Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (12 page)

“But, Ator,” Dedri pleaded, “who will care
for you and your daughter?”

Gracielle moved in very close to Dedri and
spoke right in her face. “Listen to me, Dedri. If you are
unscrupulous enough to strike this young lady, what makes you think
that I would allow you anywhere near my daughter?”

“But, your majesty, she's only a kitchen
maid.” Dedri was shaking and twitching. Kahlie couldn't tell if she
was angry, or embarrassed, or just plain crazy.

Gracielle stepped back and placed her arm
around Kahlie's shoulders. “No Dedri, she isn't. She is Kahlie—the
companion servant of the ator of Lor Mandela.” Kahlie gasped, and
Gracielle added, “Now, would you like to bow to her before you
leave, or shall I call the Guard and have you forcibly
removed?”

Dedri glared in shock from Gracielle to
Kahlie and then back to Gracielle again. “Forgive me. Good day,
Milady,” she sneered, as she bowed to Kahlie, and then turned and
rushed from the room.

“Well,” Gracielle chuckled as she watched
Dedri angrily retreat, “I guess we'd better get you moved to your
new chambers.”

Kahlie stared at her gaping.

“And I probably should introduce you to the
atoc.”

And that's how it happened. It was like a
dream come true for Kahlie, who had never dared to imagine herself
in such a prestigious position, especially at such a young age; she
had just turned fourteen.

Now, not only was she companion servant to
Ator Gracielle, she would be helping with Audril as well. She
walked over to where Audril was sleeping, kissed her own hand and
touched it softly to Audril's rosy little cheek. She smiled at
Gracielle and Jonathan and said, “If you'll not be needing anything
more . . . .”

Gracielle replied, “No, my dear. It's time
for you to get that beauty sleep, remember?”

“Hmpf!” Jonathan chimed in grinning from ear
to ear. “If this vision of loveliness gets any more beautiful,
we'll have to assign her guards of her own, just to keep the young
men away!”

Kahlie's freckles darkened as her face
blushed to bright scarlet. “Th . . . thank you, Atoc,” she giggled
and headed off to her chambers.

“Now . . . .” Jonathan
turned to Gracielle. “I know that
you
can't get any more beautiful . .
. but you still need your sleep.” He kissed her cheek and her eyes
fluttered shut.

“Mmmm,” she sighed, as she dozed
peacefully.

Jonathan stood and walked to Audril's
intricately carved, lace covered bassinet. “Hello, Angel,” he
whispered.

Her little eyes blinked open, as if she’d
heard and understood him.

He leaned over and gently lifted her up,
cradling her in his arms, and began to hum softly to her. She
wriggled a bit, but then quickly fell back asleep.

Jonathan just held her; he watched her sleep
for almost an hour, before finally laying her back down.

It was strange. Almost the moment that he
set her in the bassinet, his emotions started to spin out of
control. He was elated that she was finally here, but then worried
about her future, and that wretched Advantiere. Then, he was happy
that both she and Gracielle were healthy, and then suddenly
angry—very angry! Angry that his parents weren't here; angry that
Ultara had killed them; angry that Anika had started all of this
chaos; angry that Lantalia hadn’t been able to stop it, and even
angry at Nenia, for disappearing and making him occasionally feel
sorry for her mother.

It was at that point that
he realized he
did
feel hatred for Ultara—very real, very strong hatred, and,
fate of the world relying on it or not, he didn't know how to stop
it. How could she have done this? His parents had respected her and
treated her well; so did he and Gracielle. How could power have
possibly been so important that she would descend to killing
friends? The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, until
the only thought racing through his mind was that Ultara had to
die. He would never be able to forgive her and let go of his hatred
unless justice was served.

And that's when it hit him. There was a
way—a way to get into Trysta Palace to find Ultara. “Darian's . . .
friends,” he breathed.

Of
course
, he thought to himself.
Darian said he has Trysta spies! Why haven't I
thought of this before?
He marched over to
the door and looked out into the hall. A palace guard just happened
to be strolling past.

“You there!” he commanded.

The guard froze in place.

“Send word to Darian of Brashnell. Inform
him that I need to speak with him . . . this evening if
possible.”

