Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (16 page)

Gracielle stared at him wide-eyed. Was it
all coming together? Were the pieces starting to fit?

Glaron continued.
“
One unknowing moves in
haste,
” he explained. “Anika didn't know
that twin spirits couldn't be cloned. Impatience got the better of
her.”

“This is amazing!” Gracielle breathed.

“One beloved though mighty
fallen
has to refer to Satia. She was an
amazing ruler. Beloved is a mild understatement! Or, it could’ve
been your mother.”

Gracielle nodded in
agreement. Then she interjected, “
One is
chosen to forget her place
. Of course . .
. Anika's destiny must have been to forget her place and rebel
against our ways.”

Glaron smiled and nodded, “That’s what
Ultara thought, too! I checked it out . . . paid a visit to General
Kort early this morning. He told me that Anika had learned how to
clone souls from her great grandmother's journal . . . which Kort
just happens to be in possession of now.”

“And?”

“And, the spell used to
clone is
Elahk E Ber
.”

Gracielle slapped her hand over her mouth to
muffle a delighted squeal. She bounded forward and gave Glaron an
enthusiastic hug. “That's half of the riddle Glaron! This is so
great! So, what about the rest?”

“I . . . I don't know yet,” he mumbled, “The
strange thing is that the Derite translation of the letter A by
itself is exactly the same as the E by itself. It's like we're
supposed to create a new Lor Mandela . . . twice.”

“Hmmm,” Gracielle thought, “then why
wouldn't it just say the exact same thing twice? Why the letter
change?” She was deep in thought, when she remembered something.
“Oh, Glaron,” she exclaimed, “I almost forgot! I've made an
incredible discovery of my own!” She hesitated, but then added,
“It’s something I need to tell Ultara in person, though.”

“Wh . . . what?” he fumbled, “That's
impossible! And dangerous! And impossible! Besides, why can’t you
just tell me? You know you can tell me anything, don't you?” He
looked a little hurt.

“Oh, Glaron,” Gracielle
soothed, “I
can
tell you anything! But this is a personal matter—between me
and Ultara. It wouldn't be right for me to talk to anyone else
about it.”

“Oh,” he pouted, “well I
guess I understand. But how in the world do you propose we
pull
this
off?
It's not like you can just come to Trysta Palace . . . and she
certainly can't come visit you!”

Gracielle reached into her jacket pocket and
pulled out a photograph. “Here.” She handed a small photograph to
Glaron. “This is Tur Helene. She’s Kahlie and Audril's private
tutor.”

“Okay . . . so?”

“So, day after tomorrow, she will be away
all day visiting her family. If Ultara can alter herself to look
like this . . .” She pointed at the photo.

“Oh . . . I get it now,” Glaron grimaced.
“You want her to come to Mandela Palace, day after tomorrow,
disguised as this, erm, lovely lady?” He flicked at the picture
with his index finger.

“Will you see to it, Glaron? Please! It
really is very important!”

He half-smiled. “I guess I can try,” he
groaned, feeling put out that after he'd just handed her the
biggest news in Lor Mandela's history she wouldn't tell him her big
secret.

Suddenly, there was a loud boom and
everything started shaking violently.

“Glaron! It's an earthquake! Quick, over
here!” she yelled. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away
from the back wall, just before every one of the bookshelves lining
it toppled over like dominoes. He barely escaped the barrage of
heavy books that spilled from one of the shelves.

The shaking intensified, sending furniture,
lamps, statues, floral arrangements and the dumped books sliding
and spinning indiscriminately across the agitating floor.

Glaron looked up nervously and saw the
massive chandelier above swinging like a gigantic pendulum over
their heads. If it came down, they were as good as dead.

He nudged Gracielle toward the tunnel; they
tried to maneuver their way towards it, but the ground was shaking
so fiercely—back and forth and up and down—that it was extremely
difficult to make any headway. They inched their way to one side of
the room, sputtering and coughing as a heavy cloud of dust filled
the air. Gracielle grabbed one of the blobs of sap, and then
another, and held on. She used the amber knobs to pull herself
along the wall.

Glaron saw what she was doing and followed
suit.

Slowly, they moved from blob to blob, using
all the strength they could muster. After much effort, they reached
the tunnel which was swaying and careening angrily.

