Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins, page 13
“Actually, she wasn't at the Anaria,” Gracielle confessed. “Glaron was in really bad shape. I couldn't leave him there, so I took him back to Trysta Palace for help.”
“Trysta Palace! Oh, Ator . . . you could have been captured!” Kahlie exclaimed.
“Yes, but I wasn't.” Gracielle casually slipped her ripped up jacket off and handed it to Kahlie. The shirt beneath was covered in big splotches of crimson blood.
Kahlie gasped. “You need a doctor, ma'am!”
Gracielle looked down at her tattered and torn appearance and admitted, “I guess that would be a good idea. I honestly don't know if I'm injured or not, Kahlie. I hurt all over.”
“I'll go for a doctor immediately.”
“You'll need to get Dr. Slade,” Gracielle explained as she headed toward her dressing area to change out of the remainder of her shredded clothes. “Michelan's in Westrim with Jonathan.”
Kahlie nodded and rushed quickly out of the room. After a few short minutes, she returned with a heavy-set, dark haired man with a thick, fuzzy mustache.
“Good Evening, Ator,” The doctor greeted, lowering to his knee.
Gracielle had just come out of the dressing area, “Oh, hello, Dr. Slade. Please . . . .” She motioned for him to stand.
A look of concern spread across his face upon seeing Gracielle's cut up exterior. “My dear Ator, it would seem you’ve had quite a night.”
Gracielle smiled. “I took a shower in glass, Doctor. Somebody told me it's good for your complexion. I think they lied.”
The doctor smiled and indicated for her to sit down on the small burgundy bench that was against the wall behind her.
Kahlie excused herself, and went over to where Audril was sleeping. She picked her up and carried her to her own room.
Dr. Slade took a small, shiny, silver instrument from the black satchel he was carrying, pushed a button on the end of it, and it started to glow. As he lifted one of Gracielle's hands and waved the little glowing stick over it, the cuts on her skin turned a sickly shade of yellow, and started bubbling and sizzling. The process looked extremely painful, but Gracielle didn't seem to mind. As soon as the doctor moved the instrument away from the area, the sizzling stopped and the wounds melted away.
“This will take care of most of these scratches,” he explained, “but a few marks will probably linger for a day or two.”
Gracielle nodded. “As long as my family isn't afraid to look at me.”
“Not likely,” he smiled, as he continued working, clearing the cuts from one hand and arm and then starting on the other. “It looks as though you've had some Trysta help, huh?”
“Oh, um . . . .” Gracielle stammered, “well, of course. I am a Trysta, Doctor.”
“I know,” Dr. Slade continued, “I just didn't know that Trystas could use healing abilities on themselves.”
“Well, not completely . . .” She wasn’t about to explain any further. “That's why you're here, Doctor.”
Just then, the door opened and Jonathan came through it. He was also dirty and a little scraped up. With him was a young man with a full, rugged beard and scraggly brown hair.
“Wh . . . what's going on here? Graci, are you alright?” he asked, surprised to find Dr. Slade busily removing cuts from her neck.
“I'm fine, Jonathan . . . just some scratches,” she assured. “What's going on in Westrim?” She hadn’t noticed the man who was there with Jonathan until just then. “Dallin,” she exclaimed delightedly, “oh, Kahlie will be so relieved!”
“Hello Ator . . . uh . . . you look . . . well . . . um . . . .” Dallin stammered awkwardly. He knelt down without completing his sentence, and then rose clumsily back to his feet.
“What happened to you?” Jonathan tried again.
“Oh . . . well, after the party,” she began, “I needed to unwind a bit. Kahlie had things under control here, so I went to the Anaria for some alone time.” She hated lying to Jonathan, but knew he wouldn’t understand. She'd never been able to convince him of Ultara's innocence, and he would certainly not approve of her meeting with Ultara’s Chief Advisor. “There was a quake,” she continued. “Did you feel it in Westrim?”
Both Jonathan and Dallin nodded.
“Well, you know the big chandelier in the Anaria? It fell as I was leaving to come back. The glass cut me up a bit, that's all.” She didn't want to talk about this anymore; she wanted to know the status of their efforts. “Now, what about Westrim?” she pressed.
