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

by J. Levi

  “Hello?” A blithesome voice calls from behind the desk of tomes. A shuffle of paper and binding rustles astutely until a woman pops her head above the wall of books. She’s young, roughly my age, human. The girl drops the spectacles from her scalp and onto her button nose. The lenses are so intense, her eyes are magnified and appear several times larger than they really are. Duck barks a laugh at the googly-eyed woman and spins in place. “What the—” I can hear Nova blurt out.

  “I love your glasses,” Duck quacks as he steps closer to the girl. She smiles wide, revealing snow-white teeth and flush dimples in her rosy cheeks. Her eyes are hazel, with hints of green and brown.

  “Flattery, sir, will get you anywhere…like, literally anywhere. I have a ship. You need a ride. You get a ride. I take compliments as payment,” the girl purrs. I don’t think she’s serious, but the look on her face makes me question my conviction.

  “I shall keep that in mind, my little vixen,” Duck flirtatiously slips the pet name. The girl preens some more. It’s almost uncomfortable to watch. Nova clears his throat and shoves Duck to the side.

  “Can you help us? We’re looking for anything you might have on temple sages in Andeil, specifically where they are located,” Nova blurts. The girl behind the desk starts to giggle stupendously. Duck seems to join in and giggle himself, although I’m not sure he even knows what he’s giggling about.

  “S—sorry. I—I’m so sorry. I don’t work here,” she manages to say between her fits of laughter.

  “If you don’t work here, then why are you sitting behind the front desk?” Nova asks, confused.

  “Oh. Right. The librarian that usually sits here is on a potty break, a mean snake of a woman. I asked her if she could point me in the direction of books that disclose the location of shiny artifacts. Do you know what that cruel wench said to me? Do you? I can’t even repeat what she said. It’s so abhorrent. Now I’m hungry for chicken. Did I leave the fire burning in my chimney?” The girl rambles. Nova blinks at her, mouth agape. Duck leans over and presses his fingers against Nova’s chin to close his mouth.

  “Don’t want to catch flies in there,” Duck cheers. By gods, Nova really is going to murder that boy, I admit.

  The girl gasps and leans far forward, pushing through the wall of books. They cascade to the floor. Nova is still rigid as he watches the girl reach awkwardly toward him. Her fingers clasp the black stone that hangs against Nova’s collarbone. She’s examining it, turning it over between her fingertips.

  “Black sapphire!” She exclaims. “Hmm… it’s lost a lot of its stars, though.”

  “Stars?” Nova manages. As if awakened from a daydream, the girl looks at Nova absent-minded.

  “Don’t you know what this is? It’s black sapphire.” She says as if it’s obvious. Nova is still perplexed. The girl releases the stone and reaches behind her head, and rifles through her hair. She grunts and mutters until she pulls out a half-eaten bone lodged in the tangles on her head.

  “I’ll trade you,” she insists as if it’s a fair exchange.

  “Oooh, is that a chicken bone?” Duck chimes. “I love chicken bones.”

  Before Nova can embark on his murderous tirade, an old shrill of a woman emerges from a corridor. She’s wrapped in drapes and robes, a string of beads around her neck. The skin in her cheekbones sag and the circles under her eyes confess her age. Her hair is tied in a tight bun with an ancient-looking bow, poorly fastened.

  “You again! I told you not to come back here. You’re banned ever since you tried smuggling artifacts from the library museum. Get out—go on. Shoo,” the old librarian banters.

  The googly-eyed girl jumps from whatever she was standing on and slides underneath the crescent-shaped desk. She’s much shorter than I expected. The top of her head barely reaches just below my chest. She’s wearing a black gown encrusted with black gems in a corset bodice. The skirt is nearly sheer and a pearlescent sheen. She has a black shawl draped across her shoulders. I see a short stack of books underneath the fabric tucked under her arm as she scurries past.

  “See ya later! Don’t forget, if you need a ride then I’ll provide. Just seek out the ship at the docks with black sails. Can’t miss it!” The girl shouts as she flees the library. Nova and I stare at each other, dumbfounded. Duck is back to singing his ballad, flippantly turning the pages of a random book on the front desk. The old woman slams the book shut and gives Duck what I can only describe as a death stare.

