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

by J. Levi

  I stand on the ledge, which drops a dozen feet into another slope that leads toward the ember glow below. I wrap my arms around my chest and waist, mustering some semblance of protection. I notice the vibrant hues, shades of color, and light that pierce through the dust. I scan the terrain until I calculate a safer path through slopes, ledges, and drop-offs. I set off, limping against the jagged and sharp earth floor. I wince as volcanic glass and angular rocks pierce the pads of my feet.

  ***

  It takes hours to navigate the perilous gradient. I slip and tumble a few times when my footing loosens. My skin is littered with cuts and bruises—the arrow wound still sizzles like blood boiling against an open flame. I reach the ember glow that bewitched me into a trance from a distance, seeking warmth and shelter. I draw close enough to realize the light emanates from a city erected along the side of the volcanic mountain. I hug against cracked clay walls and tiptoe along brick-paved alleys. My eyes are wide and dizzy. The city constructs are breathtaking.

  Bustling voices draw me into a crouch behind bales of hay, barrels, and baskets filled with coal and rubble. I come across a braided line stretched across two buildings with linen cloth sheets swaying in the windless air. I tug a page of black fabric from the line and wrap it around my battered body. Slipping back into the shadows of another alleyway, I dodge the hustle of figures drifting down a corridor. My heartbeat patters as quickly as my feet pelt the paved ground, ducking across bridges that scale molten rivers. I tumble under carts as I wait for passing vylorian guard patrols to march by. I count my heartbeats, wondering how many I have left before my life is sure to end. I feel my wolf stirring beneath the surface, nervous and antsy to sink our teeth into flesh again. With shaky breaths, I manage to keep my wolf soothed.

  The evidence of dawn being close by shows as the ashen sky transmutes from black to a caliginous grey. The city is tiered with grand stairways leading to the lower reaches of the city. With each descension, the edifices degrade in texture, class, and volume. The alleys are broader and longer, the crowds grow nimbler as street markets litter the main avenues. I breach the city dwellings and embrace an outer wall that disseminates the rudimentary hovels. My feet scream in the broken gravel. The roads are no longer paved but instead just tamed dirt paths of sand and detritus.

  “The king behests his constituents. Anyone who procures the escaped convict shall be rewarded stupendously. Those who harbor or dissuade the royal guard from annexing the king’s thrall shall be met with the unyielding wrath of his majesty,” a voice decrees around the corner of the narrow corridor built into the outer wall. I freeze, unable to breathe. The fear of my soaring heartbeat being too loudly that someone will overhear. My mind anticipates swarms of citizens barreling through the streets to find me. Panic begins to set in; I feel like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate enough to viciously tear into anything that came near, if only to survive.

  A raspy throat clears from behind. It startles me into a deep crouch, leaning onto my haunches and nails digging into the dirt. The black sheet wrapped around my body untangles, falling to the ground. I growl lightly as I duck my head low trying to make myself appear as small and invisible as possible.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, child,” a raspy voice hums. An old woman, short and stoutly, stands before me. She has a fur shawl draped across her shoulders, so long the ends nearly drag against the dirt path. I growl louder, more vivaciously. My wolf begs to take over, not pack, not friend, not love.

  The old woman doesn’t flinch. She merely stands terse with an annoyingly gentle smile. In her arms are bundles of cloth and a pair of slippers, much like the ones I’ve worn my entire life in the Obsidian Reach bastion.

  “Now stop that growling or I’ll bat you on the nose—and don’t think I won’t do it. I’ve corralled far nastier beasties than you,” the crone chirps.

  Her bluntness startles me. The growl permeating from my throat ceases, and my snarling lips relax but I don’t dare move. The instinct to stay as small as I can still command my senses. My nostrils flare intuitively, catching whiffs of something smokey and sour, something woody and sweet, and another scent that wreaks sweat and skin. I’ve experienced very little in life. My knowledge of what things smell like is scarce.

  “That’s desert sage, frankincense, and I’d imagine a long early morning of scrubbing sodden garments from two very perturbed young me,” she says as if she can read my thoughts.

  “Wh—what?” I croak. It’s the first I’ve spoken since I shifted into my wolf. My throat is raspy after hours of inhaling ash, soot, dirt, and brittle air.

