Thief

By Jane Glatt

Book 1 - Brotherhood of the Throne -
When Duke Thorold murders her mother,indentured servant Brenna Trewen flees to Kingsreach.
Forced to live in the shadows, she’s caught stealing from the Church of the One-God and comes to the attention of Kane Rowse. But Kane is more than the Captain of the Kingsguard, he’s also a senior member of the Brotherhood of the Throne, a secret society that follows the old gods and was formed generations ago to safeguard the bloodline of the first king.
And with the childless king dying, the Brotherhood is convinced that Brenna is the one prophesied – the one they have waited two millennia for.
Despite her new-found magical abilities, Brenna doesn’t believe in the Brotherhood’s prophecy. But when the Church of the One-God tries to kill her, she’s forced to accept their offer of a safe haven.
After stealing her mother’s knife from Duke Thorold, Brenna realizes that it is made of the same old steel as the ancient weapons of the Brotherhood. Is she really the one prophesied? And can the Brotherhood keep her safe from both Duke Thorold and the Church of the One-God?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Glatt
• Release date: Jul 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988029132

Jane Glatt

I love creating new worlds and causing trouble for the people who inhabit them.

Book preview

Brotherhood of the Throne

Book 1

Thief

Jane Glatt

Copyright © 2012 Roberta Jane Glatt

Jane Glatt Enterprises Inc.

www.Janeglatt.com

ISBN 978-0-988021-0-1

All Rights Reserved worldwide under the Berne Convention. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication for purposes of training artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text, including without limitation technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

one

Her mother would be furious but she climbed up onto the roof anyway. Tomorrow was her sixteenth nameday and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it from coming. But she wasn’t sixteen yet so she was going to enjoy her last night of childhood, her last night of freedom, the last night she could do as she pleased. She was going to the one spot in her world where she felt completely safe.

Brenna hunched over as she scrambled across the cold slate tiles. The biting wind whipped mountain snow across the roof. She paused to blow on her hands in an effort to keep them warm and supple. She’d made this climb at least once a week since she was eight and she knew which shingles were loose, knew where the pigeons roosted, knew where lamplight shone when the Duke and his household were awake in the night. Like now.

She shielded her eyes against the glare from the window and watched, grateful for her ability to see well in the dark, a trait she shared with her mother. After a few minutes of nothing but night Brenna eased across the patch of light. When she was in the shadow below the window she breathed out once, a dim cloud in the cold air.

Brenna.

She whirled and reached one hand out towards the voice. Her hand closed tightly on an arm and she wrenched it against her chest. Her other hand wrapped over a mouth and clamped down and she pulled the smaller body up against her, the head chin height

I told you to stay inside tonight brat, Brenna hissed. She removed her hand from his mouth.

"But it’s your last night.

And I told you to stay inside. Brenna released her grip and sighed. Beldyn this is the one night when he’ll be much harder on you than me if we’re caught. She turned him around until she could peer down into his eyes. Brat you know he needs me whole and sound for tomorrow. He’d take it all out on you.

I don’t care. Beldyn leaned into her and she ruffled his hair, her hand gliding from his head to the back of his finely knit wool tunic.

But I do. That stubborn streak will get you into trouble, Brenna said. She shook her head, recognizing her mother’s words, her mother’s fears. And how many times do I have to say good bye to you? Time for you to go back to your rooms.

I don’t want you to leave. Beldyn stepped back from her and she saw the glint of tears. He’s the one I want to leave.

You know that won’t happen. He’s the Duke and this estate belongs to him. By right of legitimate birth, Brenna thought, and she pushed the old anger back down, hard. Besides, you’ll forget all about me in a few weeks.

You know I won’t. Beldyn looked up at her and she was surprised by the fierceness in his face. "You’ve been my only friend. You’ve treated me better than my own mother.

She has her own demons to deal with, Brenna said. Even after all she’d seen and heard she was unwilling to demean the mother in front of the son.

And I’m on my own now. At least I always had you.

We both know I’m not leaving because I want to.

I know. It’s him. He did this. I wish he were dead.

And Brenna, shocked at the hatred she heard in the boy’s voice, grabbed Beldyn’s shoulders and pulled him to face her.

