A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice

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.”

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
     
     
    Thor stood somberly