Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (2 page)

“You’ll what? Do something drastic? Like
what? Like kill her? You’re not a murderer, Anika!”

“Please, Kort . . . for goodness sake, who
said anything about murder?”

“But the vritesse of Lor Mandela is only
replaced at death. It’s the law! You can’t acquire the vritesse
powers unless . . . .”

“Unless the vritesse dies, or wills it, or .
. .” She stopped and studied Kort’s eyes as though she was trying
to convince herself that she could trust him. She hesitantly
continued, “Unless her powers are, shall we say, taken?”

“Taken? Wait! You
mean
stolen
?
How?”

“There are ways,” she mumbled.

“Anika, Listen to yourself! You are talking
about interfering with some of the most powerful forces on Lor
Mandela! This is insanity! You can’t seriously be considering this
as an option!” His voice had escalated into a roar. Normally, he
didn’t dare raise his voice to Anika, but he didn’t care about
being zapped again. She was planning something foolish—foolish and
deadly—and he wasn’t about to stand by and watch her get herself
killed.

Anika just stared at him gaping. It was
clear by his unrestrained reaction that she’d divulged too much.
“Calm down, Kort. As usual, you’re making a big deal out of
nothing.” She looked away and attempted to change the subject.
“Shouldn’t you be preparing for the council meeting?”

Kort acted as though he hadn’t heard her.
“I’m making a big deal out of nothing, Anika?” he argued. “What is
going on in your head?”

Anika forced a smile and
walked up to him. She leaned forward, and pulling him to her,
kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t want you to worry about it
anymore, my love. I promise you . . . it will all be fine. I’m sure
nothing, well,
extraordinary,
will even be necessary.” She slipped around
behind him and ran her hands across his broad, muscular shoulders,
kneading the tension with her small yet magical hands. “At any
rate, your, uh . . . position is secure. You and I both know that’s
all you really care about.”

The general pulled away
and turned to face her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Anika
tilted her head to one side and looked at him as if to say,
don’t push it.

“Yeah, okay, Anika,” he
sighed, “it’s not like I have a choice, do I? I guess I’ll just see
you at the meeting.” He approached the doorway, looking despondent,
and the branches of the tree drooped down. As he ducked out into
the hall he muttered, “I
do
care you know, about you.”

Anika nodded and rolled her eyes again.
“Yes, Kort, I know,” she groaned as she took a step back and
impatiently waited for the tree door to reappear.

As soon as Kort was out of sight, she let
out a relieved sigh. She rushed to the back of the room and pulled
the silver cloth off of the flat rock table. Underneath, was a
large tattered book. Anika glanced over her shoulder, and scooped
up the old tome and began to study its yellowed pages. Poring over
the words, she mumbled, “Elahk . . . Lor Mandela . . . Elahk . . .
yes brilliant . . . frightening, but brilliant.”

After a few minutes, she stopped reading and
gazed out over the room. “Only one more step. If my mother . . . .”
She turned toward a picture hanging on the vine covered wall across
from her and gazed at the image of an aged, white-haired woman. “I
hope you weren’t foolish, Mother! I sincerely hope that you’re not
going to force me to do this.”

A
nika stared at her mother’s portrait until it was time to
leave for the council meeting. She glanced down at the book that
she was still holding and gently folded it shut. After running her
hand across its cracked cover, she placed it back on the cold rock
table and spread the shimmering silver cloth over the
top.

On the wall next to her, a rich purple cloak
hung from a twig hook. She pulled it down, and draped it across her
dainty shoulders then, with both anxiousness and anticipation,
headed off toward the gathering that would decide her fate, as well
as the fate of her twin sister, Lantalia.

She entered the Trysta Council Hall before
anyone else, followed closely by a woman with straight,
shoulder-length brown hair and magenta eyes. She didn’t have to
turn around to see who was there—Anika could always sense her
sister’s presence. “Hello Lantalia,” she sighed.

“Good evening, Ani.” Lantalia touched her
warmly on the shoulder.

Though twins, there was not much of a
resemblance between the sisters. Lantalia’s features were feminine
and soft; Anika’s were defined and chiseled. Lantalia was tall and
curvaceous; Anika was quite petite and nearly emaciated in
appearance. They both had brown hair and violet eyes, but that was
the limited extent of their similarities.