Brat you can’t let him make you mean, do you hear me? If you do you’ll be just like him. And where would that leave me? She heard the desperation in her voice and stopped, trying to settle the knot in her stomach. "You’re my hope, brat. I need you to look out for my mother. And when you’re older and he is dead I need you to come find me. That’s what we talked about—my safe place for your promise to find me when he’s gone."

I remember, Beldyn said.

His head rubbed against her shoulder as he nodded into the cloth of her coat.

I won’t ever forget Brenna.

Good. I need you to survive him, Beldyn. For both of us. Brenna straightened up and ruffled his hair again. Time to get back inside before anyone notices you’re missing.

Beldyn nodded and turned back toward the window. He reached up to the ledge and jumped. His hands gripped tightly while his foot found the toe hold Brenna had gouged into the stone years ago. When he pulled himself up to sit on the window ledge she nodded, satisfied.

Are you going up there now? Beldyn asked. To the safe place?"

"Yes. It seemed like the best place to spend my last night.

I’ll miss you Brenna. May the One-God keep you. And then the boy slipped into the darkened room.

Brenna, alone on the cold rooftop, murmured prayers to her own gods, the old gods, into the icy wind. She tucked her hair behind her ear and blew on her hands, once, twice, before she moved on.

A few short minutes later Brenna folded herself into the gap between two stone blocks. The old blanket was where she’d left it, some straw still tucked under it, saved somehow from the fierce winds that blew down from the mountains. Brenna piled the straw and sat down before she pulled the blanket up and over her head. She wished for better made clothing, like the fine wool Beldyn wore rather than coarse, heavy cotton. Then she was settled and out of the wind and her physical discomfort faded in the face of her fear of what the morning would bring. A morning that would see her sent away from the only life she had ever known, away from her mother, the only person who truly loved her. All because of the circumstances of her birth, all because she was the illegitimate child of an indentured servant.

Brenna looked directly out across the rooftop to the large window in front of her. An overhanging gable kept her position completely in the shadows yet allowed her a clear view of the room and its occupant. Tonight, as always, the room was lit with so many lamps and candles that she could see straight through to the door at the far end of the room. Just for a moment, her heart raced and she felt the panic start. Then she saw him and she calmed, her eyes fixed on the figure seated by the fire.

Her safe place was a cold perch on top of a roof. But it was safe because she could see him, she knew were he was. Safe because when he was in there and she was out here, he couldn’t reach her. Now it would become Beldyn’s safe place, where he too could be safe from Duke Thorold, where he too could be out of his reach—at least for a few moments.

She started awake and was half standing before she remembered where she was. A quick look showed her only a dim glow in the dark squares of the Duke’s windows. Brenna sat back down and pulled the blanket even tighter across her shoulders. She should go down now while she had the chance, she knew. Her mother would be looking for her on this, her last night.

But she stayed were she was because it was after midnight and she was sixteen now, by law a woman full grown. But there would be no celebration for her nameday: she would see no pride in her mother’s eyes today. No, Brenna would see only fear and sadness and worry when she looked at her mother for what might be the very last time in her life. So it had been for her mother when she turned sixteen and had been sold into Duke Thorold’s household, so it would be for Brenna as she was sold into servitude.

Reaching into her pocket, fingers clumsy with cold, Brenna searched until she found the small pouch she kept her herbs in. She pulled it out and loosened the leather thongs. She needed to stay awake now with dawn so close. Her hand closed on the knobby ginseng root and she pulled it out and took a bite, feeling the sharp tang on her tongue. She retied the pouch and shoved it back in her pocket, waiting for the ginseng to take away the worst of her weariness.

Brenna tracked the time not by the stars as they moved across the sky, nor by any brightening of the winter sky. She tracked the time by the glow of firelight coming from Duke Thorold’s bedchamber window. When the glow increased she knew the servants had come to start the Duke’s day. Carefully she stood and stretched her cold, stiff muscles. Then she folded the blanket and tucked it back into the niche. With an eye on the windows above her she brushed straw off her black breeches and backed away down the roof. In less than fifteen minutes she was back on the roof of the stable. She inched herself over the eave towards the window of the small loft she shared with her mother. She toed open the shutter, planted her feet on the window sill, and swung down.