Jonathan looked at Dallin and pointed at two comfortable burgundy chairs; they walked over and dropped down into them. “It's bad, Graci,” he began, “at least fifty people dead and hundreds missing. We've just come back to gather some more supplies and recruit more help.”
Dr. Slade cleared his throat. “I will go wherever I am needed, Atoc,” he volunteered.
“Thank you, Slade. I believe it would be best for you to stay here in Mandela City. We have eighteen emergency doctors in Westrim already; Dr. Michelan is coordinating things there. I would like for you to do the same here, if you would. We likely will need to bring back some of the injured.”
“Of course, sir,” Slade accepted.
“When will you be leaving again?” Gracielle asked.
“We'll round up volunteers tonight and then travel back first thing in the morning.”
Dr. Slade healed the last of the cuts from Gracielle. She walked over to Jonathan and sat down on the arm of his chair. “What can I do?” she asked as she reached her arms around him and kissed his forehead.
“Just hold things down here,” he answered. She ran her hand gently across several good-sized gashes on the side of his face. “Doctor, could you take care of these, please?” The doctor willingly obliged.
“So, uh . . . Kah . . . Kahlie is back from the academy?” Dallin asked nervously.
Gracielle smiled. She suspected that Dallin liked Kahlie as more than just a friend. “Yes,” she answered, “she's putting Audril to bed. She should be back momentarily.”
Dallin smiled. “Oh . . . um . . . good.”
A moment later, a door at the back of the room clicked open. Dallin twisted around in his chair, and out of the corner of his eye, caught sight of Kahlie entering the room. He quickly rose to his feet and started toward her. After two or three steps though, he froze in his tracks; his eyes got big, and his jaw practically fell to his chest.
“Dallin!” Kahlie dashed across the room and embraced him warmly. “I was worried about you! When I heard about the slide, I . . . .”
Dallin cut her off. “What have they done to you?” he frowned.
“Uh . . . um . . . well . . . what do you mean? You don't like it?” she fumbled.
“It's okay I guess. You just look so . . . well . . . so girly.” He reached up and lifted a lock of her hair in the air like it was a smelly sock.
“Hey!” She snapped, pulling her hair out of his hand. “I am a girl, you Slarp!” She slugged him in the shoulder and frowned back.
Dallin grimaced and rubbed his arm. “Yeah, I know Budge. I'm just not used to you looking like one.”
“Well, I'm not used to you looking like one, either,” she sassed.
Gracielle, Jonathan and the doctor sniggered from across the room.
Dallin just stood there and stared at her with a confused look on his scruffy face.
“I just decided it was time to look my age,” she replied after several silent seconds. “And besides,” she slapped his shoulder again; “I like it!” She spun around him indignantly and walked over to where Gracielle was sitting.
The doctor smiled at her as he finished mending Jonathan's injuries; he then excused himself to go prepare the other doctors in the area.
“We'd better get going too, Dallin,” Jonathan observed. “We have a lot to get done tonight.” He stood and looked at Kahlie. “Take care of the ator and atoh, Milady.”
She bowed dramatically and replied with the standard response she used whenever Jonathan told her to take care of his girls, “That is what I do best, sir.”
Jonathan looked at Dallin, who was staring, not at Kahlie, but at Gracielle. “Dallin?”
“Oh . . . uh . . . yes, sir.” He snapped back into reality. “On my way.”
“Goodbye, Dallin,” Kahlie snipped, and turned rudely away from him.
He smiled playfully, rushed over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Bye, Budge. By the way, you did very well. You look exactly your age.”
She gave him a, “hmph,” as he and Jonathan headed out the door.
“Well, this has been quite a day,” Gracielle sighed.
“Yes, it has,” Kahlie agreed. “I'm sorry you got hurt, Ator.”
“It was worth it, Kahlie,” she grinned. “Glaron and I actually made some headway on the Advantiere! Not just some headway, a lot of headway!”
“Really? Does this mean the disasters will be ending soon?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Gracielle sighed. “We've solved about half of it. The rest should go quickly now. If we can . . . .” She gasped and stopped in the middle of her sentence. “Wait!” she breathed, “If the picture was damaged, how can Ultara . . . ?”