Anika strained to smile as she turned to
face Lantalia.

It took less than a second for Lantalia to
notice the changes in her, and she didn’t hesitate to voice her
concern. “Anika, what’s the matter? Your skin’s so dark! You look
exhausted. Are you ill?”

“No, Tali. I’m fine . . . just worn down a
bit.”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s to be expected,”
she frowned. “I suppose you’ve had a lot to deal with the last few
days.” She was far from convinced, but she could tell by Anika’s
aloof demeanor that it was pointless to persist; Anika never
discussed anything that could be viewed as a weakness, and Lantalia
knew that when she was stand-offish like this, any honest
discussion was simply not going to happen. “Is there anything I can
do?” she tried.

Anika just grimaced and shook her head.

“All right then,” Lantalia replied grabbing
her by the arm. “Let’s go get settled in.”

She escorted Anika across the room to where
nine, round marble platforms sat—each topped with a heavily
cushioned burgundy chair. Lantalia held out her hand to help Anika
up to her seat.

“Will you stop fussing, Tali? I’m fine,” she
insisted. First Kort, now you? Honestly!”

“I’m sorry!” Lantalia snapped back as she
stepped up onto her own platform. “It’s just that you don’t look
yourself, that’s all.”

Slowly, their platforms rose into the air
until they were high above the light polished stone floors below.
Anika sought to avoid any further conversation by turning her back
to Lantalia and staring out over the impressive room.

The grandeur of the Council Hall never
ceased to amaze her. A huge stadium-like arena with chocolate brown
walls lined with large, pure-white columns and huge displays of
exotic, jewel-toned flowers in ornate silver urns, it was indeed
her favorite room in Trysta Palace. Throughout the arena were
hundreds of platforms similar to the ones occupied by her and
Lantalia, but with less stately chairs, each cushioned in pale blue
satin. Like all of the main rooms in the palace, the arena was lit
by softly glowing sunlight. But rather than flooding through a
ceiling of smooth plate glass—as was the case in Anika’s chambers
and most of the rest of the palace—the sun’s rays filtered through
a magnificent cut-crystal roof. The sunlight danced across the
roof, filling the room with focused beams of direct light and
small, muted ribbons of rainbows.

Anika watched from her elevated platform as
the Lor Mandelan Council delegates began filing in, mingling
amongst themselves as they entered. As each delegate took their
respective seat, their platform rose into the air and stopped at
the height corresponding to its occupant’s political rank.

At last, when most of the seats were filled,
there was a loud clunking as three doors at the far end of the
arena slowly swung open. The delegates ceremoniously rose to their
feet.

That is where I will enter
from now on,
Anika thought to
herself,
Anika—Vritesse of the
Trystas.
She pictured herself walking
through one of the doors, dressed in the finest clothes, and
covered in exotic jewelry. She imagined the entire council rising
as
she
entered
the room, and showing her the utmost respect as she gracefully
crossed the hall.
She smiled, and closed
her amethyst eyes in an attempt to hold on to the image.
H
er reverie was suddenly
interrupted, however, as an outburst of cheers and exclamations
exploded throughout the hall.

The accolades were for a statuesque,
black-haired, blue-eyed woman in her late forties or early fifties,
who entered through one of the three doors. She stopped a few feet
out and nodded graciously toward the members of the council. Her
demeanor exuded absolute elegance, as did her stunning attire. Her
long, black velvet gown was embroidered with elaborate silver
leaves and randomly dotted with what appeared to be small
sapphires. A wispy, flowing, midnight blue cloak was held at her
shoulders by exquisite silver brooches, and draped in almost fluid
layers down her back extending behind her in shimmering puddles. On
her hands and arms were long white gloves, accented by thick,
ornate silver bracelets on the right, and a large sparkling
sapphire ring on the left. As the noise in the room died down, she
lowered to one knee and bowed her head.

The applause again escalated to a roar as a
debonair man with thick black hair and shockingly bright blue eyes
entered the room through the door in the center. He held out his
hand to the woman, who took it and rose to her feet. She looked him
in the eyes and smiled lovingly.

