Four Hundred Days

- Title Page

- Prologue

- Chapter I

- CHAPTER II

- Chapter Iii

- Chapter iV

- CHAPTER V

- chapter vi

- CHAPTER VII

- CHAPTER VIII

- CHAPTER IX

Here's what readers are saying about the book #1 in the 'Lor Mandela Series',

DESTRUCTION FROM TWINS:

This book has caught me by surprise. I started reading this mesmerizing novel, wondering if it would capture my interest, and if it would keep me asking for more. For someone who is extremely hard to please, this book has succeeded in not only capturing my interest, but now I am begging for more.

- Hiba Abdelqader, Woven Strands Reviews

I would call LOR MANDELA - DESTRUCTION FROM TWINS an epic, beautiful, breathtaking book, and it is on my "Highly Recommended List" from now on. If I could say one word to describe it, I'd say, "WOW!!!"

- Lisa J. Flaus, Author 2012 The Final Revelation

***

Lor Mandela

Four Hundred Days

By L. Carroll

***

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form without prior written permission of author/publisher, except for a brief quote or description for a book review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and places written within are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales are coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by L. Carroll.

Smashwords Edition

***

Prologue

The only visible thing outside of the cement, one-windowed room was a hazy blanket of black — a thick, inky gloom so dense that neither moon nor stars penetrated it. Inside, the small room was similarly shrouded in stale blackness, except for a tiny sliver of one wall weakly illuminated by three shining, green buttons. In their faint glow, the sharp edge of a metal door glinted on the otherwise barren slab of concrete. A musty odor — similar to that of a dust field stirred by the wind prior to a thunderstorm — hung heavily between the cold, damp walls and seemed a fitting aroma for a mill which was left dead and decaying by its former owners.

On a simple, grey, utilitarian bench — sterile and hard, and haphazardly jutting out from a corner — sat a tiny creature, curled in a dismal, rocking ball, quietly sobbing and shivering. The faint chirping of crickets in the distance no longer appealed to her. In fact, the sound that would have normally held an irresistible fascination now created a sickening knot in the pit of Tabbit’s bulgy, brown tummy.

“Squankis don’t tells,” she blubbered, “lady comes backs . . . lady comes backs . . . return the powers . . . four hundred days . . . four hundred days.”

Chapter I

A Victim of Temptation

Tabbit was hungry — not an unusual state for a Shadow Squanki — but tonight, the gracious spread of succulent meats, exquisite cakes and pastries, and exotic fruits at Lor Mandela’s Celebration of Light was doing little to squelch her appetite. She craved one thing and one thing only — crickets from Drolana — and her hunger, which had been nagging all evening, was finally getting the better of her.

She tried to resist. After all, Atoc Jonathan, the highest ruler on Lor Mandela, had forbid her people from opening any more portals to other worlds. But crickets didn’t live on Lor Mandela, and none of the bugs here tasted quite the same.

“I cans be careful,” she breathed in a squeaky whisper to herself, rationalizing the scheme she was concocting in her head. “I could finds a secret place . . . a hiding secrets place. Ryannons of Brashnell would never finds.”

She glanced around the glistening, alabaster room at the chattering hordes of ladies in their many colored gowns and gentlemen in their dress uniforms. Her wispy, white hair floated dreamily about her head and demure, bare brown shoulders as she took note of the location of each of the Nobles, all of whom seemed quite occupied with the festivities and their guests — a further reassurance to Tabbit that she would not be missed.

Gathering up the lower edge of her flowing, peach ball gown, the famished little Squanki tiptoed backwards out of the Terrace Ballroom, snuck across the stained glass entrance foyer, and bounded out of the palace toward East Mystad Field, dodging in and out of the thin shadows cast by the scraggly trees that bordered it. She stopped about half way across to scan the area for a private spot to set her plan in motion.

Near the edge of the grassy field, a massive, twisted, angular tree jutted up into the evening sky. Its broad canopy of bluish-black leaves rustled in the warm evening air. The tree, known as the Ator’s Anaria —the special place of retreat for the female leader, or ator, of the Mandelan’s — seemed to perk slightly in response to Tabbit’s approach.

“Hello Anarias! You is perfects,” Tabbit giggled, bouncing along in a lively zigzag toward it. Her initial intention, to slip behind the tree and create her portal, changed suddenly when she rounded its imposing trunk and, much to her delight, found the entrance to a large tunnel carved into its rough gray surface. She squinted and peered into the dark chasm and squeaked, “Even mores perfects!”