  “Don’t act daft. I have the patience as long as my eyelashes—the scents. I smell like desert sage, frankincense, and sweat,” she crows while holding out the clothing towards me. “Now, how about you stop your predatory posturing and put these on.” I take long moments to consider her words. I study her tone and the lilt of her voice, trying to detect distrust. I can’t seem to find any—a lifetime of menial conversations with king Veryn has taught me how to detect when someone speaks cruelly. My ears hone into the gentle patter of the old woman’s heart. Slow and smooth, not like the beat of a liar, which stumbles and trips over words. Not pack, not friend, not love, my wolf calls again.

  I whisper, wait. Just wait. But my wolf still scratches at my mind.

  I slowly stand. My friable knees shake and threaten to founder. My fingertips quake as I reach for the garments. From behind, I hear the hollering of soldiers and a shrill cry. I nearly drop to a crouch again when the old woman grips my elbow firmly. I turn to find she has an outstretched finger pressed against her brittle lips. She nudges the cloths into my arms while spinning her hand in the air—a command to be swift. I unravel the bundle and find loose-fitted harem pants, dark maroon. I pull them on, tying the drawstring sash tight around my narrow waist. I tug on a loose blouse with a shagged frock, white and peppered with stains. The old woman passes the slippers, and I put them on without hesitation. My blistered toes blissfully sing at the relief the fur inner-lining provides. The woman pulls the silk-like cloth from her head and edges me to lean down. I oblige. She effortlessly trusses the scarf around my head and hair, concealing my bleeding white strands and pearlescent black doe horns that protrude from my crown.

  “Keep your head down, stay right behind me. Do not look at anyone. Do not stop. Do you understand me?” the old woman rasps.

  I nod. We set off at a fast pace. The old woman is spritely for her apparent age and size. We weave through alleys and corridors, long passageways. She leads me through crowds of busting vendors and market carts. I squirm in my skin as strangers brush against me as they pass by in narrow archways. I resist the urge to growl, snarl, and bare my fangs. I resist the instinct to sink my teeth into raw flesh. Since I’ve managed to shift into my wolf, these animalistic instincts have grown stronger. They are primal and rage-like. They are warm, safe, terrifying, and monstrous.

  I steady my gaze on the back of the old woman’s hair. It’s knotted in a tight bun, loose white strands sticking out every which way. She stops abruptly at an intersection, accidentally colliding with a vendor carrying a basket of prickly shaped fruit. They smell sweet and bitter. The flesh is a vibrant red with pink hues. She kneels down to help the merchant collect the scattered fruit, uttering apologies. She snaps her fingers at me and points at the fruit which rolls down the corridor. I scurry to collect them when I hear the clambering footfalls of the king’s guard marching down the perpendicular road. My breath hitches slightly as I slowly pick the fruit from the ground. I turn my back to the corridor opening, hoping I’ve concealed my face enough. The marching thrum of boots to dirt approaches, growing loud and steady. As swift as they came, they continue along their path without paying us a second thought. I turn to the old woman who snaps her fingers again and continues down the road, trailing several paces behind the soldiers. I drop the collected fruit into the merchant’s basket, who curses under their breath.

&nb
sp; Did she know the soldiers were coming? Was it an accident when the old woman collided with the merchant, or did she do it intentionally to give us the perfect ruse? The conscious thought inspires a sense of excitement as well as anxiety. This woman is more than she seems, I realize. My wolf still unrelenting, not pack, not friend, not love.

  The pewter sky gradually evolves into a monochromatic haze. We reach an outer field tucked away from the city streets. I watch as large, erected towers of vibrant cloth gracefully collapse to the dirt ground. Dozens of figures hustle around the village of tents as they dissemble and reposit the components into wagons and oxcarts. We weave through the bustle, the occasional greeting to the old woman. She barely lifts her gaze or so much as offers a reciprocated greeting.

  She leads me to a nomadic wagon painted a surly orange with chipped paint curling away from the sodden wood. The roof is a pale green with tattered shingles. A narrow ladder lifts into an external door. The woman pulls it open, the hinges screaming in rusted agony. I follow her into the wagon, surprised to find how large it is inside. Off to the side is a tiny kitchenette, a counter with cupboards, half-fallen from more corroded hinges. Bowls line the countertop with dusted glass jars fill with eccentric herbs, dust, and liquids. One of the jars is filled gruesomely with what appears to be eyeballs, several of them gazing at me.