The guard bowed. “Yes, Atoc,” he
replied.

Jonathan signaled for him to rise and added,
“Let me know his answer as soon as you hear.”

The guard nodded and sped quickly down the
corridor.

“Jonathan? Is everything okay?” Gracielle's
faint voice called out from behind him. She was still groggy, but
had heard him talking to the guard. “What's Darian up to now?” she
asked.

“Oh, it's nothing, Graci . . . nothing to
worry about. Just go back to sleep.”

“How's the baby?” she asked.

He didn't answer her at first. Instead he
walked to Audril's bassinet, picked her up, and carried her over
and laid her at Gracielle's side. “She's perfect, my love, and
almost as beautiful as her mother.” He smoothed Gracielle's silky
raven hair back off of her cheeks as she drifted back to sleep.

A few seconds later, there was a soft
knocking at the door. Jonathan didn't want to wake Gracielle by
calling out, so he walked over and answered it. “Kahlie?”

He was surprised to see her back so soon.
“Weren't you supposed to be getting some rest?” He pulled the door
open wide, and signaled for Kahlie to come in.

“Um . . . y . . . yes, Atoc, but I couldn't
sleep,” she fluttered. “If it's all right, I'd rather be here,
sir.”

“Well, okay,” he agreed, “but you'll need to
sleep eventually, Milady.”

Kahlie blushed again. It wasn't customary
for the ator's companion servant to be referred to as ‘Milady;’ but
ever since Gracielle told Jonathan about how Dedri had called
‘Milady,’ he had decided to do the same. “Oh, I . . . I promise
I'll sleep while the ator and baby sleep tonight. I'm fine,
really,” she insisted.

“All right then,” he replied, “I do have one
or two little things I could to attend to.”

“Uh . . . uh . . . of course, Atoc,” she
stammered, “Don’t worry. I'll look after them now.”

Jonathan stood and tousled her red curls
again. “Well . . . that is what you do best,” He replied. He bowed
lowly to her and walked toward the door. “Thank you, Milady. I'll
return shortly.”

He had no sooner left the room when a
familiar voice called out from behind him. “Atoc Jonathan! How
fortunate!”

He turned and was surprised to see Darian
himself coming down the hall toward him. “Oh, Darian,” Jonathan
began, “Hello . . . I didn't expect to see you so soon.”

Darian bowed humbly and explained, “Yes,
Sir. As it turns out, I've been in Mandela City all afternoon. With
the northern evacuations, Brashnell has become quite . . . um,
shall we say, cozy. I was hoping that the situation here was not as
uncomfortable but,” he chuckled, “I can see that you are facing the
same dilemmas that we are.”

Jonathan nodded in agreement. “I'm afraid
so. Please, Darian, let's go someplace where we can talk.”

“Of course, Atoc. Lead the way.” Darian
followed Jonathan out to the foyer and across it to a richly
appointed lounge near the main palace doors.

Jonathan motioned for Darian to enter. “Can
I get you anything, Darian?”

“Oh . . . thank you . . . no, sire.” Darian
waited for Jonathan to sit down before lowering onto a large
leather bench across from him. “I understand congratulations are in
order. I assume that the ator and new atoh are well?” he asked.

“Yes Darian, thank you.” Jonathan hadn’t
planned what he would say to Darian, so he just got straight to the
point. “Darian, you came and saw me and my father the night before
he was murdered. Do you remember?”

The fires in Darian's dark eyes seemed to
shrink slightly. “Yes, Atoc, I remember well.”

Jonathan continued. “You warned us that
Ultara was going to attack; I've never thanked you for that
warning.”

“There is no need, Sire,” Darian assured, “I
was only doing my duty. I'm just sorry that I couldn't have done
more.”

“Nonetheless, I owe you my thanks,” Jonathan
pressed, leaning forward in his chair. “I also wanted to apologize
for my attitude toward you that night. As I recall, I was not very
pleasant.”

“Atoc,” Darian stood and started wandering
around the room. “I have many enemies on Lor Mandela. I've never
worried about what others think or say about me. As such, I'm sure
you've heard many rumors and stories about the Evil Darian. I would
think you a fool to not be a little suspicious of me.” He eyed
Jonathan intently. “Now, what can I do for you, Atoc?”