Together, Atoc Cristoph and Ator Jocelynne
started out across the floor of the arena. They embodied grace and
confidence as they smiled and nodded at the delegates. All of the
members of the council reverently lowered to their seats as the
regal couple passed by.

When at last they reached their platforms, a
voice from somewhere at the top of the room boomed, “Council
members of Lor Mandela, prepare for the reading of the
lineage.”

The room fell silent.

The voice continued, “Our highest ruler,
Cristoph Borloc . . . Atoc of Lor Mandela.”

Atoc Cristoph stepped onto one of the
red-chaired platforms and it rose almost to the crystalline
ceiling. At present, it was the only chair higher than those of
Anika and Lantalia.

“His entrusted, Jocelynne Cantiell . . .
Ator of Lor Mandela.”

Jocelynne moved onto her platform. It
ascended to the top of the room, and stopped just below and to the
left of Cristoph’s.

“The vritesse of Lor Mandela, to be
called.”

A few gasps and whispers permeated the
silence, as an empty platform climbed to the right of Ator
Jocelynne’s.

Anika fought back another
smile.
Soon,
she
thought,
all that delicious power will be
mine.

The voice continued, “Lantalia tu Mystad,
and Anika tu Winter of the Trystas . . . daughters of our beloved,
departed Vritesse Satia.”

The sisters stood and exchanged glances.

“Jonathan Borloc, Aton of Lor Mandela.”

Cristoph and Jocelynne’s son Jonathan—who
was the spitting image of his father—rose to his feet on the
platform at Anika’s left.

“His entrusted, Gracielle . . . by marriage,
Atoh of Lor Mandela; by birth, Gracielle tu Morning of the Trystas
. . . daughter of Lantalia.”

Gracielle, a tall, slender, breathtakingly
beautiful young woman, also with black hair and blue eyes, stood
and nodded. Lantalia smiled proudly at her daughter.

“Ultara tu Koria of the Trystas . . .
daughter of Anika.”

Another stunning woman, this one with very
long, wild auburn hair and pale golden eyes, rose on the platform
just below Anika’s.

“And concluding our noble and great
succession, Nenia tu Sybran of the Trystas . . . daughter of
Ultara.”

Nenia—a spunky, eleven-year-old girl, stood
and waved at the assembly, causing several of the council members
to chuckle at her show of enthusiasm.

Once again the room filled with clapping and
cheers until Atoc Cristoph took his seat, signaling to the other
Nobles to do the same. He leaned forward and touched a small green
button on the arm of his chair, and all at once, the room darkened,
and his platform became engulfed in a deep blue glow; the atoc had
the floor.

“My dear friends,” he began, his soothing
voice projecting through the Council Hall as though he were
speaking into a microphone. “We convene at this difficult time of
mourning to remember a great and powerful vritesse, and call—as she
has dictated—her successor.”

He paused and looked down at Anika and
Lantalia. “As you all know, something miraculous took place on Lor
Mandela when Satia gave birth to Anika and Lantalia. Two daughters
were born to the vritesse within mere seconds of one another.” Many
of the council members nodded in remembrance as Cristoph went on.
“Today, either of these wise and accomplished women would make an
excellent successor.” He nodded graciously toward the sisters. “As
Satia’s life was ending, she confided in me that this decision was
more challenging than any other she’d ever made as vritesse. Today
I am honored to read her calling to the Council.”

The room fell silent, as though everyone was
holding their breath in anticipation.

All at once, Anika’s, Lantalia’s,
Gracielle’s, Ultara’s, and Nenia’s platforms began to glow soft
yellow.

Cristoph held a folded
paper up in front of him; he cleared his throat as he opened the
paper, and read:
“Atoc, Ator, daughters, and assembled
delegates, I, Satia, Vritesse of the Trysta people, appoint and
call my noble heir. My decision has been a difficult one. My
daughters are both capable, each in their own way. If our laws
permitted, I would call them both and rest confidently knowing that
all was well. For a time, I even considered calling a descendant
such as Ultara or Gracielle rather than having to choose between my
daughters.”
The delegates were clearly
engrossed, hanging on every word Cristoph uttered.