Brenna, there you are.

Brenna crouched in the window frame then jumped softly to the floor. I’ve been seeing my nameday in, Mama.

I can see that. Here, Wynne Trewen took the blanket from her shoulders. I’ve been sitting by the fire, I’m warm enough.

Thanks Mama, Brenna said as she wrapped the blanket around her. She breathed in deeply, savouring the smell of wood smoke layered over top of the scent of her mother, spicy and sweet with the lingering odours of the many herbs she used in her work as a healer.

I thought you’d be angry with me, Brenna said. She huddled down on the floor next to the small fire. She looked up when her mother took the single stool across from her and her chest tightened when she saw the sadness on her mother’s face.

I thought I would be too. Wynne shook her head. But you are a woman grown now and you must do what’s right for you. Although I had hoped …

I told you I wouldn’t run away, Brenna said, angry now. Not and leave you here to take the blame. He’d kill you!

Quite likely.

Brenna squeezed her eyes shut at the pain and sadness and grief in her mother’s words.

But you would be away from here, you would have a chance at a better life. It would be worth it to me.

But not to me! How could I leave knowing that it would cause your death?

But it wouldn’t be you who killed me, remember that. Her mother’s voice was little more than a whisper. But it was an old argument, one that her mother knew she would never win.

Mama I told you about Beldyn’s promise to me. He will do it. He will.

Yes. The promise of a ten-year-old boy who has been terrorized more than you could possibly know.

Brenna opened her mouth to reply but her mother’s sad smile stopped her.

I know that Beldyn means what he says, daughter. But it’s many years until he is a man and with that father who knows what kind of man Beldyn will become?

Brenna dropped her head to her knees and let her long hair fall over her eyes, hoping to shield her tears from her mother. Beldyn had to survive, he had to come find her, he had to. She couldn’t let go of that faint hope because without it she had none.

I’m sure he will do as he says, Wynne said gently. Now, let’s go over the prayers and passages that my mother taught to me. There is little enough of her that I can pass along, so I need you to remember. After that we’ll go down to the workshop and make sure you have all the herbs you’ll need. Cook’s son hears that the lady of the house you’re going to is heavy with child and ill with it.

Brenna sighed. She straightened up and shrugged the kinks out of her shoulders. Let’s start with the one for my eyes, she said. That’s the one I need the most. And she wondered, as she did every time she said the short prayer, why it was her grandmother had taught her mother this particular prayer when her mother clearly had no need of it.

You mustn’t forget to say it Brenna, every morning. Wynne gripped her arm hard and Brenna nodded. And remember not to let anyone hear you.

I know, the old gods aren’t welcome everywhere.

Nor are witches.

But we’re not witches.

There are those who would call us that because we know the ways of healing.

And because of my eyes, Brenna added. Not for the first time she wished she’d been born with her mother’s eyes—two clear blue eyes filled with kindness and intelligence.

Yes, because of your eyes, Wynne agreed. Say the prayer now; I can see a little green showing in your eye already.

Wise Ush, Brenna began her voice a low whisper. Let all see what is not. Two brown eyes and no trace of one green.

Good, Wynne peered at Brenna’s eyes again. They’re both the same brown now. Finish with the other passage and meet me in the workroom. I have a present for you.

As she watched her mother climb down the ladder to the stable below Brenna quickly started to mumble the second phrase. Brothers by the throne … The words came automatically, with no sense to them that she could make out. Her mother claimed no more understanding of it than she had, but said her mother, Brenna’s grandmother, had insisted she learn it and pass it down to her children. Brenna had not heard her mother speak the phrase for years—she claimed she could no longer form the words—but she knew them well enough to know when Brenna had made a mistake. Wynne had schooled Brenna harder in the two prayers than she had in the arts of healing. And she’d been a firm taskmaster for that.

Brenna put her one dress into her pack and slung it over her shoulder. She was still in the dark tunic and breeches she’d worn on the roof and she saw no reason to change. She wanted her new owner to see her as a youth, a non-woman whose only value was her healing skills. She hoped not to share the fate of her mother—forced into the bed of her lord and master. It was a faint hope she knew. Duke Thorold’s glances at her told her he had noticed her passage into womanhood. No doubt the only thing stopping him from taking her to bed was his belief that he had sired her.