Jonathan drew in a deep breath. “You
mentioned that night that you had some Trysta friends. Is this
still the case?”

Darian smiled. He strolled over to a row of
shelves that lined one entire wall of the room and picked up a
small jade statuette. He turned the figurine over and over in his
hand, and then set it back down and redirected his attention to
Jonathan. “I have a few,” he smirked.

“What do you know of Ultara's whereabouts,
Darian?” Jonathan quizzed.

Darian returned to the bench and lowered
himself onto it. He leaned toward Jonathan and whispered, “She
stays in the palace. She disappears for a couple of hours every
once in a while, but the bulk of the time she is at the
palace.”

“Where does she go when she disappears?”
Jonathan quizzed.

“I'm not certain,” he replied casually.

Jonathan's expression became deathly
serious. “Darian . . . how close can your people get to her?”

Darian shook his head. “My friends are very
good listeners, Atoc, but you know how difficult it is to see the
vritesse if you aren't on the council. They can only bring me what
they hear. Believe me, Atoc, if I could have gotten someone close
enough to her for long enough . . .”

He paused and looked at his hand for a
second, then raised it to his mouth and bit at one of his
fingernails before nonchalantly adding, “She would have been dead a
long time ago.”

Jonathan was suddenly questioning his plan.
Darian had just admitted—without a hint of conscience—that he would
murder Ultara if he had a chance. Was this the kind of man with
whom the atoc of Lor Mandela should be conspiring? Although he
deeply believed that Ultara should be sentenced to death, there
were channels to be followed and now, in light of Darian’s
confession, this didn't feel right. “I don't suppose my plan will
work then.” He tried to bow out gracefully.

A sinister smile spread slowly across
Darian's face. “No, I imagine not . . . but mine might.”

“Yours? You have a plan, Darian?” Jonathan
asked. “Why does that worry me?”

Darian laughed. “It's really quite simple,
Atoc. You want Ultara to be brought to justice; I want the
same.”

“But you've already said that you can't get
to her,” Jonathan reminded. “Neither can I. She can't be brought to
justice if no one can get their hands on her.”

Darian smirked, “Perhaps not, Atoc, but I
have a proposition for you.”

“What do you mean?” Jonathan asked. He had
no idea where this was heading, but he was sure that any
proposition devised by Darian of Brashnell would be questionable at
best.

“I have already told you that Ultara leaves
the palace every once in a while,” he explained.

“Yes, Darian,” Jonathan acknowledged, “but
what does that have to do with anything?”

“I propose this,” Darian smirked, bristling
with confidence. “I tell you where she is going, if you will allow
me the privilege of being her executioner.”

“What?” Jonathan blurted. “That's absurd!
Besides, you just told me that you don't know where she goes!”

“No, Atoc,” Darian
corrected, “I said that I am not
certain
where she goes.”

“Explain,” Jonathan demanded.

“I’ve received information
from one of my best informers, Atoc. She is someone who I generally
deem quite reliable.” Darian stood and started pacing again.
“However, I make it a point to never
absolutely
accept what any of my
spies tell me. They are spies, after all. Let's just say that I'm
about ninety-eight percent sure.”

“I just can’t turn Ultara over to you,
Darian,” Jonathan began. “She will have to be tried and convicted
before I can sign an order of execution.”

“Of course, Atoc,” Darian replied smugly, “I
excel at being patient. I just want to be the one who takes care of
her once and for all . . . when the time comes.” He lowered back
onto the bench and stared Jonathan in the eyes; his fiery pupils
glistened savagely. “She killed your parents, Sire, and she is
hiding in that palace like some coward . . . I am almost certain
that she is responsible for what is happening to Lor Mandela, as
well.”

Jonathan became lost in his thoughts. Darian
didn't know about the Advantiere, and that was just fine. There was
no way that he was going to let him in on that secret. But Darian
was right about the rest. Ultara had brutally attacked his parents,
without provocation, and used her power and influence to hide
herself away. She deserved to be brought to justice; she deserved
to die. He felt the same unquenchable fury as earlier building
inside him. He wanted her to answer for her crime; he wanted her to
experience the horror to which she had subjected his parents.