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

by J. Levi

  “Maybe I want to learn more than how to defend myself,” I chide.

  “I teach you not to defend but to control. Concealing your arcana is crucial.”

  “I can’t hide forever, and you know it. Why do you think aunt Mabel has you instructing me? She thinks I’m the answer to Edonia’s blight. She practically sings it.”

  “The motives of duchess Mabel are not my own,” Hemle says smoothly.

  “I still need to be prepared for whatever may happen,” I argue.

  “Patience said the beaver—”

  “—to the swan and frog,” I finish Hemle’s ridiculous witticism. I’ve only heard it a thousand times. “I know I can do more. If not offensive moves, then something else. Just let me try.”

  Hemle stares at me for a long while before drawing a thin blade from the inseam of his pants. He swiftly drags the sharp edge across his palm, drawing blood in its wake. I move to stop him, but my reflexes are too slow. Hemle winces as blood drips from his hand and falls to the padded floor like a leaky faucet.

  “Heal it,” Hemle commands. I flinch, but only for a moment. I dive back into my well of magic with haste. I cast it onto Hemle’s skin. I can feel the tendrils of magic trace against the edges of the cut. I puppeteer my magic to weave the fibers of sliced flesh back together like weaving a torn tapestry. At first, the blood stalls, then recedes back into his skin, and the wound closes. I let out a heavy sigh I’d been holding since Helme drew his blade.

  Hemle inspects his hand carefully and nods his approval.

  “Well done,” Hemle says. “Next time, you will do it faster.”

  Before I can protest future sessions of Hemle harming himself for the sake of my training, he raises a hand to forestall me. A moment later, aunt Mabel’s seneschal Reginald steps into the atrium.

  “Forgive the intrusion, your majesty. Lady Fraeda is eager,” Reginald says.

  “Not at all, Reginald. We are finished for the day,” Hemle says.

  Hemle excuses himself in the way of his people. He falls to one knee, braces his chest, and his head bows low. “Dehhab mi ashum,” Hemle recites. Go with the sun, a formal farewell.

  “Ayidaan,” I reply. And to you.

  Reginald escorts me from the atrium and to the stable house. The Laenberg castle has four stables, but only one is used for the royal family and guests. The royal mews is home to the best stallions for show and sport. Fraeda is already grooming her mare with a brush, fidgeting impatiently. When she sees me, she bounces giddily with excitement. It’s impossible not to chuckle. A groom steps out of a stall with Sarie in tow. Sarie is an Ishkar mare, bred here in Laenberg by imported stock. She was a gift from aunt Mabel when I turned sixteen.

  Her reddish-brown coat shines beneath her contrasting black mane. I greet her with a steady hand and kiss her snout. She nudges me earnestly, anticipating the coming ride. I laugh at her shared impatience with cousin Fraeda.

  “I know, I know,” I soothe, brushing a hand against her muzzle. I thank the groom and take the reins as I guide Sarie out of the stable.

  A man with auburn hair and a short-trimmed beard steps through the side entrance wearing commoner clothing. I don’t recognize him. I’m not familiar with aunt Mabel’s entire staff, and normally I wouldn’t care enough to spare more than a glance, but the stablehand is strikingly attractive—beautiful, actually. It’s in the square set of his stoic jawline, the upturned curve of a sideways grin. The man’s broad shoulders leave little to desire when paired with the tightness beneath his loose-fitted garments. His sleeves roll just above his elbows, exposing well-defined forearms. I like forearms, I suddenly gather. The summer heat inspires a thin sheen of sweat across his skin, and I stutter at the fantastical thought of, I wonder if he tastes as good as he looks.

  I’m thankful for the summer heat, which offers the best excuse for the engorging blush that fumes from my face and ear tips. I resist the urge to introduce myself, afraid the nervous swelling in my throat will leave my words sounding more akin to a toad than a prince. The auburn man stares at me a moment. His eyes shine golden like honey. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but my words fail me.