Brenna stepped out over the edge of the loft and placed her foot on the ladder rung. This was the last time she’d ever do that here, she thought sadly. Likely the last time she’d share a space with her mother. She paused for a moment then spied the blanket she’d discarded by the fire, the one that smelled so much of her mother. She stepped back onto the loft floor, scooped up the blanket and tucked it into her pack. She hoped Mama wouldn’t mind, hoped she wasn’t consigning her mother to months of cold, but she needed to take her smell with her, needed to wrap herself in her mother’s essence.

Where’s the whelp? She was to be ready at dawn.

Brenna froze at the sound of the duke’s voice booming in the quiet of the stable. She couldn’t hear what her mother said in reply but she recognized the soft tone, the slow cadence designed to placate and calm. She’d heard her mother speak to Duke Thorold in that same manner countless times.

I don’t care that this is your last day together, witch. She’s not yours and has never been yours, as you’ll both truly know after today. Now where is she?

I’m sorry my Lord Duke. I’m coming. Brenna tried to keep her voice steady as she hurried to the ladder and took the steps two at a time.

When she reached the floor of the stable she hefted her bag onto her shoulder. Then she turned towards the door to the workroom. Duke Thorold’s bulk filled the doorway, the fine rich silks and furs no doubt keeping him warm despite the cold air.

He took a step toward her, his glare making her duck her head, but after a moment she lifted her head and met his eyes. She knew it would enrage him but she hoped it deflected the Duke’s anger from her mother to her, gambling that he wanted to hand her over to her new master unmarked.

You insolent child, Duke Thorold took another step toward her and still Brenna held his gaze. How dare you taunt me?

Brenna could see her mother’s worried face behind him, her head shaking no as she looked on.

Finally, Brenna lowered her head. It would help neither of them if she pushed Thorold into a rage. I’m sorry my Lord Duke, I thought you might want to confirm that I am free of blemishes or marks.

Duke Thorold took one more threatening step and Brenna saw Wynne slide out behind him.

I apologize as well my Lord, Wynne said as she dropped into a low bow. It was I who delayed Brenna’s parting. I have one more thing to give to her but I needed to fetch it from the workroom.

And what is it you wish to give her?

Just my work knife, my Lord, and as Brenna watched Wynne held up her sheathed knife to the Duke. It was my own mother’s gift to me before I came here.

Your knife. Thorold snatched it out of her hand and drew the blade. Since I own you, anything you own is mine."

But it was my mother’s. The only thing of hers that I have. Wynne’s voice was so quiet Brenna could barely hear her, but she saw her mother’s back sag as her head dipped lower.

This is a very fine knife, witch, Thorold said. He ignored Wynne’s bent form as he held the blade up to the torch light. You should have given it to me long ago. I shall punish you for that, my dear.

No! Brenna hadn’t meant to speak it out loud, hadn’t meant to give that single word so much force, but as Duke Thorold drew himself to his full height and turned all his attention to her Brenna breathed in, almost in relief. She slipped her bag off her shoulder and let it fall to the dusty stable floor. Then she looked him straight in the eye.

He would kill her. She knew it by the anger she saw fill his eyes, the cold smirk he wore as he stepped over her mother, who had sunk to the ground, eyes round with fear.

No, my Lord, please no, Wynne sobbed and clutched at his leg as he moved past her. Thorold shook his foot free and then kicked out, the toughened leather of his boot thudding against Wynne’s shoulder and spinning her backwards to land hard against the door frame.

Leave my mother alone! Brenna shouted; her fear burned away by her rage.

And what will you do about it? Thorold stopped three steps from her and laughed. She’s mine, as are you. I could kill you both and no one would care.

You’d kill your own flesh and blood?

My dear wife has been insisting I get rid of you for years. I don’t think she much cares how I do it. He held up the knife, her mother’s knife, so it flashed in the torch light. I think this will work nicely, don’t you?

