Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (11 page)

Jonathan released the door handle. “Okay, so
just tell me, then,” he relented grudgingly.

“The reason all of these strange things are
happening . . .” Gracielle’s eyes were filling with tears again.
“Is that Lor Mandela is dying.”

“Wh . . . what do you mean?” He looked at
her and half chuckled like it was some kind of joke.

“It all started when Anika tried to steal
the vritesse powers from my mother,” she explained. “Somehow the
spirit of Lor Mandela became diseased by her actions.”

“Anika diseased the planet?” He sounded
skeptical.

“Yes. The spirit itself spoke to me through
my mother. It told me that it is dying, and that the only way it
can be saved is if certain events take place.”

“Wait!” Jonathan blurted. “What are you
talking about, Graci? The whole planet just can't die!” In his
mind, this didn't seem logical—or at all possible. Unfortunately,
he also knew that where Trysta magic was involved, logic was rarely
a factor and the impossible often happened.

Gracielle didn't answer. She simply lifted
her arm and the door slowly swung open.

Jonathan's jaw dropped. He stood in stunned
awe of the scene before him. The room looked like it had been
destroyed in a violent storm. Very few parts of it were even
recognizable. There were piles of twisted debris and mangled
furnishings everywhere, all surrounding a huge, gaping pit in the
floor.

Gracielle stepped into the room and
maneuvered around a large chunk of concrete that lay just inside
the door.

Jonathan quietly followed. They scaled the
piles of rubble, climbing over what they couldn't go around.
Jonathan had just begun inching his way around the pit, when he
noticed the Advantiere burning brightly on the wall in glittering
red letters. “What’s this? What's going on, Gracielle?” he
asked.

She had already gone around the hole in the
floor, and was standing near the Advantiere herself. “I'm sorry I
kept this to myself.”

“Oh, I'm sure you had a good reason for
keeping something like this from the atoc,” he barked
indignantly.

“I did,” she snapped back, “but I'm showing
you now, so please . . . .” She didn't finish her sentence; she
just stepped to the side and pointed to the glowing words on the
wall. “These,” she sighed, “are the events that must take place to
save Lor Mandela.”

Jonathan was already reading through the
Advantiere. “You said that Anika diseased the planet?”

“Yes. She was trying to take over as
vritesse.”

“And that's what's causing the weather, and
the animals, and . . . .”

“Yes.” She couldn't tell if he was fully
grasping the concept or not.

“Child of balance?” he mumbled, “Ours?”

She nodded.

“So, this is who told you we were having a
girl?”

Gracielle nodded again.

“Twins must live,” he sighed heavily. “Wait
a second! So because Anika and Lantalia . . . ? Is this why you
wouldn't tell me? Because the twins are gone? Did you honestly
think I—the highest ruler in Lor Mandela—didn't need to know that
we're all doomed!”

“That's not it, Jonathan!” she retorted
loudly. “I didn't tell you because . . . .” She'd given her word to
Ultara that she wouldn't tell her secret, but Jonathan was right.
As the high ruler of Lor Mandela, he needed to know. “I didn’t tell
you because of the other twins.”

“Other twins?” Jonathan's expression changed
from angry back to skeptical. “There aren't any other twins. There
haven’t been other twins for over a hundred years.”

“Yes, there are . . . or, at least, there
were.”

She took a deep breath and told Jonathan
everything. She explained how Ultara had altered Nenia, and that
Ryannon—Darian's son—was her twin brother. “Ultara made me promise
not to tell anyone, but now, with Nenia gone, I don't know what we
can do!”

At that moment, Jonathan realized why
Gracielle had gotten so upset about Nenia's disappearance. Nenia
had a part in the Advantiere, but was no longer around to carry out
the role she had to play. He stared unresponsively at the words
shining on the wall. “Maybe the answer is still in here somewhere,”
he mumbled, rubbing his forehead. “We'll need to get some of our
best minds working on it right away.”

Gracielle looked at him like he was out of
his mind. “Jonathan! We can't!” she insisted.

“Why not! We need other opinions . . . other
views!”