  “Cousin?” Fraeda calls from behind, waiting for me to guide Sarie out of the stables so she may follow with her own mare. I nearly call back in a shrill tone as I battle to peel my gaze away. The handsome stranger winks. By gods, my knees nearly buckle! Then disappears into Sarie’s stall and rakes the muck and hay.

  Remember your place, my father’s voice slithers in my mind. A harsh reminder that regal status beckons certain responsibilities. Such as not fawning over stablehands.

  I guide Sarie outside and wait until Fraeda steps beside me to ask, “Do you know that man?”

  “Who? Henry?” Henry is the groom who brought Sarie out of her stable.

  “No, the other one.”

  Fraeda looks back at the stables over her shoulder, but the auburn man is already gone. The only person in the stable is Henry, who is brushing uncle Barlot’s warmblood stead.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Fraeda says, confused.

  “Nevermind,” I say as I help Fraeda to mount her mare, and I follow after. A squadron of soldiers awaits us when we reach the gatehouse, leading to the open field just outside the castle walls. I notice they wear their informal gear as to blend in, though the insignia of house Montares is still on dispay. The crest is a golden harpoon bordered by ocean weed. The soldiers follow us by the order of their captain.

  “Why aren’t you married,” Fraeda asks when our escort is far enough out of earshot. I nearly choke on nothing but air at the question.

  “Gods above, Fraeda. Warn a man before asking a question like that.”

  “Mother says it’s because the courtiers of Gedaley are nothing but frolicky geese,” Fraeda continues.

  “Aunt Mabel has a point.”

  “Then marry a maiden of Laenberg.”

  “Since when has my theoretical marriage become such a concern of yours?”

  “You’ll be king one day. Your wife would be queen. I’d say that’s a concern for all citizens of Edonia,” Fraeda reasons.

  “Point taken,” I remark. “The truth is, I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “Your magic?”

  “Aye, my magic.” We trot through the field. The neighs of our horses and the sway of long grass fill the silence.

  Then Fraeda says, “I wish I had magic.” Fraeda turned sixteen last spring. If magic were in her blood, it would have manifested by now. I think her lucky to be of the same blood but spared of the consequences.

  “If you didn’t have magic, would you have a wife then?” Fraeda asks, unrelenting.

  “Eridh’s hell, cousin. You’re like a dog with a bone today,” I tease fondly. I consider her question a moment, and the auburn man from the stables comes to mind.

  Before Fraeda can persist further with her questions, I ask one of my own. “What say you, cousin. Perhaps if a certain knight were to favor your hand, you’d be wed by your eighteenth birthday.”

  Fraeda blushes and taps the side of her mare to usher her into a gallop. I laugh and chase after. We ride in the summer wind with our escort squadron close behind. The auburn man fades from thought by the time we return.

  3

  Nova

  “…strikes again. According to reports by the Vonheiss widow’s staff, the Twilight Thief infiltrated the noble estate in the meadowlands north of Rhenstadt early this morning before dawn broke. City investigators inspected the property and found no evidence of forced entry, and witnesses say…”

  – excerpt from Dawn Tribune, official press of Rhenstadt 897 B.M.

  “Who is that?” I ask the groom beside me as I watch the man with emerald green eyes and dark brown hair lead his magnificent Ishkar mare from the stable house. I notice the man’s saddle adorns the royal crest, a golden griffin, rather than the Montares insignia. Maybe an aristocrat from the capital?


  The young lad stares. “Truly, you are playing farce,” the boy says with a heavy lilt. “That there is the crowned prince of Edonia. Only a daft inbred wouldn’t know that.”

  I hook an arm around the stable boy’s shoulder. “Forgive me, friend. I hail from Ardar, too far from the eastern provinces to know my place.” I pat his shoulder once while my other hand makes quick work of his inner vest pocket. I pull away from the boy and casually make my way outside the stables before he has a chance to reply. In my hand is a carved figurine of an Edonian pony. The whittled carving is coarse and unpracticed, but there’s enough detail to admire the craft.

  “You’ll make a fine treasure at the Thomasson house,” I mutter to the wood carving before pocketing it.

