The Twilight Thief: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Thrones of Midgard Book 1)

by J. Levi

  “The party at the Laenberg keep?”

  “It’s tomorrow night. The lord and duchess host it every year.”

  “The palace will be crawling with guards.”

  “Eh—they’ll mostly be attending the party guests in the banquet halls.”

  “You sound as though you speak with experience.”

  I shrug and look cavalier, “I might have dated the son of an aristocrat for a little while last summer.”

  “How scandalous. Why is this the first I hear of it?”

  “It was a love that burned out as fast as it ignited,” I proclaim.

  “The family was broke,” Ricon says.

  “The family was broke,” I agree. “Besides, enough about me—what about you? How are you and…Egor?” Ricon’s boyfriend.

  “Erin.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  From outside, a shrill cry fills the air before Ricon can respond. I stand from the tub, water spills over onto the hardwood floors. Ricon stands beside me while we peer out of the window into the streets of Richtenfel. My villa has a breathtaking view of the western seacoast. A few blocks from the fisherman’s wharf, we see torch lights flicker in the distance.

  “Another lynching?” Ricon asks.

  I hum in agreement. “Third one this week.”

  We listen to the ugly cries of a mother pleading for the life of her babe, which wails in the night. I wince the moment the cries shrivel into nothing and silence follows.

  The Purges of Arcana started a decade ago. The royal decree was secluded to the Four Boroughs of Gedaley until more recent years. The kingsguard have trickled into all the kingdom cities and towns, enforcing royal law. Fae, the term used for anything that isn’t human, is killed on sight. As for humans, any of those who practice or sympathize with the arts of Arcana meet the same fates as the fae. Lord Rembert of Richtenfel succumbed to the king’s pressure to enforce his law only last summer. The lynchings never get easier to hear, much less witness.

  “I’m surprised there’s anyone left to hang,” I admit aloud.

  “I’ll wager coin the soldiers aren’t even vetting their victims. It’s a bloody witch hunt, gods be damned,” Ricon swears.

  A chill runs through my veins at the thought, merciless and pointless death—what a waste.

  I cross to the mirror and retrieve a barber’s blade to carefully define the edge of my auburn beard. I keep it shorter than most. I take a moment to inspect myself. Like my beard, my hair is also auburn, shaved short on the sides but longer on the top and slicked back into a knot. My eyes are golden like beeswax, and I have a crooked smile that’s made both men and women swoon on more than one occasion.

  Ricon’s reflection catches my eye while he tries to read my face. I’m not oblivious to Ricon’s features. He’s handsome—I’ve always thought so. Ricon’s beard puts mine to shame. He grooms a lot, almost religiously. With black hair cut short and piercing blue eyes, he’s everything I’m not. Ricon is cool and collected while I’m wild and hot. The perfect duo.

  I dry myself with a towel in the linen closet and pull on pair of fresh gossamer trousers. I crash onto my large stuffed bed and Ricon does the same after removing his coat and leathers, leaving his skivvies on. We both stare at the ceiling, at the crystal chandelier I swindled from a gypsy glass blower. Soft light barely catches the edge of the crown moldings along the ceiling.

  “What’s the plan?” Ricon asks after a long, comfortable silence.

  “We’ll return to Laenberg at first light. I’ll scout as much as I can in the daylight. You’ll go to the tailors.”

  Ricon scoffs, “There’s no way the seamstresses will work that fast.”

  “Pay double their usual,” I suggest.

  “That’ll cost half a fortune.”

  “We’ll still make a profit.”

  “How?”

  I wiggle my eyebrows in the dim moonlight that casts through the open window.

  “Nova, need I remind you that your head is still marked for a hefty price by the Order of Assassins? Now you’re begging the attention from the lord and duchess of Laenberg? If you were guild, I’d have you in the pillory for a week, just for suggesting it.”

  “I’m not guild.”

  I try to imagine the spoils within the Laenberg keep. My mouth waters at the thought of diving into a sea of coins and gems, but only metaphorically. I tried it once. Had scrapes and bruises in tender places for weeks afterward.

  Ricon slams a tufted throw pillow in my face, and a plume of white feathers wafts above the bed as I growl.