  “Are you friends of hers?” The old woman asks.

  “Oh, ye—” Duck begins until Nova slaps a hand over his mouth to interrupt.

  “No. We’ve never met her before just now,” Nova insists. The old librarian glares for a long moment until she nods complacently.

  Duck hums against Nova’s hand as he pelts his fingers against the crescent desk like a drum. Gods help him and show mercy, I plead.

  “Can you help us? We’re new to Andeil. We were hoping you could point us in the right direction. We’re searching for the temple sages. We thought maybe the library might have something,” Nova says. His voice is awfully cavalier compared to his usual terse veneer. The old woman raises a brow as she sits at the crescent desk.

  “Sages?” she asks incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “As in the temple sages of Andeil?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in the temple sages of Andeil that were amassed by Perysene, demigoddess of Banne.”

  “For the love of gods, yes,” Nova raises his voice. The old woman furrows her brow as if she’s now displeased.

  “Occult following is on the lower levels mixed with Military Strategists and Plant Psychology.” She doesn’t even bother looking up from the text she’s reviewing as she says it.

  “Plant Psychology?” I ask.

  “Oh yes, it’s a wonderful area of study! One time, I had this orchid with terrible mood swings. I used to sing to it in the mornings and—oof,” Duck starts to ramble, but Nova shoves into his shoulder as he goes deeper into the library.

  Past the front desk corridor, another set of towering sea-glass doors swings open. As we pass through, I can see deep grooves, carvings, and etching in the doors. The light inside is too dim to discern their image, but I run my fingers along with them as I pass. The library is cylindrical inside, a single spiraling ramp that weaves from the highest tier to the bottom.

  Bookcases line the outer walls, filled to the brim with tomes and scrolls. In the center, a deep cavernous void. The ceiling is a glass dome of intricately colored glass. The light that pierces through cascades an ensemble of blues and greens. The dome depicts oceans, sirens, the sun, and I believe Banne himself at the center.

  I approach the railing carefully, peering over and down into the depths of the archive. My stomach clenches as I fail to find the bottom. Several stories below, the light that illuminates from the ceiling fails to penetrate the darkness below.

  “There are torches on the sconces to your left,” the old woman’s voice calls after us from the front corridor. Sure enough, there is a row of torches.

  “Doesn’t seem very smart to have open flames in a building full of burnable items,” Nova sneers. He lifts an unlit torch from a sconce, green flames immediately erupt from the torch head.

  “What the—” Nova gasps.

  “Magic runes,” the old woman’s voice calls out again. I pull out another torch from the wall. It ignites the same green flame as Nova’s torch. Along the wooden hilt, I can see runic symbols etched. The runes radiate a soft glow deep within the grains of wood. It’s beautiful.

  “How does one know which symbols result in the expected outcome?” I find myself asking, no one in particular.

  “Symbols, magical runes, and runic language are all located three levels below,” the woman’s voice calls once more.

  “Okay, how is she doing that?” Nova asks.

  “I do not know, but it’s sort of mystical, huh?” Duck s
ays as he wiggles his fingers towards Nova.

  “Are there laws against throwing people over ledges in Andeil?” Nova asks without really asking. I step between them, shielding Duck from his impending doom.

  “Shall we?” I ask, angling my torch towards the downward slope. Nova sighs and nods. We walk side by side, descending into the darker depths of the library. Duck trails behind, singing a melancholy tune because that’s precisely what we need to hear as we plunge into near pitch-black darkness.

  25

  Leluna

  “…all the way from Jun’do, the continent to the south. Their people are prudish, but their spices are exquisite. Trade with the foreign country has become limited to the port markets of Ishkar in the east. My father, the moron that he is, decided to bride a Jun’do he met during his travels in Ishkar. I’ve just received word their ceremony was held a fornite before. I consider the lack of invitation insulting, as well as merciful. Why would I leave the Ivory borough to sail weeks on rough sea, just to watch my father make the biggest mistake of his career? Mother would turn in her grave. I hope he and that sow stay in Ishkar.”