  Beyond the kitchenette is a narrow doorway, and beyond is a tuft of cloth and hide. A bedroll tucked against the wall just under a framed window that’s painted the same dull green as the roof. I turn to the other side of the wagon and find a round table, inlaid with deep grooves and brass fleur-de-lis trim the outer rim of red mahogany wood. In the center of the table is a spherical glass ball, perfectly polished. It’s the cleanest and sharpest thing inside the wagon, I think.

  “Don’t mind that wretched thing. It’s just for show. Everyone wants to see a crystal ball when they get their fortunes told as if that’s where the prophecies actually originate,” the old woman chimes. I avert my gaze and stare at my feet, my slippers are covered in dirt and soot. I feel guilty for dirtying her shoes.

  “Don’t you dare fret over those old things. Come, sit here and I’ll fix something for you,” the crone barks.

  I follow her direction and sit on a dark stool next to the kitchenette counter. The woman weaves and woes from cupboards to shelves. She unwraps a waxy skin and reveals long strips of petrified meat. The scent rouses faint traces of saliva, coating my tongue in a sudden letch for meat. The old woman chuckles as she slides the plate of jerky towards me. I hesitate for a moment, but only a moment. Before I can question the generosity, I swipe the slivers of jerky and devour them. I savor the hardy texture as my jaw aches from chewing.

  The woman busies herself in the kitchenette. She pours a wooden cup with clear water, clearer than anything I’ve ever had in my life. The woman barely sets the cup before me when I snatch it and slosh the water down my parched throat. My gulps are loud and obnoxious. Water trickles down my chin and soaks the neckline of my shirt.

  “Pace yourself, child. We have plenty of water,” the woman laughs bitterly.

  I look up from the cup and find the old woman staring, almost fondly. I hunch my shoulders and lower my head. I’ve only ever known kindness from my mother. This complete stranger offers the same, but it feels unwarranted—undeserved.

  The old woman pulls a series of plants from a bowl near the kitchenette window. She drudges a knife from a leather skin and slices it into the plants. Nearby lays a clay pot where she tosses the cut vegetation into. She pulls a porcelain-like pitcher from a shelf and pours more water into the clay pot. She instrumentally pulls spoonfuls of dust from various jars. They smell peppery, salty, and spicy. The woman hums as she works, a ladle in hand as she stirs the pot. She mumbles a few words under her breath, and steam begins to rise from the clay pot. My nose twitches at the scent of magic. My body goes rigid, and my heartbeat hastens. My wolf howls in my mind, she feeds us, she is magic, she is not safe.

  “Calm yourself, child. No need to fret,” she chirps. “And tell that wolf of yours to lower its hackles.”

  “You’re a witch?” I accuse. The woman doesn’t flinch at my words.

  “I’m a Gypsy. A dying breed, but there are still a few of us left,” she says in between her humming verses. “Do you have a name, girl?”

  I flinch. Should I tell the woman? The city is plagued with king’s guard searching for me. My name is being spread as fast as a gale of wind. Sweat starts to bead across my forehead under the scarf. My eyes dart randomly, searching for a means to escape, the instinct to shift clawing its way beneath my skin.

  “Calm yourself or you’ll get wrinkles with those worry lines. Take it from me, you don’t want wrinkles,” the old woman purrs as she ladles sloshes of liquid and plant into a wooden bowl.

  Was that joke? my wolf says. She makes fun of us?

  I lift a brow at her, curious and surprised. I decide to avow as little as possible. I clear my throat and give a curt nod. The old woman chuckles as she slides the bowl in front of me, a tin spoon dipped inside. I cautiously lift the bowl to my face, inhaling the aroma. My mouth weeps at the orchestra of scents. I quickly tip the brim to my lips, slurping the broth while scarcely chewing the chunks of the plant as I swallow. My belly aches in satisfaction and twists at the foreign flavors I consume. I’ve never felt this full before in my life, surviving on the gruel-muck served twice a day in my tower. My wolf, satisfied and satieted, lets of a soft rumble in my mind, finally easing in the woman’s presence.

  “What’s your name?,” the old woman says. A quirk a brow and she mutters, “I can’t read minds, child. What is it or I’ll give you a name, and don’t think I won’t pick something ridiculous.”

  I look up from the bowl—the old woman watching me intently, waiting for an answer. “Merida.”

  “I think Mer should be fine,” she says finally after a long pause.