  “No pilfering anything beyond the job, got it? No need to draw attention to ourselves. I like my head attached to my shoulders.”

  I think to argue, but Ricon holds the throw pillow firmly in hand, cocked for another harsh swing.

  “Fine,” I yield. “I’ll take you to tailors here in Richtenfel. They charge a fraction of the price, and the port doesn’t pay homage to the Sacred Six, so it won’t be backed up with orders for Summers Eve Festival.” With that settled, we slip into another comfortable silence.

  “But what if I just pickpocket a few of the—”

  “Nova,” Ricon warns.

  “We’re talking trifles here, earrings and pocket watches,” I argue.

  “Don’s ring and that’s it, understood?” Ricon says in a demanding tone that always seems to force my hands.

  “Okay. I’ll keep my hands to myself,” I offer.

  “No, you won’t,” Ricon chuffs. “Don’t forget I can tell when you’re lying.” Ricon may not be fae or have magic, but his ability to read people is uncanny.

  “I’ll at least try, for your sake,” I say.

  The sky is painted colors of twilight and stars. The light of a gibbous moon seeps through the sheer curtains covering the bedroom window. The soft lull of waves from the ocean and salty summer breeze wrap me in a calm. There’s a reason why I settled in Richtenfel. Mostly because I have expensive taste, but the scenery is idyllic.

  I close my eyes and listen to the sound of Ricon’s breathing. A few heartbeats pass, and he’s already snoring.

  It’s a long while until I fall asleep.

  2

  Casaell

  “The fae were no only explorers, for they were running from an evil far greater than anything Midgard has seen before. A darkness dwells just beyond the horizon. I can feel it. I pray to my gods for guidance. Sometimes, I hear them….”

  – From the private journal of Alkar 47 B.M.

  The familiar sound of humming in the next room distracts me. I look up from my book, a thrilling recount of dead languages from the eastern continent Ishkar. I have yet to brave the Azure sea to visit the distant kingdom and Edonia’s closest trade partner, but I hope to one day.

  Lydia, my servant since I was a babe, walks into the room with a careful selection of robes draped in her arms, as she sing songs, “G’mornin’ Casaell.”

  “I’m not wearing those,” I say before Lydia carefully lays them at the foot of my bed.

  “Hush now, you,” Lydia chides. “It’s the Summers Eve. Your aunt has personally requested formal robes.”

  “They look like dresses,” I whine.

  “That’s enough. I won’t hear any more of it,” Lydia moves across the room and pulls the book from my lap, closing it with a loud thump and setting it on the side table. “Now come along. Your aunt has requested breakfast in the dining hall before your sessions with Hemle this morning. And don’t forget you promised to go riding with lady Fraeda today.” I couldn’t possibly forget; it’s the only thing my endearing cousin can talk about.

  I reluctantly follow Lydia’s command and dress in my riding leathers that hang in the wardrobe. Bells toll nearby, the chime echoes through the open doors leading to my balcony.

  “Ugh, those bloody bells,” I say. “It’s a wonder how anyone in this city gets any sleep.”

  “Watch your tongue, young man. T
hose bells are sacred,” Lydia chides from the antechamber, arranging butter-yellow daffodils, vibrant sunflowers, and bright daisies in a vase. I don’t care for the décor, but Lydia does, so I let her do as she pleases.

  “A sacred pain in my a—”

  “Finish that word and I’ll have you flogged with those gossamer robes. Don’t think just because you’re a prince that I won’t knock you down a peg or two,” Lydia warns, and I laugh.

  I give my reflection a cursory glance in the ornate floor mirror. I run a hand through my shaggy dark brown hair. I’ll need to ask Lydia for a cut soon. It’s getting too long. I look like my mother, I’ve been told. Same dark hair and forest green eyes. My skin is a darker tan, inherited by my father.

  “What are you still doing here?” Lydia asks as she enters from the antechamber. “Off you go.”

  I stroll through the castle halls leisurely, watching the staff bustle in preparation for tonight’s gala. Golden floral arrangements decorate every surface, yellow banners and tapestries flourish the walls, and woven rugs from Ishkar cover the floors. A servant girl sings a sweet melody as she dusts the framed portraits that sit proudly above the grand stairs leading out of the royal wing.

