Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (13 page)

After several minutes, he finally
replied.

“Where does she go, Darian?” he breathed
quietly. “If you want to be the one to kill her, I will arrange
it.”

Darian looked like a cat ready to pounce on
its prey. He hunched over toward Jonathan—his face wild with
anticipation. “Excellent, Atoc,” he gushed. “You’ll be very glad
you’ve agreed. You see, when Ultara leaves Trysta Palace, she comes
here.”

“Here, as in Mandela City?”

“No, Sire. Here, as in Mandela Palace.”

“What? Impossible!” Jonathan blurted.

“It's true, Sire. My source informs me that
there is something she is trying to get her hands on here in the
palace.”

“How does your source know this?” Jonathan
insisted.

“She was near the gate of that monstrosity
of a wall when she spotted Ultara running toward it. Let’s just say
that it would have been unfortunate for this young lady if Ultara
had seen her, so she quickly hid behind a bush or something.”

Darian seemed embarrassed that one of his
spies had done something so mundane.

“Ultara charged directly toward the gate,
and just before she was about to crash into it, she shouted,
‘Mandela Palace,’ and disappeared.” He leaned back on the bench and
added, “Doesn't leave much to the imagination does it?”

“Why would she come here? If she gets
caught, it's suicide.” Jonathan asked, more to himself than
Darian.

“Nonetheless,” Darian answered, “I don't
know what she's after, but I would be willing to bet that she is
plotting another attack, Atoc. You had best be on your guard.”

Horrifying thoughts raced through Jonathan’s
mind—thoughts of Ultara attacking Gracielle, or Audril.

If Ultara was coming to the palace, how
would they know? She had confided in Gracielle that she had
altering powers. She could make herself look like anyone!

This was a nightmare and Jonathan feared
that his family was in grave danger. “If what you say is true,
Darian, I have to go immediately and meet with my guards.”

Darian nodded in agreement, “Yes, Atoc. You
mustn't take any chances. I can rely on you to let me know when
she's captured?” He looked at Jonathan earnestly.

“Of course, Darian. We have an agreement.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Darian stood and bowed. “Yes, certainly.
Good evening, Atoc.”

“Good evening, Darian.”

Just outside the room in the hallway, there
was a faint swishing and the flutter of black fabric. A dark,
cloaked figure sped across the foyer to avoid being seen. Darian
turned into the large entrance hall just as the intruder
disappeared into a dim corridor across from him.

The cloaked figure was—of course—Ultara, and
she'd heard everything.

U
nbelievable!” Ultara seethed as she stormed down the
Executive Corridor at Trysta Palace.

A tall, lanky, brunette woman rushed up to
her and bowed

Ultara didn't break her gait. “Get me
Glaron! I'll be in the Throne Room!” she commanded forcefully.

“Yes, ma'am,” the woman responded nervously
and rushed away.

Ultara approached a tree-concealed doorway
and threw her hand angrily in the air. The tree practically
disintegrated as she stormed past. “Unbelievable!” she shouted
again.

She entered the Throne Room, which was dim
and dreary, in sharp contrast to the bright, ethereal areas in the
rest of the palace. The damp, granite walls were lined with spiral
torches that cast an eerie golden glow. The throne itself sat on a
raised, silvery rock platform with odd cryptic characters etched in
its jagged face. At the end of the platform, to the left and the
right of the throne, two roughly hewn pillars reached skyward,
tapering at the top into sleek, smooth points. The floor in front
of the platform was inlaid with an ornate mosaic star formed by
tiny moss green and white pebbles. It led to a stone bridge that
spanned a wide stream with rapids slamming noisily against its
rocky banks.

Dark twining branches, covered in sporadic
clumps of glossy, green leaves twisted up out of the ground and
formed a large tangled throne. The light cast by the torches
flickered across it and created unnaturally shaped shadows on
everything in the cold, misty room.

Ultara crossed the bridge, strode up to the
throne and in one fluid motion, sank down onto the gnarled seat.
She was fuming; her gold eyes shone like cat's eyes in the dimness.
She sulked in her throne and waited for Glaron—her chief advisor.
Within just a few seconds, an athletic man sporting a wavy, light
brown ponytail appeared through the branches at the door. He
strolled quickly over the bridge and approached Ultara, who was
hunched over holding her hand over her forehead.