After a quick, cautious glance around, she slipped sideways into the tree. “Ator’s Anaria,” she whispered, “no ones comes heres anymore. Ator Lady Kahlie nots has had its cleaned up yets! Nots since big light come crashings down in earthquakes!” She fidgeted with the stiff taffeta skirt of her gown, and then started in a cheerful skip down the long, dim corridor.

The floor was littered with glass which crunched softly under her bare feet. She ran her hands across the smooth, damp walls, singing as she flitted along, “Squanki feets are tough. Nots hurt by glass and stuff. Glassies feels like fluff. Doobee doot, uh . . . puff, puff.” Moving through the tunnel, she repeated the bouncy tune until finally she reached the Anaria’s big main room.

She bounded into the room and gazed around in awe. Little shards of sparkling crystal covered everything, and looked rather lovely glistening over the big, amber sap blobs hanging from the walls, and dotting the rich, jewel-toned velvet upholstery that was strewn indiscriminately throughout the room.

“Doobee doot puff puff,” she breathed quietly, and spun around in a circle to make sure she was alone. Once content with her solitude, she raised her petite hand skyward, and rolled her fingers into a tight little ball. She opened and closed her fist and was just beginning to repeat the motion when she noticed something sparkling in the dim light of an olive glass wall sconce at the back of the room. There, sticking out of a particularly large blob of sap was a glinting spiral of silver metal.

“Ooooo! Pretties!” she giggled, momentarily abandoning her plans and hopping over to it. Upon close investigation, she discovered that it was a part of the chandelier that had twisted into an odd swirl when the massive fixture had fallen and had embedded itself in the sap-covered wall. It was whimsical with its curly shape, shiny, and very appealing to the playful little Squanki. She reached up with one hand, and then the other, and grabbed a hold, tugging and jerking with all of her strength in an attempt to free the swirl from the sticky sap. She shifted her stance and grip several times in order to get a better hold, but the swirl wouldn’t budge. She stood back and tilted her head side to side, staring determinedly at the defiant object. Her alabaster hair floated back and forth a second behind her head, as if it had to decide for itself whether it should move or not.

“Hmmm, stucks good!” she huffed, spitting into each of her hands and rubbing them together. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the swirl again, and began yanking. She struggled and strained, lifting her feet into the air, and planting them against the wall. Just as her tiny toes touched the sappy, bark-like surface, the wall shuddered and then melted away to reveal a maze of sprawling tunnels. “Oooooo,” she breathed excitedly, her already huge, blue eyes as big as saucers, “a mysteries!”

All but forgetting the glittery trinket she was trying to extricate, she dropped to the ground and sauntered into the maze. It was dark and shadowy, with thick, tangled root walls and a warm dirt floor.

“Wheee!” she squealed as she lifted her arms to the side, leaned backwards against the roots, and slowly dissolved into them. Her small body melted into the deep brown wall behind her until only her bulgy round eyes remained visible, merrily blinking on the twisted surface. She stayed hidden in the roots for a few seconds, enjoying the damp coolness against her back, before sliding out of the shadows and continuing further into the maze.

As she ambled along she investigated every inch, tracing her tiny finger over the surface of the roots, whispering a quiet, “smooths,” or “bumpies,” or “scratchies,” after a careful examination of each twisted tuber. She had just begun to study a peculiar stubby root when a loud bang from deep within the labyrinth startled her. “Oooo, Ator’s comings!” she whispered, and quickly scurried back toward the main room.

As she rounded the corner into the glass-covered chamber, she crashed right into something with a smack, and fell hard on to her backside. Without so much as a second to react, she was grabbed by the hair and hoisted high into the air.

“Well, what have we here?” a smooth, deep voice asked.

Tabbit raised her eyes and found herself face to face with a tall, dark-haired man with red flecks dancing in his dark eyes — absolutely the last person she wanted to see.

“What have we here?” Tabbit repeated in a whisper. “Ryannons of Brashnell,” she gasped.

“Ah, if it isn’t my good friend, Tabbit,” he sneered, “or should I say Atoh Audril’s good friend, which would make you . . . let’s see, my enemy!” He lifted her a bit higher and studied her little shape.