  “—The sun shines down on the maiden’s sound and sweeps across the meadow—oh, sorry, your majesty,” the girl startles mid-lyric.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” I smile and descend the staircase, leaving the girl to her chores. It isn’t until I reach the bottom step does the girl continue the song.

  I find the banquet hall already decorated for tonight’s celebration. There’s a platform near the grand hearth for performers and banquet tables brought in from the lower stores. Through a set of double doors, I find the private dining chamber where aunt Mabel and cousin Fraeda sit at the head table, deep in conversation.

  “Good morning,” I say as I take a seat next to Fraeda.

  “Good morning, cousin,” Fraeda cheers. “Are we going for a ride after breakfast?”

  “Not until his lessons with Hemle, isn’t that right Casaell?” Aunt Mabel asks in a way that’s more instruction than question. Fraeda is disappointed but doesn’t protest.

  “Yes, aunt Mabel,” I say and lean over to Fraeda. “We’ll go riding, right after. Promise.” Fraeda grins with glee. Then I ask, “where’s uncle Barlot?”

  “Overseeing the knights in training at the lower barracks,” aunt Mabel answers while she cracks an egg with a spoon. “Promising talent this year, he says.”

  “Ah,” is all I can muster. The topic of knights is finicky for me. As the crowned prince of Edonia, I’m supposed to endure the rigorous training of knighthood. I wield my wit far better than a sword. Aunt Mabel understands. This is why she insists my secret lessons in Laenberg reside in the Arcana, not sword and shield.

  “I heard from Madalei that the knights will contend in the Summers Eve jousting tournament this year,” Fraeda says hopefully.

  “That handmaiden of yours gossips worse than the capital courtiers,” aunt Mabel amuses. “Only one knight will contend in honor of the house of Montares.”

  “Is it Sir Eranor?” The youngest knight on the squad and well known for his charm and good looks. Every maiden of Laenberg fawn in his presence.

  “Calm, child, or you’ll blush brighter than a red apple,” aunt Mabel teases fondly. Fraeda ducks her chin bashfully.

  To spare my cousin further embarrassment, I change the subject. “Will there be a parade this year?”

  Aunt Mabel looks confused for a moment until she says, “Ah, yes. I forget this is your first Summers Eve in many years. It’s beautiful and jolly. The entire city is masked in florae. The scent of sweet poppies lasts for weeks after. The tradesmen from Ardar and Hjornhelm display their crafted treasures along the gilded roads. The Guild of Thespia from Rhenstadt stage marvelous renditions of the Edonian classics. A competition of bards consumes the downtown square. Sweet melodies and pretty words. Maeve would have loved it.”

  I smile at the mention of my mother. In Gedaley, the mere whisper of my mother invokes punishment from queen Morda.

  Breakfast is short with little conversation. Aunt Mabel is distracted by tonight’s preparations. Her faithful seneschal, Reginald, enters the dining hall. Hunched over in a deep and achingly uncomfortable bow, he delivers updates on the progress on the evening’s proceedings. Everything seems to be in order. The house marshal has procured enough horse-drawn carriages to escort the aristocrats. The chaplain has a sermon and choir ensemble prepared to honor the sacred six. The kitchens work tirelessly to have enough food for the gala. Aunt Mabel tells Reginald to spare all scraps from the party and deliver them to the poor houses at first light.

  After finishing a plate of eggs and sweet ham, I excuse myself, promising to meet Fraeda in the stables when my lessons are finished.

  I pass through the halls and into the inner courtyard. Beyond the greenhouse, I follow a narrow path in carefully trimmed hedges until I reach an atrium at its center. Hemle is already inside, sitting cross-legged on a tufted pillow. His dark brown skin is soft under the sunlight that beams from the atriums dome ceiling. Hemle wears the clothes of Ishkar, his heritage. A silk woven vest without an undershirt and loose-fitted trousers more suitable for sleeping than anything else. A ruby red headdress is carefully wrapped just above his brow.