“Good Evening, Vritesse,” he greeted as he
lowered to one knee in the center of the mosaic star.

“Glaron,” Ultara looked up and jumped right
to the point. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Of course, Ultara.” Glaron stood and leapt
with relative ease up onto the platform. “What can I do for
you?”

“I need you to go to Mandela Palace, and
speak to Ator Gracielle.”

Glaron's pale green eyes practically bulged
out of his head. “You need me to what?”

“I need you to go talk to Gracielle,” Ultara
repeated insistently.

“But, why?” he complained. “Ultara, they'll
slaughter me!”

She stood and walked over to one of the tall
stone pillars and leaned against it. “Relax Glaron. Have you ever
even been to Mandela Palace?” she asked.

“No,” he replied quietly.

“Then you won't be recognized.”

Glaron stared at Ultara, hoping to see some
hint that she was joking. Unfortunately, no such hint existed. “I
don't understand,” he began, “isn't that where you've been sneaking
off to . . . to work on the Advantiere? Why do you need me to go
too?”

Ultara explained, “Darian's puppets have
been at it again. One of them saw me transport to the palace.” She
walked to the edge of the platform and gracefully levitated to the
ground below. “Darian, of course, ran as fast as he could to the
atoc and made him a stellar deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Glaron asked.

“He told Jonathan that I was making frequent
visits to the palace, and in exchange for this information—when
they catch me there—Darian gets my head.”

“Really? That doesn't sound like something
that Atoc Jonathan would agree to.” Glaron walked to the edge of
the platform and lowered to sitting with his feet dangling over the
side.

“Oh, he agreed . . . didn't take him long
either. He thinks I killed his parents, Glaron; he wants me dead.”
She cleared her throat and continued, “At any rate, I can't go back
there now. It's too risky.”

“Can't you just alter yourself?” Glaron
asked, but quickly added, “Of course I'll go, but are you sure that
this is the best option? I'm not the most eloquent man, you
know.”

“It's the only option right now, Glaron,”
she insisted. “I can only alter myself into female forms. Gracielle
knows that it is impossible to alter gender. They'll be looking for
a woman, and you are the only man I can trust.”

“Gee, thanks,” Glaron replied sarcastically,
“so why do you want me to talk to the ator. Shouldn't I just go to
the Advantiere room and copy down the Advantiere for you?”

“Need I remind you, Glaron that even I
haven't been able to get into that room? Gracielle sealed it; she's
the only one who can unseal it.”

Glaron sighed heavily. “So, what exactly do
you want me to say to her?”

“Well,” Ultara answered, “we'll have to wait
a few days. She just had a baby.”

“Yeah, I suppose that would be the polite
thing to do,” Glaron quipped.

Ultara ignored him. “You should tell her
that you have proof that I did not kill Cristoph and
Jocelynne.”

Glaron nearly choked. “I . . . I do?” he
spluttered.

“No, of course not, but I need to see how
she reacts. If she has any doubts at all, we can convince her,”
Ultara answered. “Hopefully, she has some doubts. It's clear that
Jonathan doesn't.”

“How do I get in? I mean, if they find out
I’m a Trysta, they won’t let me anywhere near the ator.”

Ultara explained, “The Celebration of Light
is in four weeks. Gracielle's dressmaker is scheduled to see her
for a fitting ten days from now.”

“You've been doing your homework,” Glaron
observed.

Ultara smirked at him. “Yes . . . I'll
arrange for the dressmaker to be unavoidably detained, and you will
go in his place.”

“Only one minor problem, Vritesse. I'm not a
dressmaker.”

“No, Glaron,” Ultara responded, “but in ten
days you will learn how to be an apprentice dressmaker. That will
be good enough.”

“Okay,” Glaron snipped, “so, I tell her that
I'm the apprentice, and that you didn't kill Jonathan’s parents;
anything else?”

Ultara shook her head. “You know, Glaron,
it's a good thing I understand your cynical sense of humor. You're
probably the only Trysta who can get away with talking to me like
that.”