Despite her fear, despite the clammy sweat she felt trickle between her breasts, Brenna stayed where she was, head up, eyes on him as he took one step, then another, towards her. Now he was close enough that one long-armed swipe with the knife would open her throat, but still, she didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze from his. If he was going to kill her she wanted him to remember the anger and hatred in her eyes, wanted the way she died, without fear of him, to taunt him always.

Ah such a brave child. Such a foolish, brave child, Thorold said. Too foolish to realize that there are so many ways to create fear. And then he quickly stepped back and grabbed Wynne by the arm and yanked her up.

No! Brenna reached forward and her hand brushed her mother’s arm for just a second before Thorold wrenched Wynne away.

Holding her against his chest, he backed up into the doorway of the workroom. After a brief flash of panic, Wynne Trewen stopped struggling and lifted her head.

Good, Thorold said as she quieted, unaware of the determination on his captive’s face. He smirked at Brenna. I see the fear in your eyes at last. I was going to let your mother watch you die but now I see it will be much better this way. Then he reached around and placed the knife against her mother’s throat.

Run Brenna, Wynne Trewen said, her last words ever before the knife bit into her neck. With a cry Brenna lurched forward as blood fountained from her mother’s throat. Thorold yelled and stumbled backward into the workroom. He let go of her mother, who slumped to the floor, then he tripped and sprawled beside the old worktable.

Mama, don’t die. Brenna dropped to the ground beside her mother. She grabbed her mother’s shawl and pressed it against the wound, trying to stanch the blood even as the healer in her recognized that it was too late—her mother was already dead. Brenna gently wiped the blood from her mother’s face and laid the soaked shawl across the spreading stain, covering the gaping wound in her throat. Her head bent, a great sob lodged in her chest and tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt and looked up. The Duke’s prone form lay on the hard packed dirt, her mother’s bloody knife a few feet from his hand.

I’ll make you pay for this, Brenna said. She staggered to her feet and took one unsteady step towards the Duke. Even as she wondered why he was on the ground, why he was so far away from his victim, he sat up, eyes dazed, and reached wildly for her mother’s knife. His fist closed on it and Brenna stopped. Knife held towards her, he got to his knees.

Brenna’s chest heaved with grief and pain and hatred. As much as she wanted to hurt Duke Thorold, she knew she was no match for him physically. And her mother had told her to run, had sacrificed her life so that Brenna had this chance. She must take it, must make her mother’s death have some meaning.

Guards! Thorold’s voice was as a croak. He lurched to his feet, blade pointed at her.

She couldn’t retrieve her mother’s knife. Not now.

I will make you pay, Brenna said as she backed away from him. Someday.

With a quick look behind her she stooped to pick up her pack. She took a deep breath and looked at her mother’s face, relaxed and peaceful in death, before she turned and headed for the loft. She’d go out the window and across the roof to the woods. The dogs would have a hard time picking up her scent if she stayed high until she was into deeper snow. Then she’d head to Kingsreach and away from Duke Thorold’s lands. It was the largest city in Soule and she was good at hiding. Thorold’s men wouldn’t find her there.

two

Brenna slipped in through the window, careful not to open one of the shutters too widely. She’d spent the better part of two days assessing the inn and knew that the leather hinge on the left-hand shutter was weak and caused the wood to scrape the windowsill. It was less than three hours before dawn and any noise would sound loud in the quiet night.

From the window ledge she carefully eased one soft-soled foot after the other onto the floor. She took a quick look back at the courtyard. The stables sat silent, doors shut tightly against the cool, spring air. A weak light spilled into the night below where the kitchen backed out onto the courtyard. No doubt the baker was getting bread ready for early travelers. She saw no sign of the inn guards—good, she’d not been noticed.

She gently nudged the shutters back in place, careful to make sure they were in the same position she’d found them. The guards employed by better inns, such as this one, were former Kingsguard. They were well trained and observant. But so was she. Brenna had never been caught in her six years as a thief.

She listened to the steady breathing of the room’s single occupant and slowly matched her own breathing to his as her eyes adjusted to the near darkness.

The room was on the second floor—one of the middle rooms—so there was only the one window that faced north. The narrow bed was pushed up against the east wall and a small dresser topped with a washbasin was wedged between the bed and the door.