  Hemle’s eyes are closed when I take a seat across from him, my own tufted cushion offering some comfort.

  “You are late,” Hemle says without opening his eyes. His thick accent is soothing.

  “Or, I’m early. Impossible to know with your eyes closed,” I argue.

  “Clever is the fox, but truth is the hare,” Hemle says.

  I scoff, “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  Hemle makes a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth. “Start with your breaths, then we will pick up where we left off.”

  Hemle is the unofficial Laenberg soothsayer, the expert in all things Arcana. He’s tutored me since I was a child during my visits every summer. I don’t have the luxury to maintain my training in Gedaley since these lessons are outlawed.

  The breathing exercises are easy enough, almost second nature by now. What comes next is more challenging. Magic is wild and chaotic. It’s easy to lose control.

  My Arcana manifested when I came of age, soon after my father and the queen outlawed it. I feared for my life, desperate to keep my magic hidden from those who would kill me for it. When I visited Laenberg for a summer, Hemle had sensed it. With his guidance, I confessed my secrets to my aunt Mabel. I remember how joyously she clapped. “Oh, you’ve inherited the gifts of your ancestor, Alkar the True,” aunt Mabel said. At the time, I didn’t even know who that was. Aunt Mabel requested I start lessons with Hemle immediately.

  “You are distracted,” Hemle says, breaking me from my reverie.

  “I’m bored,” I quip.

  “Begin with a simple convergence,” Hemle says, ignoring me.

  I roll my shoulders before diving into the well of magic I imagine at my core. Its static is still foreign but offers a warmth like a sun. I pull at it, like the waves of the ocean current, an ebb and flow of power. With careful thought, I push the power toward Hemle. My arms radiate a soft light, and the static warmth passes into Hemle as he takes my magic and merges it with his own, then it passes back through me. This continues for the better part of an hour until Hemle recedes himself from my magic like shutting gates.

  Hemle stands from his seated position with feline grace. I do the same but with far less poise and far more joints cracking. Before I’m even upright, my legs are kicked out from beneath me, sending me crashing to the tiled floor. I groan as I shift my weight so I lay on my side. Hemle swings a dark oak cane he summoned from seemingly nowhere downward. I roll and miss the blunt force just barely. I kick off from the ground with more finesse this time. I stand with my feet shoulder width apart, knees bent slightly, my arms swaying in front of my midsection as I su
mmon my magic and allow it to flow through me like a flowing stream. Hemle taught me this stance early on. It’s a defensive position called shakta.

  I catch a faint smirk of approval from Hemle before he swings again. This time I’m prepared. I crash my fists together, the convergence of magic from each hand ripples through me and as I pull my hands apart, a bubble of white light expands, deflecting Hemle’s attack.

  My knees shake at the sudden exertion and the shield of light flickers until it fades completely. I shift my weight, arms and legs moving in synchronized movements until I return to the shakta stance. Another blow, easily deflected and then another. Sweat drips down my temple as I pant heavily. Hemle walks slowly, his hands tucked behind him as if he were on a casual stroll through the gardens. I almost say as much when Hemle lunges forward, another swing of the cane. I summon another burst of light, blocking the attack but I’m too slow for what comes next. Hemle drops to the ground in a swift spin, his leg sweeping against my ankles, sending me to the floor once again, this time heavier. I groan in pain from my had slapping hard against the tiled floor. Hemle stands, my lowering the cane before taking a deep bow. He takes a firm hold of my forearm, hauling me from the floor and onto shaky legs. I stumble with a curt nod, still shaking from the effects of adrenaline.

  “Good work. We will continue tomorrow,” Hemle says as he retrieves his seat cushion from the floor and tucks it into a cubby near the doorway.

  “That’s it? We barely sparred, old man,” I tease, still haunched over with hands on knees, trying to catch my breath. The corner of Hemle’s mouth upturns in a slight smirk.

  “You did well in deflecting.”

  “I can do more than deflect,” I argue.

  “That is not why I teach you the ways of Sabai,” Hemle says tersely. Sabai, a form of Ishkarian combat that harnesses Arcana. “It is not to be used lightly. Only if absolutely necessary.”