“Let’s see, my enemy,” Tabbit echoed with a growl. “Lets me goes!” She swung ferociously at Ryannon’s face with her tiny, clenched fists and kicked at him with her scrawny legs. “Puts me down!”

Ryannon was not fazed by her assault in the slightest. “I don’t think I will,” he replied, “you see, I really should kill you now . . . while I have the chance, but I think it might be more advantageous for me to keep you around.” He chuckled and added, “I can have you stuffed and mounted later.”

Tabbit snarled and took another swing at him, this time with an open hand. Her sharp, claw-like fingernails sliced across his neck and square jaw, gouging deep into his skin and catching him so off guard that he dropped her to the ground.

She quickly scooted backward, sprung to her feet and zipped into the maze as fast as her petite legs would carry her.

Ryannon raced after her. “Stop!” he commanded, lifting a gloved hand equipped with nearly two dozen long, thin, golden spikes. He took aim and clenched his fist. With a loud metallic swish, the spike dart shot from his glove and hummed through the maze, whizzing past Tabbit dangerously close to her left ear.

He missed her intentionally, and Tabbit knew it. Ryannon was renowned for his deadly accuracy. He had been trained in combat from the time he could speak. If he wanted to hit her, he certainly would have. She kept running, fully aware that he had the ability to take her at any second. Her only hope was to keep moving, and pray that he was having an off day.

Another crisp, loud shink rang out from the spike dart glove. A moment later, a searing pain exploded through Tabbit’s right leg. She dropped to the dirt floor and tumbled across it. “Owwws!” she cried, as she rolled, end over end, to an abrupt stop. She struggled to get to her feet, but her leg collapsed the moment she put weight on it, and she fell with a smack to her knees.

Even in the darkness of the maze, she could see the long spike dart glinting in her upper calf where it had lodged after slicing a long, deep gash. It throbbed and pounded as warm, crimson blood oozed from the wound and soaked into her pretty party dress.

Ryannon strutted over to where she landed, his boots making soft thuds as they hit against the dirt ground. Tabbit was helpless to do anything. Poison from the dart had begun seeping into her veins and had rendered her unable to move.

Ryannon stopped and looked down at her weak, shaking form, and then scooped her up like she weighed no more than one of the leaves on the Anaria’s floor. “Now then,” he began, “I need a portal, Squanki, and you are going to open one for me. Right here should be just fine.”

Without warning, he reached down and yanked the dart from Tabbit’s leg; she let out a scratchy, mournful yelp as it ripped through her already burning flesh.

Ryannon grabbed her hand and forced her fingers into a fist, prying them open and shut, open and shut; her small knuckles crunched and cracked under his strong grip. As he pulled her fingers open a third time, a tiny sliver of azure light appeared in the air next to his left shoulder.

Tabbit struggled to get away and as she did, the blue portal slid from its levitating position, easily five feet in the air, and dropped to the tunnel’s dirt floor.

“How convenient,” Ryannon smiled. With Tabbit in hand, he stepped forward onto the blue light.

The portal expanded with a loud sizzle and, in an instant, the oddly contrasting pair became enveloped in its blinding glow and then disappeared with a pop.

CHAPTER II

No More Crickets

Ryannon and Tabbit exited the portal into an abandoned shopping mall in the small Midwestern town of Glenhill, Iowa. It was late afternoon on Saturday, but rather than the usual cliques of gossiping teens, exhausted, stroller-pushing parents, and over-dressed, under-paid employees that usually spent their weekends at Glenhill’s one and only hot spot, the mall was completely empty. The gates and doors of the darkened shops were plastered with rodeo fliers and hand written signs indicating the reason for the stillness; today was Glenhill’s fiftieth annual Founder’s Festival Rodeo.

Just shy of ecstatic over the perfectly ideal circumstances, Ryannon flung Tabbit over his shoulder, turned to the glass doors of the store next to where they had emerged — Pet Land — and peered inside. From behind the doors, the gentle chirping of crickets danced through the quiet air.

“So, this is what you were doing in the Anaria, isn’t it? You were hungry,” Ryannon smirked.

Tabbit, who was weak and dizzy from blood loss and the poisoned tip of the spike dart, listened to the chirps. Her desire for yummy crickets was no longer a craving — sustenance was necessary for her to regain her strength. As she lay limp across Ryannon’s broad shoulder, her round belly gurgled and growled.

“Ohhhh my,” Ryannon tsked, “poor little thing. Let’s get you some of those lovely bugs, shall we?”