  My latest charity is the Thomasson orphanage in Rhenstadt. It was in shambles until a very generous, anonymous benefactor helped rebuild it. I’m sure the boys and girls will put the wood carving to good use.

  I give the stable a final glance, deeming the small cubby at the back of the stalls I found a fine place to return later. It’s out of sight and will have minimal traffic tonight during the gala. I scan my surroundings, ensuring I’m alone. I summon my magic, allowing the static the thrum against my skin as I gaze up at the cathedral spire, barely visible above the battlements of the castle’s inner walls. A heartbeat passes, and I wisp from the stable yard and onto the base platform the holy spire is erected. I crouch low behind a stone statue.

  The mid-morning sun berates my back while I gaze at the castle perimeter from the vantage point. The inner and outer courtyards are in disarray as all manner of servant, merchant, and soldier scurries through. I notice the way sunlight catches against a glass dome toward the center of the fortress. I summon another thrall of violet and blue and wisp to the glass dome. The glass panes are tinted sea glass, slightly opaque but translucent enough to see into the atrium. A dark-skinned man with a dark beard and a headdress sits in the center, legs crossed and arms out at the side in a meditative pose. The man is unmoving. I’d almost think him a statue until he looks up. I dive from my position, hugging the clay-shingled roof adjoining the glass dome. My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for the alert of an intruder.

  One minute passes, and then another. Nothing happens. I chance another peek into the atrium and the man is gone.

  I cast the urge to flee aside and wisp to a balcony across the hedged gardens. I appear behind a tall potted fern and wait a moment before moving to the door. I slip inside through the glass-paned door that leads into a study. Books and shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling and desks fill the space. I glide a finger along the wall of spines, inspecting the titles casually. In the breaks between tomes lie intricate artifacts. A night crow feather, a human skull, and a gold medallion with runic symbols etched into the refined metal that I easily pull from its mount and slide into my vest for safekeeping.

  I step out of the study into a hall of mirrors, the only light from candelabras on sea green sideboards. I reach the far end of the narrow stretch to a pair of black lacquered doors. I press my ear to the wood, listening for traffic on the other side. Nothing but silence. I test the heavy brass handle and slowly pull one door open enough so I can slip through. I’m greeted by an antechamber of sorts, though it looks more like a common room than someone’s private chambers. The room is small. A grand hearth is a focal point across from the doorway. On its mantle are dozens of trinkets, brass and gold and crystal.

  My fingers twitch as I cross the room to peruse the valuable knickknacks. Nothing catches my eye apart from the cedar box with smoke sticks inside. I think to take the bulky cache until I hear voices from behind. I consider wisping out of the keep, but I’ve found nothing useful in the hours I’ve aimlessly searched the Laenberg keep. The halls and courts are a labyrinth.

  I scan the room, desperate for a place to hide, and notice the narrow side door adjoining the hearth. I open it to find a coat closet stuffed with topcoats and idle garments. I squeeze through the thick bunches of gossamer and linen and close the closet door just in time for the voices in the hallway to carry into the antechamber.

  “—is it, Reginald,” A deep baritone voice says.

  “Please, Barlot,” comes a softer feminine voice. “Let our seneschal speak.”

  “Very well,” the baritone replies.

  “Thank you, your grace,” the seneschal says. “This arrived in the dovecote. The carrier crow hails from the Heath borough of Gedaley.”

  Your Grace—lord Montares and duchess Mabel I wager. I hear the soft sounds of parchment being unraveled through the doorway and then a long silence.

  “Barlot, what does it say?” The duchess asks.

  “The number of disappearances in the capital is increasing. Dozens every day now, and the crown has yet to address it.”

  “What could Gilderoy be thinking?”

  “I should think the king has nothing to do with this,” Montares says. “These transgressions have Morda written all over it, plain as day.”

  “There’s more,” the seneschal says gravely.

  “Go on, out with it, Reginald,” the duchess commands.

  “A crown raven also came, just before the carrier crow.” I listen to the sound of another roll of parchment being unraveled.

