Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins, page 10
“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.
CHAPTER X
GLARON AND GRACIELLE
Unbelievable!” 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!”
Gracielle chuckled. “Well, Glaron,” she explained, “the problem is that the atoc won't believe she’s innocent just because I think she is.” Her eyes saddened. “He still feels excruciating pain at the loss of his parents. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but I’m afraid it’s no use.”
“How can I help?” Glaron asked with obvious sincerity.
Gracielle smiled warmly. “What is your message, Glaron?” she asked.
“Ultara wants to help you solve the Advantiere, but she can't risk coming here to the palace anymore. She proposes that you and I work on it together.”
“Does she have any idea what to do about the fact that there are no twins alive anymore?” She was careful not to mention Ryannon and Nenia. She didn't know if Ultara had shared her secret with Glaron.
Her question was answered by his reply. “No . . . and quite frankly, I'm not sure how to bring it up. I’m afraid she hasn't been able to let Nenia go. I think she still believes that her daughter’s alive.”
Gracielle nodded. Now that she was a mother, she couldn't imagine the horror of losing a child. She'd always assumed that it was a terrible thing for a mother to endure, but since giving birth to Audril, she'd come to understand even more.
“All right, Glaron. Go back to Ultara. Tell her that, for what it's worth, I believe her. I’ll try to figure out how to clear her name, but I think it's gonna take some pretty substantial proof.” She paused and asked, “Glaron, are you familiar with the Anaria?”
“Of course,” he answered.
“Good. Meet me there three days from now, just after sundown. I’ll bring a copy of the Advantiere for you to take back to Ultara.” She patted Glaron on the arm. “We'll get this all straightened out. I'm sure we will.”
Glaron smiled and cleared his throat, making sure that his voice projected far enough for the handmaiden to hear “Hmmm, hmm! I'll take these measurements back to my master, Majesty. He will see to your final fitting.”
Gracielle's back was to her servant, so she allowed herself a quiet chuckle. “Um... thank you, sir. That will be all for today,” she replied.
Glaron bowed and kissed Gracielle's hand again, and hurried back to Trysta Palace to share what he'd learned with Ultara.
Ultara was waiting for him in the Throne Room, pacing anxiously just inside the door. When Glaron came into the room, she stopped and breathed a deep sigh, relieved that he was back safely. “Well?” she asked impatiently.
Glaron took her by the arm, and together they started across the bridge toward the big platform. “It went very well, Vritesse . . . even better than well. The ator said that she's known that you were innocent all along!”
Ultara stopped in her tracks and gaped at him. “Really? Excellent!”
Glaron went on, “She’s bringing me a copy of the Advantiere and she said that she will try to figure out how to clear you for the murders.”
“This is wonderful news, Glaron. When are you meeting with her to get the copy?”
He told her where and when they planned to meet.
“Marvelous work,” Ultara commended, “thank you.”
Glaron smiled. “All in a day's work for a dressmaker's apprentice, ma'am.” He bent over in a dramatic bow.
Ultara raised her eyebrows. “Are you finished?” she snapped.
“Sheesh,” Glaron frowned, “you certainly change your moods quickly!”
Ultara shook her head; she turned him by the shoulders and faced him toward the door. “Good afternoon, Glaron.”
He leaned backward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Good afternoon, Vritesse,” he answered and sauntered proudly out of the room.
Three days later, just before sunset, Glaron set off to meet with Gracielle. He crossed the big meadow adjoining Trysta Palace, but instead of climbing the hill that led to the caverns, he turned toward the north and meandered through the outskirts of Mandela City trying to keep a low profile. There was nothing about his appearance that was specifically Trysta—like glowing eyes or feet that don't entirely touch the ground—but he had conducted business in this area in the past, and knew that he might be recognized. He ducked behind buildings and walked down streets that were unlit to keep out of sight. In the distance, he could see the Anaria. He continued in the shadows until he reached the edge of the meadow in which it stood. The last rays of sunlight were disappearing behind the horizon. He had to hurry. He ran across the field and up to a massive tree that stood alone in the darkened meadow.
On one side of the tree was a big, cave-like hollow. Glaron approached it and whispered, “Hello . . . Ator?”
Gracielle appeared out of nowhere.
“Whoa!” Glaron shouted, and then lowered his voice to an anxious whisper. “You startled me!”
“Sorry,” Gracielle smiled. “Come on.”
They walked into the dark tree cave over a crunchy, leaf covered floor, and rounded a sharp turn. The further they walked into the tree, the brighter it became. Glaron was astounded that this much was hidden inside what simply seemed to be a big, old tree. Again, the trail curved and. . . .
“Wow!” he blurted, as they stepped into a large, elegant room furnished with lush chairs and settees upholstered in rich tones of green, gold, coral and purple. Beautiful dark wood shelves lined one wall and were covered with big, leather bound books. The other walls surrounding the circular room were covered in long, thick, globs of amber sap. A chandelier that looked like hundreds of dripping icicles hung at least twenty feet in the air over the center of the room; it illuminated the sap drips so that the walls appeared to be made of thick, bubbled glass.
“So this is the Ator's Anaria? No wonder all you ators are so fond of this place! I never understood why anyone would want to hang out in some big tree.” Glaron was awe struck.
“Welcome, Sir Glaron,” Gracielle smiled. She walked back over to the tunnel and peeked around the corner. “The cave should have sealed by now. Shall we get to work?”