“I don't think we should go in there!”
Glaron yelled above the roar of the quake.

“I have to get back,” she shouted, “Audril .
. . and Kahlie!”

She took a step into the cave, keeping one
of her hands against the wall, but as she tried to take another,
the cave floor jolted wildly, knocking her to the ground.

“Gracielle!” Glaron yelled. He lowered to
the ground and crawled over to make sure she was okay.

The floor of the tunnel gyrated and reeled
even more ferociously than before. Glaron reached Gracielle and
helped her pull herself back up. “You can’t!” he bellowed. “It’s
too dangerous!”

“I have to!” Gracielle choked on the thick
dust. She cupped her hand over her mouth and in a muffled yell
insisted, “I have to get back!”

She turned toward the tunnel again; Glaron
grabbed her by the arm. He was not going to let her go, but all of
a sudden there was a loud, low creak in the room behind them.

“The
chandelier!
” he cried out. The huge light
was swaying ferociously and slipping out of the ceiling.

Glaron and Gracielle looked at each other,
and then lunged into the cave as far as they could throw
themselves. There was another moan from the bolts that held the
massive fixture in the ceiling and then, crack! The bolts let go,
and the chandelier plummeted to the ground disintegrating into
millions of pieces in a deafening crash. Tiny shards of glass
bulleted through the room sticking into the furniture, the sap
bubbles, the walls, and into Glaron and Gracielle. They held onto
each other inside the tunnel, scared, bloodied, and in pain.

Glaron held his hand over his left eye,
which had been shredded to bits by the flying glass. It burned and
scratched if he tried to open or close it.

“Aggghhhh!” he wailed miserably. He could
hear the nauseating sound of the glass scraping against the bone in
the socket. He panted heavily, trying to stay conscious.

Gracielle noticed that he was having
difficulty, and wrapped her cut and bleeding arms around him. She
started to pull him, best she could, down the tunnel. The ground,
which refused to cease its brutal assault, continued rolling and
jolting.

Glaron faded in and out of
consciousness as Gracielle tugged him
toward the entrance to the cave. With each tug, hundreds of
stinging bits of glass dug deeper into her already torn up skin;
tears streaked down her dust-covered cheeks. She had to get
Glaron—who had now fainted and was dead weight—to safety. She
lifted him under the arms and yanked him along, inch by inch,
gasping in agony with each yank.

When at last she reached the end of the
tunnel, she feebly waved one arm in the air, balancing Glaron's
weight against her knee. Slowly, the cave opening shuddered onto
the wall. She readjusted her arms around him and gave his limp body
one more strong tug, pulling him through the opening, and out into
the meadow. Finally, the rumbling stopped, and the ground bumped to
a halt.

Gracielle toppled over backwards and Glaron
landed right on top of her. “Aaoooooh!” she moaned, as the glass
stabbed in further under his weight. They were both covered in
dust, glass crystals, tree sap and crimson blood. She carefully
slid Glaron off of her and tried to revive him.

“Glaron,” she coughed, “come on . . . wake
up.” She grabbed a handful of his sandy hair and tugged on it
gently. She didn't dare touch his skin for fear of pushing more
glass into him. She pulled his hair a second time. “Glaron . . .
wake up! Please!” she begged.

Slowly, his good eye blinked and partially
opened. “Awwwwwoooooow!” he groaned, dropping his hand back over
the mangled one.

“Are . . . you okay?” she huffed weakly.

He coughed two or three times and panted,
“Um . . . I . . . I . . . think so. It's . . . just . . . just my
eye.”

“We've got to get you some help,” she
insisted.

“I'll be all right,” he gasped. He tried to
stand but didn't have the strength. “I just need to . . . to rest
for a minute. I'll . . . be . . . fine.” It was a struggle for him
to speak.

“No, Glaron,” she wheezed, “you're not fine.
We have to get you to a doctor. Here . . . .” She stood and reached
out her hand to him. He took it and she yanked with all of her
strength.

Glaron rose up in the air, almost to
standing, but then started to slump back over.

Gracielle quickly bent under him, and he
fell on to her back. She winced and gritted her teeth as his full
weight smacked against her. She took a deep breath and started to
run—not fast, but at least it was something.