  “The capital dispatched an official battalion to Laenberg in the assistance of purging the city of all Arcana. They are due to arrive three weeks from now,” the lord recites grimly.

  “Treachery! The queen means to assault under false pretenses,” the Dutchess chides.

  “Aye, but without evidence, we cannot accuse the crown of such intentions.”

  “And yet the lords of the north and east will do nothing against the crown,” the duchess scoffs.

  “They are corralled like sheep,” The lord says.

  “More like pigs in a pen.”

  The lord chuckles and says, “save that fire, my love. We’ll need it soon enough.”

  A long pause fills the room.

  “We will have war, won’t we?” The duchess asks, but lord Montares doesn’t respond. The room falls silent for long moments.

  “Should I send a reply, your grace?” The seneschal intervenes.

  “Aye, but we wait till tomorrow. We need to inform Casaell,” The lord answers before the sound of heavy doors opening and closing firmly.

  I open the closet door slowly, careful to not make a sound. I peer through a thin sliver in the doorjamb. The room is empty. I open the door for more light and rummage through the closet until I find an old court doublet. I fasten the article over my linen tunic and leave the antechamber, moving swiftly through the hall of mirrors until I reach the other end of the corridor. I peer through an archway opening into a large gallery of antiquated portraits. Velvet chaises and curios fill the space between the constructed walls, portraying the long history of royals.

  Heavy footfalls echo on the marble tile across the vaulted chamber. I follow after, catching the brief glimpse of the lord and duchess stepping through a new archway. When I approach, I slowly lean around the corner to survey the new hall. My stomach sinks when I notice the two royal soldiers stationed at the end of the corridor, fully armed and alert. I’m skilled in combat, but I rarely engage unless it’s a last resort.

  With a deep breath, I step into the hallway with my head held high and shoulders square. I make an effort to ignore the guards as I approach the doors. I’m about to grab the brass handle when one guard stops me with an armored glove.

  “No one allowed in without invitation,” the square-jawed soldier says. I take a brief moment to inspect his uniform with practiced indifference. The guard wears the Montares insignia, the golden harpoon on a navy blue tabard.

  “I’m expected,” I lie.

  “Where’s your escort?” The broken-nosed soldier asks.

  I bite back a curse and roll my shoulders.

  “I don’t have time for this,” I say to move for the door again when square
-jaw uses more strength to push me back. “Wait here while I confirm your invitation.”

  A lump forms in my throat, but I’m quick to swallow it down. I say, “No, don’t bother. I’ll go find my escort. No need to make a hassle.” I pivot a full turn on my heel without waiting for a response and traipse back to the gallery. When I’m out of view, I groan in my palms and recollect myself.

  Frustrated, I take a deep breath, summon my magic and wisp back to the cathedral spire, just behind the gargoyle statue and out of sight. The heat-baked stone is an unwelcomed greeting as I press firmly against the statue to conceal myself. I spend the better part of an hour watching the activity below. The chaplain leads the cathedral nuns in the amphitheater through an ensemble of hymns. Stewards guide and direct carriages through the chateau driveway, and groomed performers unload costumes and props for the gala. I note the guard patrols and their routes before deciding to summon my magic and wisp back to my villa in Richtenfel.

  I land in the open foyer that leads to the dining area. I peel off the doublet and toss it to my red oak table. Unfastening my belt and trousers, I peel out of my layers. I’m careful to pull the wood-carved figurine and runic talisman from my tunic vest before pulling it off.

  “Have fun?” Ricon asks from the common space just outside the kitchenette.

  “Loads. I’m tired. Talk after I nap?” I try to cut the conversation short and dive into my bedroom without sparing a glance at Ricon.

  “Oh no you’re not,” Ricon calls after and follows me into my room. I tuck the figurine and talisman in the drawer of my nightstand before Ricon enters.

  I collapse on the bed, and he joins soon after. I roll to my side to face Ricon.

  “So, what happened?” Ricon asks.

  “I scouted as much as I could. There’s a reason why I usually do this at twilight,” I add.

  “You and twilight,” Ricon chuffs but not unkindly.