  “Mer… “ I test the nickname on my tongue, and it feels foreign. It lacks saccharine. I nod at the woman, agreeing the name is suitable.

  “Alright, now that’s settled. You can call me Kezia—Kezia Silta the Greenfoot.”

  Her name chimes in my head. The woman’s accent accentuates her name densely. She steps from the kitchenette and rifles through drawers built into the wall on the far side of the cabin. She pulls out small tincture bottles, a stone bowl, and clamors them onto the countertop. She artistically pours a series of granules, dust, and murk color fluids. Before long, she has a thick dainty paste.

  “Now remove that scarf. We don’t have long before the caravan leaves, and I need to do this with steady hands. I can’t stand the shake in the cabin when it’s in tow,” she patters.

  “L—leaves?” I ask.

  “Yes, the caravan is leaving with the hour. Heading to Andeil to the West. I suppose in your situation, you’ll be glad to flee the confines of Oriand.” Her tongue rolls as she pronounces her words. I nod because it’s true. I want to flee the city, to get as far away from the Obsidian Reach as possible. The earth-shattering truth begins to settle in. I won’t be just fleeing king Veryn, but I’ll also be leaving my mother behind. A flicker of emotions swells in my throat as I yearn to cry out for her, but the wallowing lump in my chest begs me to stay silent.

  “She’ll want you to go, you know,” the woman says. This surprises me, shaking me from my ensuing thrall of desperation.

  “Who?” I say, not recognizing my voice.

  “Your mother, child. Gods forbid he still has her, but you’ve managed to slip through his clutch. That angers him unrighteously. He will scour the city and overturn every hovel until he finds you. You’ll come with me under the guise of my coadjutor.”

  “Co—coad…jutor?” I try to mimic the word on my tongue, unsure of its meaning.

  “Yes, coadjutor, like an apprentice. I am the caravan’s oracle, trivial fortunes, flashy gibberish. It’s all for the show, really. The true sight is much more u
nyielding.”

  True sight? I don’t understand what that is, but the woman appears to hear my thoughts as if I speak them aloud.

  “True sight like prophecy. I see things that have yet to occur and things that can possibly happen. Life is possibilities. I get a glimpse, a filtered and diluted glimpse. Now turn and remove the scarf. I will dye it black so you don’t stick out so much. The white hair is fine, but too flashy. You’ll want to blend in.”

  I hesitate, but only for a moment. An eerie calm settles within me as I recall the steady and mellow patter of the woman’s heart. She doesn’t lie to me. She’s honest—she’s kind. I decide to trust Kezia in a heartbeat and I turn, removing the cowl from my head. Catching a glimpse of my reflection, I toy with the long strands of spider-silk strands. My hair is long, almost to my knees. Veryn preferred it this way, long and easy to grab ahold.

  I notice the parry knife on the counter and without hesitation, I snatch the knife, grabbing a thick clump of hair and hack it off.

  Kezia turns in time to see the strands fall to the cabin floor. She sighs, but more amused than annoyed. “Now why didn’t you just ask?”

  Without a reply, Kezia went to work.

  ***

  My hair bobs against my shoulders. The glossy white strands now silky black. Kezia cut my hair, which used to trail down to my waist. At first, I giggled as the white strands loosely careened into my lap and onto the cabin floor. It almost seemed like a dream to watch the pearl locks fall and pool into a tangled mess. Kezia finished masking her paste into my hair and rinsing it clean with a pitcher of water and a bowl. Now I’m standing before a glazed mirror mounted onto the backside of a tall cupboard door, gazing at my reflection. I’ve never seen my reflection before, aside from the dull steel spoon I used to be allowed to use during meals until I fastened it into a weapon.

  My face is narrow, cheeks hollow, and my brows sunken. My forehead is pale, my ears long and pointed. My chin is soft, and my lips are nearly as pale as my face, with no color or life. I stare into my beady black eyes and the black doe horns protruding from my now black hair. So much black, I realize. I stare at my hair for the longest. For as long as I can remember, I’ve loathed my resemblance to king Veryn. My eyes are his eyes, my skin is his skin, my hair is his hair. Most of that is still valid but gazing at the black strands that ensconce my face brings a single tear of joy. The tear softly falls along my cheek, encircling my chin. Kezia wipes the tear with a wrinkled knuckle and pats my shoulder before closing the cupboard door.