To her right was a small chair laden with what smelled like well-worn clothes. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. So much for priests being closer to the One-God than the rest of us—the man’s clothing smelled like a mule wet down with cheap wine.

The room’s occupant had left his pack leaning against the door, a country trick to try to foil anyone bent on opening the door. Brenna gave a silent snort of derision. Someone in the hall could snatch the bag and be gone with it in two breaths.

Nothing in the room looked out of place so she focused on the sleeper. It seemed her information about this priest was correct and he’d overindulged in drink, as was his habit. His breath smelled sour and an empty bottle lay on the floor by his bed. A cup with a few drops of dark liquid still clinging to it stood on the washstand.

She silently padded over to the bed. By the throne! The priest was sleeping with one hand curled around the object she’d come to collect. He must be very determined to make this delivery to the High Bishop. But why was the High Bishop was collecting this for Duke Thorold of Comack?

In the six years since she’d fled to Kingsreach she’d been prying into the duke and his affairs and according to her information he’d been quietly collecting similar weapons for a while. She had yet to figure out how to make him pay for her mother’s death, but she would, one day. For now, she stole goods destined for him. It was only a minor irritant for the duke, but Brenna had a secret satisfaction knowing he’d be furious if he learned that she was responsible.

Eryl’s description of the object was accurate, as always. She could clearly see the cracked red leather of the scabbard and the shine—pure gold, according to Eryl—of the knife hilt. On the crosspiece two red rubies winked dimly even in the dark room. Something about the knife felt old, ancient even, which Eryl had not mentioned. She briefly wondered if the other weapons Duke Thorold had collected were old as well. It was something to think about later, after she’d stolen this one.

Brenna stood still and breathed softly in concert with the sleeping priest. She had only another hour or so before the pre-dawn sky lightened. She had to find a way to get the knife without disturbing the sleeper.

The priest snorted softly and Brenna rocked back on her heels until he resettled himself. Her luck was holding—the slight shift of the sleeper had moved his grip from the knife hilt to the scabbard. She should be able to slide the knife out without waking the priest. She might lose some of her commission but that was a small price to pay for successful retrieval of the knife. Let Duke Thorold have the scabbard.

After another silent twenty minutes without any movements by the sleeping priest, Brenna reached out to grasp the hilt of the knife.

A shock of warmth ran up her arm and the hilt under her hand started to glow with a clear, white light. Startled, Brenna stumbled back, but instead of letting go of the knife she pulled the cursed thing from its scabbard. Eyes wide she raised the blade, which now shone brightly enough to illuminate the room. There was a muffled gasp and she turned and met the terror-filled eyes of the priest.

Brenna recovered first. She dropped the knife to floor and immediately the room plunged back into darkness. She swore at herself for losing her composure, but how could she have known what would happen when the knife was out of its scabbard? She carefully backed away, feeling her way in the dark room. The window must be right behind her now.

Guard! Guard!! The priest had recovered enough wits to sound an alarm. Help!

Brenna heard the rustle of cloth as he got out of bed.

Eyes not quite adjusted to the dark after the blinding glow of the knife, Brenna fumbled the shutters open, wincing as one shutter scraped loudly along the wood. Brothers! She was making too much noise!

With a quick prayer to Jik for protection she peered out over the courtyard. No sign of any guards there but she could hear loud steps coming up the stairs. She glanced back to find the priest struggling to move his pack and open the door. One final look and her stomach tightened—a single guard blocked the light that spilled in from the hallway. That meant the other two were somewhere else. Brenna slipped onto the sill, crouched, and reached to grab the roof ledge.

A hand grasped her right wrist, painfully.

Got him!

She was hauled up and onto the roof and then dumped at the feet of one of the inn guards.

Brenna swore under her breath as she looked up at the scowling guard. She hoped Eryl would honor their deal and buy her bond.

Kane shifted his weight and listened as Thomas Valden, the High Bishop of the Church of the One-God, petitioned King Mattias. The king slouched on an ornate chair, his gold shirt and deep blue vest only serving to emphasize the sickly yellow pallor of his skin. Brown hair and beard trimmed short, he leaned his chin on one pale hand. Even though it was still the