  – private diary entry of Rwinda Rembert 794 B.M.

  Bells toll in the distance. The ushering calls of valets and guards, directing the traffic, and funneling the upper-city constituents into the great hall. The conversations bleed together into an orchestra of chaos. The crowd echoes against the arching rafters. Lit sconces blaze against the naves. Fleur-de-lis petals engraved into the pearlescent marble. Redwood benches neatly line the center gallery. Buttresses tower from the main floor and into the vaulted ceilings. Wooden beams delicately complement the stone and marble.

  I’m nestled high above the transepts of the cathedral—my hand aches as it clutches tight to my bow. I set it aside, shaking out my hand and ensuring my quiver of arrows is fastened properly to my back before grabbing the bow again. My body sings in relief to finally be rid of the handmaiden uniform. In its place, black leather pants, tight like a second skin, and knee-high boots strapped by several buckles, housing a spare dagger on the left. I pull at the open collar of my loose fitted cream blouse beneath a corset, cooling the thin sheen of sweat on my chest. I peer over my shoulder, ensuring the frosted glass window is still ajar. An angular beam of sunlight stretches across the platform, cutting into the bright contrast of white stone.

  I roll my shoulders, careful to keep my body loose with the added weight of black silver pauldrons sewn into straps that secure above and below my breasts. I finger the hilt of one of my many daggers sheathed in numerous notches along my belt, taking stock of my supplies for the third time.

  Weeks have passed since I discovered what lurks below the keep. Since I watched my friend morph into a grotesque monster. Since I asked the guild and rebellion to take action, their answer was to turn tail and flee the city.

  All as well. I prefer doing things my way.

  After I left Gail at the docks, I hunkered down at the garden square safehouse. It’s a posh condo on the top floor of a building that faces the city gardens. I spent most of my time resourcing gear since the city guard cleaned out the main safe house in the warehouse district. I also made a few visits to my inner-city connections in the coin borough, bribing them for information about the coronation.

  So here I am, crouched behind a banister on the upper level of the palace cathedral. Today is lady Vaneeda’s coronation. The king and queen plan to elevate Vaneeda into a ranking position of nobility, Lady of Laenberg. She’s scheduled to leave for Laenberg at dawn tomorrow.

  A small part of me wonders if Vaneeda even noticed my absence when I stopped reporting for my chores.

  Probably not.

  I silently walk myself through counting my breaths, but it never really works. Either way, it distracts me enough to stay focused on what I’m about to try and pull off.

  The cathedral is nearly packed. Every inch of the pews and benches is filled with an anticipating audience. The nobility and wealthy all jammed together. I’m surprised the walls haven’t caved in with all the ego brimming through the room.

  There’s a final toll of bells that chime within the halls of the cathedral porch.

  “—and now, the show begins,” I whisper.

  The ceremony is as dreary and harrowing as the luncheons I’ve had to suffer through for months. The thought of plunging my daggers into my ears swiftly comes and goes, but at this rate, I may succumb to madness and do it anyways. The sermon is tedious, bolstering the regality of duty and blah, blah, blah. I swear, do these people even hear themselves?

  The preacher announces the arrival of the royal monarch. I peer over the banister, careful not to reveal too much of myself. A brigade of formally attired guards marches two wide and six deep from golden double doors behind the choir. They stop once they’ve fully emerged from the doorway, stepping aside and drawing their swords. They lift them into the air, creating an arch of blades—the king and queen step through shortly after.

  His majesty is pale, his cheeks sunken and hollow. I see deep dark circles under his eyes, even from up here. His hair is grey and brittle like straw and his gait is limp, but his head is still held high, shoulders squared, and his face is stoic. The king’s attire is regal robes with hewn silver embellishments with a crown proudly perched on his head, glinting in silver and sapphire.

  On the other hand, the queen is as beauteous as ever. Her body is painted in deep blues, her cleavage is covered by chainmail of diamonds, barely containing her bulging flesh, while her waist is clasped with a sheer skirt that literally leaves nothing to the imagination. Unlike the king’s pale complexion, the queen’s cheeks radiate a rose color, hair long and voluminous, and the ensemble of jewelry is hard to go unnoticed. Her tiara, a perfect companion to the king’s crown, is aesthetically nestled above her brow.