Glaron bounced against her back, pushing
more sharp glass into her skin. The pain was terrible, but she
didn’t stop. As soon as she gained enough speed, she looked skyward
and yelled, “Trysta Palace!” and the two of them disappeared.

With a pop, they materialized just outside
the imposing wall of Trysta Palace. Gracielle lowered Glaron to the
ground. He was still conscious, but weak.

As Gracielle moved back from him his right
eye suddenly grew large and he clutched frantically at his chest.
His breathing became sporadic and labored. “Can't . . . breathe,”
he gasped. “Can’t . . . breathe!”

Gracielle didn’t know if he was choking on
glass or injured internally or what the problem was. “Hang on!” she
pleaded. She knew that it was dangerous for her to be here, but
Glaron needed help, and he needed it now.

“Ator . . . noo!” he yelped, as he realized
what she was doing.

Casting her own safety aside, she ran to the
gate and started shouting. “Help! Help! Get a doctor! Someone
help!”

Not more than a second later, an
indiscernible smoky blur raced past her and a person in a black
cloak suddenly appeared hovering over Glaron, attending to him. A
soft golden glow radiated from under the cloak and floated down
onto him. His breathing eased, and the scrapes and blood that had
covered him started to gradually fade.

“Ultara?” she guessed.

Ultara didn't answer, but turned and faced
Gracielle. Her eyes glowed vividly, making the rest of her face
nearly invisible. Gracielle felt a calming warmth radiate through
her. Ultara was using her healing power to cleanse the glass shards
from her skin.

After a minute or two, Ultara's eyes dimmed
and she rushed to Gracielle’s side. “You have to get out of here!”
she insisted. “Right now! You can't be seen!”

“Is he gonna be all right?” she begged.

“Yes. I will get him to
the doctor.
But you’ve got to
go!
”

“I know,” Gracielle nodded, “I will, but I
really need to speak with you! It's urgent!”

Ultara walked back over to check on Glaron.
“Then speak to me!” she insisted, but before Gracielle could
respond, a Trysta Guard burst through the gate.

“Vritesse!” he called out.

“Gracielle! Go!” she commanded in a
whisper.

“Come to Mandela Palace in two days. Glaron
knows how to get you in,” Gracielle quickly instructed and then
turned and sprinted away from the rapidly approaching guard.
“Mandela Palace!” she shouted, and disappeared.

“Vritesse! What’s happened? Are you all
right?” the guard cried. “That looked like the ator.”

“I'm fine, Branlor, but Glaron needs a
doctor.”

He tried again, “Was that the . . . ?”

Ultara cut him off
abruptly. “Of course not, Branlor! Why would the ator come here?”
She raised her eyebrows and looked at him as if to say,
you didn't see anything . . .
understand?

“Oh . . . uh . . . she wouldn’t,” he
choked.

“That’s right. Now quickly . . . let's get
him inside.” Ultara held her hand over Glaron and walked toward the
gate. He rose a few inches off the ground and floated along next to
her, sleeping peacefully.

She took him to a dimly lit room, which was
cluttered with strange bottles of colored liquids, tattered books
and odd looking instruments. A vat of putrid looking liquid bubbled
in the center of the room; the light that oozed from it was yellow,
then green, then lavender, then blue, and then yellow again.
“Salera?” Ultara called out, “Get out here. I need your help.”

“Eallo, Vreetessa.” An exotic, yet frail
looking woman, with green-gray toned skin, floating white hair, and
sky blue eyes slid out of the shadows on the other side of the
room. She drifted toward Glaron, took one look at him and in a very
slow, dreamy, voice said, “Ahhh, he ees nealy daed.” Her accent was
thick and captivating. “Poonctured lung, a few ribz dat ees broken
now, and 'e will need da new eye.”

Ultara nodded. “Whatever it takes, Salera—I
want him well taken care of.”

“Oh yes, Vreetessa,” she assured, “Salera
fix heem rawt up.”

The doctor went to work on Glaron as Ultara
slid down into a chair across the room. She stared blankly at the
vat of color changing lights—her thoughts centered on her encounter
with Gracielle. She wondered why Gracielle wanted her to come to
the palace. She wondered what she had to say—and why it was so
urgent.