it was unfair that he was being whipped, while the others were passed over.