Glaron chuckled nervously. “Oh . . . sorry,
Vritesse. I guess I got a little carried away.”

Ultara raised a scolding eyebrow at him.
“We'll fine tune the details and come up with a more specific plan
over the next few days.” She floated over to him and touched him on
the arm. “The fate of Lor Mandela may very well rest on your able
shoulders, my friend . . . if you succeed, you can talk to me as
cynically as you like from now on!”

Over the next ten days, Glaron learned the
fine art of dressmaking and he and Ultara concocted their plan. At
last, the day arrived for him to go to Mandela Palace. The fitting
was to take place right after breakfast, while the baby was down
for her morning nap.

Glaron was admitted to the palace without
incident and shown to a large white marble room with a phenomenal
view of Mystad Lake and the surrounding hills. In each corner of
the room stood a graceful, gilded statue of a brilliantly carved,
winged angel. Although they were made of stone, Glaron could have
sworn that they were in motion. In the middle of each wall, wispy
ivory curtains billowed down alongside massive open windows—each
etched in the center with images of the same four glorious angels.
The room was two levels. Plush benches lined the upper level, each
upholstered in a different color of rich velvet. Two long, stone
steps led to the sunken lower level, which was carpeted with an
enormous, elaborate tapestry woven in the same hues as the benches,
and depicting scenes of Mandela City, Koria, Brashnell, and all of
the other territories of Lor Mandela.

Glaron waited for only a few moments before
Gracielle entered the room with two of her handmaidens. She looked
as stunning as ever.

Glaron had only ever seen her from a
distance in council meetings, but he always found her quite lovely.
She looked very well recovered from childbirth—no hint of a recent
pregnancy at all.

She approached Glaron and held out her hand.
“Good afternoon, um . . . .”

“Oh . . . it's Glaron, your Majesty.” Glaron
kissed her hand and bowed humbly.

“Ah, yes. Well, good morning, Glaron. You
are here for my fitting?” The manner with which Gracielle carried
herself was everything poised and elegant. She exuded absolute
self-confidence and grace.

Glaron had to glance away momentarily to
keep from gawking at her like some awkward adolescent.

She leaned in closely to him and whispered
as if she knew he was up to something, “I was not aware that my
dressmaker had changed.”

Glaron cleared his throat nervously. “Uh,
I’m the apprentice, Majesty. My master has fallen ill and asked me
to come in his place. He will be overseeing my work, of
course.”

Gracielle turned toward her handmaidens who
were standing across the room. “Helene, I think we’ll be fine
here.” She spoke to the older of the two. “Will you please see that
Kahlie is caught up on her studies?”

Helene bowed and left the room.

Gracielle then signaled to
the other handmaiden to take a seat on one of the benches before
turning her attention back to Glaron. “Now then, are you going to
tell me who you
really
are, or do I have to figure out this mystery on my
own?”

Glaron sighed; he realized that there was no
point beating around the bush with this clearly intelligent woman.
“My name really is Glaron, your Majesty,” he whispered, then
apprehensively added, “I . . . I’m a Trysta.”

Gracielle’s eyes widened at his
confession.

He quickly interjected, “And I promise, I
mean you no harm.”

She eyed Glaron like she was looking
straight through to his soul. “You know it's extremely dangerous
for you to be here, don't you?”

Glaron glanced over at the handmaiden who
was still sitting obediently in the corner. She did not appear to
have heard any of their conversation.

“I was sent here by Ultara, with a message,”
he whispered, pretending to measure Gracielle’s arm.

“Ultara?
” she gasped, “but Cristoph
and Jocelynne . . . how can I . . . ?”

Glaron interrupted, “She did not kill them,
Ator.” His eyes expressed the utmost sincerity.

She was silent for several seconds. Finally,
after what appeared to be much deep thought, she looked straight
into Glaron’s eyes again and whispered, “I know.”

“What! How?” he blurted loudly.

The handmaiden rose to her feet, but
Gracielle held up her hand to signal that everything was all
right.

“I know this will probably sound strange to
you, but I’ve known she was innocent from the start.”

“Unfortunately, your Majesty, nothing seems
strange to me anymore!”