“But Jonathan,” she
pleaded, “if word gets out that our baby is the ‘Child of Balance,’
she’ll never have any peace; I doubt she'll even be safe! I don't
feel right telling anyone else about Nenia and Ryannon, either.
Besides, it says right here that the riddle must be solved for or
by her. She can’t solve it if she hasn’t even been born!” Gracielle
was now pacing wildly in the small space available in front of the
wall. “Oh . . . and how, exactly, do you think people will react to
the news that Lor Mandela is dying? You know it’ll cause world-wide
panic! We
need
to
keep this between us! The state of the world depends on
it!”

Jonathan felt like his head was going to
burst. Thoughts were racing rampant through his mind, piling
haphazardly one on top of another. They all seemed to end in one
horrific image though—Lor Mandela disintegrating into a fiery
oblivion. He was overwhelmed and—for the first time in his somewhat
sheltered and protected life—very frightened.

After a few uncomfortably silent seconds, he
turned his attention back to the glowing crimson message on the
wall.

“Her father's hatred die for love to grow?”
he read. “What is that supposed to mean? Am I just supposed to
forgive Ultara for killing my parents?”

Gracielle looked at him with a somewhat
stunned expression on her face. “What? Do you really hate Ultara?”
she asked. She knew that Jonathan was angry over his parent's
deaths—and justifiably so—but she never imagined him capable of
hatred.

“I don't know, Graci,” he muttered. “I want
her imprisoned.”

Suddenly, his expression grew harsh and
vengeful. “Actually, no,” he seethed, “she deserves the same fate
she dealt them. If my thinking that counts as hate . . . then I
guess I do.”

Gracielle gaped at him. They stood there in
silence for several minutes.

It was Jonathan who finally spoke. “We need
to write this down and work on it every available moment,
Graci.”

“But we have to be careful,” she reiterated.
“It's just us. No one else can know.”

Jonathan only partially agreed. “Only until
we get to a point where we need more help.” Before Gracielle could
object, he added, “Listen, Graci, I want to protect our daughter,
and our people every bit as much as you do. But if we can't find a
way to save Lor Mandela on our own, we won't be protecting anyone!”
He started back toward the door. “I'm going to go get something to
write this down on.”

Jonathan left Gracielle standing in front of
the Advantiere. She lowered herself onto the edge of a broken bench
and read the part that the spirit had called 'The riddle.'

“Destruction from twins,
and so it must end. They are the lock, yet they are not friends.
The Child of Balance can only restore. Her father the key and she
is the door. The riddle now told, the Advantiere presents, healing
begins following future events.”
She
breathed a heavy sigh as she stared at the glittering red enigmatic
prophecy. “So, what does this all mean? And where are these twins
supposed to come from now?”

M
onths went by, but the meaning of the Advantiere and its
riddle continued to be elusive. Jonathan had copied it down into a
small, green, leather book and he and Gracielle pored over it
whenever they could. Yet somehow, there always seemed to be pieces
missing—more that they needed in order for anything to connect.
Despite their efforts, Lor Mandela continued to deteriorate and
decay. Many areas of the planet had become uninhabitable. Entire
countries perished in tumultuous floods followed by bitter
freezing, while others were destroyed by drought and intense heat.
Savage winds ripped through cities, demolishing buildings, lifting
large trees, and smothering anything that breathed in a thick
blanket of suffocating dust.

Interestingly, however, the destruction
seemed to be following a pattern. The areas that were hit first,
and the hardest, were the ones with few or no inhabitants, followed
by the regions on the far east side of Lor Mandela—those furthest
away from Mandela City. It was as if the spirit of Lor Mandela was
somehow controlling how it died—doing it in a way that would allow
for life on the planet to be preserved as long as possible.

The deaths that had occurred were a result
of those too stubborn to evacuate when it became necessary—or of
the murders that were, sadly, becoming more prevalent as tension
and fear escalated.

Notwithstanding all of the peril and
uncertainty, however, today was a day of rejoicing. Gracielle had
just given birth to a beautiful, healthy, baby girl named
Audril.

“Are you warm enough, Ator?” Gracielle's
companion servant, a young, red-haired, freckled girl, reached for
a blanket.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Thank you, Kahlie,” Gracielle
answered groggily. “I'm fine.”

“The doctor said he’ll be back in a while to
give Audril a good checking over.”