She turned and walked over to a small writing desk and started digging through one of the drawers. “Ah hah! I thought I had another one,” she exclaimed as she took out a photograph, pulled a piece of stationery out of a tray on the top of the desk and started scribbling a note. “I need you to take this to the courier. Give it to Tabbit. She'll know what to do.”
“Tabbit,” Kahlie repeated, “yes, ma'am.” She stood by the desk and waited for Gracielle to finish writing.
Gracielle folded the stationery in half, sealed it, and handed it to her. She also handed her the picture. It was Tur Helene—Kahlie and Audril's private teacher. Kahlie's face must have shown her confusion, because Gracielle quickly explained, “Don’t worry! She's not in any kind of trouble.”
“Will this be all, ma'am?” she asked.
“Yes, dear . . . just make sure you give it to Tabbit,” she reiterated.
Kahlie nodded and hurried off to the courier office which was located in the below-ground levels of the palace. She made her way across the foyer into one of the many shimmery hallways and followed it nearly to its end. She walked through an arched passageway that led to a narrow spiral staircase, descended the stairs, and knocked on the door that was at the bottom of it.
A crooked, bony old man with a snarling voice peeked out around the door. “Oh, it's you! Why are you disturbing my sleep this time?” he asked gruffly.
“Good evening to you too, Snag,” she snipped. “The ator needs this message delivered immediately.”
“Hmpf,” he growled, “the ator does, does she? Does the ator need me to do anything else? Break my legs? Eat poison? Wrestle a rynolt?” He swung the door open and held out his skeleton-like, gnarled hand.
“Um, actually, she would like Tabbit to take it, Snag.”
“Ooooohhh! So Snag's not good enough for the noble ator, is that it?” He gestured for Kahlie to come in. “Too old, too slow?”
“No . . . just too bitter,” she retorted.
Snag glowered at her most unpleasantly. “Shut the door, you little snippet! You'll let in a draft,” he wheezed and staggered as he crossed the room. A large pile of papers lay on the floor in front of him; he kicked at it as he walked by. When he reached the back of the office he barked, “Tabbit! Get out here!”
Kahlie looked around the small, cluttered courier office. There were brown leather satchel bags and coin purses sloppily piled on the floor and stacks of papers strewn everywhere. However, despite the lack of organization and mess, Snag and his colleagues ran an impeccable, very reliable service.
Just a few seconds had passed when a demure fairy-like creature, dressed in a cropped blue top and a long, bright yellow skirt bounded around the corner. “Tabbit! Get out here!” She glowered, mimicking Snag almost perfectly, “yeses, mister Snags, sir?” Tabbit was no taller than a small child, and grinning ear to ear. Her big blue eyes were wild with anticipation. “Is it my turn?” she asked excitedly.
“Hello, Tabbit,” Kahlie smiled. “How are you this evening?”
Snag huffed in disgust.
“How are you this evening?” she repeated, copying Kahlie’s mannerisms almost perfectly. “I am fines, Miss Companions Servant, just fines,” she bubbled.
“Good! The ator would like you to deliver these.” She handed Tabbit the picture of Tur Helene and the note.
“The ator would like you to deliver these. Ooooo, the ator,” she breathed softly. She bobbed her head up and down, causing her pure white wisps of long, wild hair to turn and twist strangely—almost as if they had a life of their own. “Ator want mees to takes important things. Yep!” She popped her arm up to a salute and pushed out her bulgy brown tummy. “Me know whats to do!”
“Lovely!” Snag sneered. “Then why don't you just do it and let me get some sleep!”
“Let me get some sleep!” she repeated. “Okie dokies, Mr. Snag, sir!” She bounced across the room, grabbed a satchel and a coin purse, waved enthusiastically at Kahlie and Snag, and then disappeared out the door.
Kahlie giggled at Tabbit's happy little departure, and at the drastic personality contrast between her and the skinny old man who was glaring at her irately. “Good grief, Snag!” she exclaimed. “You really should get some sleep! You look even more miserable than usual.”
“Are you quite finished?” he scowled.