  Behind them, the lady Vaneeda walks acquiescent, wearing the gown and frock I helped her try on weeks ago. Her hair in a braid, face caked in paint and jewels, including the black gem gifted by the queen, perched atop her cleavage. I stare at her the longest, not out of spite. Pity? Fondness, maybe? I’ve spent months next to that woman, grown to know her habits, likes and dislikes, and even the way she thinks. I don’t understand the sensation I feel when I look at her, but I imagine it’s something related to sympathy.

  The monarchs perch themselves on their thrones on the dais, center the chancel. The priest continues his sermon, with lady Vaneeda knelt before him on the steps of the dais.

  Now’s my chance.

  My hand tightens on the grip of my black yew bow as I pull a single arrow from my quiver: an ebony shaft, silver-tipped arrowhead, and feathered fletching. I nock the arrow onto my bowstring, bracing it against the sight window. I pause, waiting to pull the bow string tight and let it fly. I’ve done this countless times, a ritual so instinctive I hardly have to put effort into it.

  I count down in my mind, timing my exhale with precision. Now.

  I stand, legs parted and muscles taught. I swing my arm over the banister and instantly line up with my target, pulling the notched arrow back until the fletching touches my cheek. Before another beat of my own steady heart, I release and let my arrow fly. The wood, silver, and feather sing through the air a silent song. With haste, I nock another arrow and release it. I know I should flee, but I’m too invested in seeing this through.

  The first arrow comes within a hair width of the queen’s face before it’s frozen in place. I anticipated as much, the first arrow is merely a decoy, but the second arrow takes the queen by surprise and swipes a thin gash on her high cheek. I’m too far to admire the graze from high in the rafters. Still, a riotous satisfaction resonates at the sight of an arrow perched tightly into the throne by the side of Morda’s face.

  Gasps fill the air. The priest stops mid-sentence during his praise to the Sacred Six. Lady Vaneeda shifts nervously.

  The queen—the queen, however, smiles. The king beside her appears oblivious to the arro
w floating just before his queen’s head.

  The queen turns her head slowly, looking directly at me. I feel frozen, but not in fear. In awe, pure astonishment. A low giggle churns through the cathedral until queen Morda starts laughing exuberantly. The audience is petrified and confused, whispering and murmuring amongst themselves in the pews.

  “Well played,” the queen says loud enough for me to hear. She reaches up and pulls the arrow from her throne and inspects it delicately between her fingers. Her smile falls, and she sighs gravely.

  “I knew someone was spying on me that night. I could feel it. I could smell it. How did you conceal yourself? Magic?” the queen asserts.

  “Y—your majesty?” the priest says. The look on his face is miserable. The queen waves her hand, a pulse of darkness surges through the air, and the priest’s neck splits open, spraying a shower of ruby blood over the dais. It drenches lady Vaneeda, who doesn’t seem bothered by the bloodshed. The crowd immediately clamors into a panic. From here, they look like ants scurrying about their anthill as if being stomped by a careless child. Another wave of the queen’s hand and all the doors in the cathedral slam shut resoundingly. The shouts evolve into a violent roar. The queen still sits on her throne, unmoved. Her smile returns, and she looks to a tall mirror beyond the pulpit that hangs before a long table of half-melted candles. I can see her lips moving, but with the roar of panic, I can’t hear her words. I can only stare at the mirror. At first, nothing happens—just the reflection of nobleman darting through its image. Then the polished surface becomes black. Swirls of raven-colored smoke pull away from the surface like a tunnel being mined in the daoi quarry.

  A long ebony snout emerges from the mirror. Its face is covered in scales and fangs darker than ink. It slowly creeps out onto the cathedral floor. I recognize the long finger-like spines protrude from his back, oozing black tar. I cringe at the paws of razor-sharp talons curving in vicious crescents. The demonic hound snarls and rows of teeth flare beneath its rotted lip. A putrid smell of carrion and brimstone wafts through the air—my nose twitches at the stench, and my stomach knots at the hellish beast.