Kahlie smiled and looked at Audril, who was
fast asleep. “Sure is amazing . . . isn't she?”

“Yes, she is,” Gracielle agreed,
“Kahlie?”

“Yes, Ator?”

“When the atoc gets back, I want you to go
and get some sleep. You've been up all night with us.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Kahlie smiled
cheerfully. Besides, I have lessons to do.” She twisted her face up
into a scowl. “Tur Helene says that if I don't stop daydreaming and
focus on language studies . . . .” she breathed heavily, “as if me
misplacing a word on a test is gonna change how I scrub
floors!”

All at once Kahlie gasped and her eyes
widened. “I don't mean . . . I don't enjoy . . . it's not that I .
. . I,” she stammered.

Gracielle smiled. “It's okay, Kahlie. I'll
speak to Tur Helene.” She held out her hand and Kahlie took it. “A
young woman at your age must have her beauty sleep. Studies can
wait until tomorrow.”

Kahlie giggled and nodded.

Just then, Jonathan peeked around the corner
of the door. He smiled lovingly at Gracielle and walked across the
room to her bed, pausing just long enough to tousle Kahlie’s bright
red curls as he passed.

“Hello, Milady,” he greeted. “You've been
taking good care of our new atoh, I hope?”

“Oh . . . oh yes sir,” she answered
nervously, “that's what I do best.” Kahlie really liked both Ator
Gracielle and Atoc Jonathan, but she was far more comfortable with
Gracielle. Jonathan made her very uneasy.

She had only been at the palace for a few
short weeks, and was told in the beginning that she had been
brought to the palace to be a kitchen maid, not to fulfill the most
sought after position a servant could acquire.

But one day, when she was cleaning in the
main dining hall, her constant clumsiness finally paid off.

She had just finished wiping down what she
counted to be forty-eight wooden chairs when Gracielle and her
former Companion Servant, Dedri, happened into the room.

Kahlie almost fell over when she saw the
ator, and bowed nervously before her.

Gracielle signaled for her to stand, smiled
warmly and said, “Hello, young lady. I don't believe we've met.
You're new here, aren't you?”

Kahlie nodded and sputtered, “Y . . . yes,
ma'am.” She had heard that Gracielle was very kind, but didn’t
expect her to treat such a young, lowly servant with so much
respect and affability.

Gracielle continued, “I'm Gracielle and this
is Dedri—my companion servant . . . and you are?”

“Kahlie, ma'am,” she answered timidly.

“Well, welcome, Kahlie. It’s a pleasure to
meet you. Please don't let us bother you. We just have a few things
to discuss.”

Kahlie thought that Gracielle was the
loveliest woman she'd ever seen. And that Dedri—with her squinty
gray eyes, yellowish skin and very short, mousy brown hair—was one
of the most frightening. She fantasized that Gracielle was an angel
who'd been captured by the evil Matron of Doom, (Dedri), and that
she, (Kahlie the Avenger), had been sent to save her with magical
objects she'd produce from the Sorcerer's Cloth, (dust rag).

She tried to appear focused on polishing the
long buffet table, but was really straining to hear what was being
said by the beautiful Gracielle, who was speaking firmly to Dedri
about something that had been neglected.

Ha! She knows who you are
Matron. When she realizes who I am, you will meet your
demise!
Kahlie was so lost in her
daydream, that she didn't notice that she had left one of the
dining chairs slightly pulled out from the table. As she turned to
walk to the other side of the buffet, her foot caught on a
protruding leg and she tripped—stumbling across the room and
smacking right into the companion servant—knocking both Dedri and
herself to the ground.

“You clumsy brat!” Dedri shouted. She jumped
up, yanked Kahlie to her feet, and slapped her hard across the
face. “You could have hurt the ator!” She raised her hand again,
but Gracielle grabbed it in mid-air.

“How dare you?”
Gracielle seethed. “She is just a child and it .
. . it was an accident!”

“She could have injured you or the baby,”
the servant argued.

“But she didn't!” Gracielle was livid. She
was still clutching Dedri's arm and holding it high in the air.
“Dedri, I have never seen such outrageous behavior in my life,” she
scolded as she dropped Dedri's arm and pointed toward the door.
“You are dismissed! Pack up your things and leave this palace
immediately!”