“Absolutely!” Having no desire to linger with this nasty grump any longer, she promptly backed out of the office and started up the stairs. She was about half way up when the door behind her slammed with a loud bang!
CHAPTER XIII
ULTARA’S ALTERING
Tabbit slipped out of the palace and across the courtyard. Her little figure was nearly undetectable in the crisp darkness. She hopped from place to place, nimbly maneuvering around buildings, trees, and rocks—anything that was in her path. She crossed through the city, and then into a rolling, rich meadow.
The trip from Mandela Palace to Trysta Palace would have taken most people several hours, but in just under two, she'd reached her destination. She stood shaking in the cold night air, in front of the towering wall at Trysta Palace, stuck her little head cautiously through the iron bars of the gate and looked side to side.
“No ones,” she whispered, bringing her head back through the gate. She raised her arms out to her sides, closed her eyes, and pressed her entire body against the cold metal bars. “Brrrrrr,” she shivered. Slowly, she melted into the gate, until all that could be seen were her large blue eyes blinking happily on two of the iron rods.
A Trysta guard strolled past, entirely missing her gazing eyeballs. Once the guard rounded a corner and was out of sight, she pushed herself forward and seemed to grow out of the other side of the gate. She was in!
She darted in a rapid zigzag across the courtyard. Whenever a guard came in to view, she would lift her arms and dissolve into whatever happened to be next to her—a statue, a plant, the wall. She skittered right past the main palace doors and darted along the sprawling, stony wall until she came to a dark, two-story window.
Again, she raised her skinny little arms; but this time, instead of melting herself into the building, she snapped her fingers, and a strong, focused wind—originating from her fingertips—blasted at the window, shaking the panes wildly.
The wind jiggled the window, making the latch on the inside shake back and forth until, at last, it popped open.
Tabbit moved her hands down a bit and aimed the strong currents of air at the window sill.
Slowly, the window rose. When it was fully lifted, she lowered her arms and the wind stopped. In one fluid motion, she leaped from the ground and right through the open window.
“Lady? Laaadyyy?” she called out in a tiny, squeaky voice.
Across the room was a closed door. Behind it, a light clicked on sending a glowing sliver of yellow spilling out from underneath. The door opened, and Ultara appeared in the doorway. “Tabbit,” she began, “what are you doing here?”
Tabbit hopped over to her. “What are you doing here?” she repeated. “Message froms the ator, Lady.” She gave Ultara the note and the photograph.
Ultara handed her a mesh bag containing a few shiny stones and a bunch of creepy, crawling bugs. “Oooooo! Very nices, Lady!” Tabbit poked at one of the bugs with a satisfied grin, and stuffed the whole mesh bag—bugs and all—into her coin purse. She nodded and made a strange little clicking noise with her tongue. “Good evenings, Lady!” she beamed, and then bounded across the room and back out the open window.
Ultara unfolded the note from Gracielle and read aloud:
“I thought the picture might have been destroyed, and thought having another would help. I hope my friend is recovering well. I await your visit.”
Ultara studied the picture of Tur Helene. “And, why do I need this?” she asked aloud, knowing that Glaron would no doubt be the one with the answer. She stared at the picture again for a minute, shrugged her shoulders, and then returned to her chambers and went back to bed.
The following morning, she woke early and promptly went to check on Glaron.
Dr. Salera greeted her at the door.
Glaron was sitting on a low black chaise, wearing dark glasses and smiling broadly.
“'E ees good as new, Vritessa.” In the daylight, Salera's eyes looked like crackled bits of ice—an eerie contrast against her strangely colored skin. “'Ez eyes will be taken some tame to 'eel . . . two o' tree weeks, Salera tinks will be enov.”
“Thank you, Salera.” Ultara replied and glanced over at Glaron. “Come along, my friend. I think we should get you back to your place.”
Glaron rose to his feet, and walked over to the waifish doctor. He put his arm around her dainty, clay-like shoulders, and said, “I owe you one, Doc.”
Salera turned toward him and swirled her bony fingers through his wavy hair. “Mmmmm,” she oozed seductively, “aye be collectin' laeta, deah Glayron.”