He reached into his coat pocket, produced a small black ball and pointed it at the set of glass doors, which began to vibrate and buzz wildly. Within a second or two, the lock at the bottom made a strange grinding noise and started to smoke. Its tarnished gold patina darkened to nearly pure black and then turned a glowing hot orange as it slid out, and landed with a clunk on the floor. Ryannon pulled the door open and kicked the lock, which screeched and sizzled as it skated across the smooth, white tile.

Toward the back of the store, a low green cabinet droned with the twitter of hundreds of crickets. He carried Tabbit to it, and lowered her onto the clear sliding doors on the top of the case.

Her head slumped to her chest, giving her a clear view of her injured leg, which was still bleeding profusely. The blood-soaked fabric of that section of dress was hiked up and clinging to her thigh above the wound. Just the sight of it made her queasy. She teetered side to side on the cabinet as she breathed deeply, fighting to stay conscious.

“Tabbit,” Ryannon began as he casually glanced at the back of his gloved hand. “I’ve done a bit of reading about Drolana crickets, fascinating creatures they are. You see, these crickets are sold as food which is exactly what you want them for.” He slid one of the doors open just wide enough to reach his hand through, scooped out a few crickets and held his fist out to her.

With all of the energy she could muster, Tabbit reached out a shaky little hand, took the bugs and pressed them into her mouth.

“There, that’s better,” he oozed with an odd hint of amusement. “Would you like some more?”

Tabbit weakly bobbed her head up and down, which was almost more than she could manage; her eyes rolled around in the sockets as she did.

“First, let’s fix this,” Ryannon smirked as he grabbed a hold of the bottom of her beautiful gown with both hands, ripped a large swath of fabric from the hem, and tied it tightly around her leg.

He reached back into the cricket cabinet, swooped up a few more of the jumpy critters, and offered them to Tabbit. He watched her eat as he continued, “As I was saying, these crickets are live food for lizards and other animals. But did you know that crickets, when hungry, will become the hunters and snack on the very animal that was supposed to eat them?” He lifted her from the cabinet and slid the top all of the way open. Two or three of the little chirpers hopped out at the chance of freedom. “Tabbit,” he whispered in her ear, “when do you suppose these crickets were fed last?” He picked up one of the escapees and studied it for a moment before tossing it back into the cabinet. “Let’s find out if they’re hungry.” Without hesitation, he stuffed Tabbit into the cabinet and slammed the doors shut above her.

She reached up and pushed against the Plexiglas doors — panic glaring in her eyes — but Ryannon just smiled and shook his head.

Hundreds of crickets jumped onto her; the combination of their creepy legs and antennae twitching against her skin, and the agonizing throbbing in her thigh, created a sensory overload. Horrific, panic-induced thoughts of being devoured slowly over the next several hours raced through her mind as the bugs squirmed over her, chirping wildly. Their frenzied buzz amplified as more and more of them hopped onto her.

Suddenly, a strange stabbing sensation prickled in her fingers and toes. At first, Tabbit didn’t know what it was, but then the terrifying realization struck. The crickets were starting to eat her! They were all over her — on her hands, arms, legs, back and face — chirping, crawling, looking at her with their emotionless glazed eyes, and gnawing on her skin!

She frantically batted at the bugs, struggling to knock them off, but there were too many of them. Terrified, she tried rolling her hand into a fist, but several of the insects crawled over her palm, preventing her from shutting it all the way. In a desperate effort, she lifted her arms out to the sides as far as they would stretch inside the enclosure, and leaned backwards against the cabinet wall. Several of the creepy bugs crunched and squished under her weight, as more and more of them jumped onto her. She pushed harder against the side of the cabinet; the sound of squishing, slurping and chirping filling her ears, along with the painful nipping of the crickets’ mouths was almost more than she could stand. A sickening nausea rose in her throat as insects crushed against her back. At last, she felt the wall begin to give way behind her and she faded into it; her bulging, frightened eyes — each with three or four crickets crawling across them — were the last to disappear. She slipped through the other side and landed on the hard tile floor with a thwack.

“Oh, well done! Good thinking,” Ryannon taunted. “I’m glad to see that you are clear headed . . . just how I need you to be. Now come on, Tabbit. Let’s figure out exactly where on Drolana we are.” He grabbed the exhausted, mortified Squanki by her messy white hair and started for the front of the store. Once outside the glass doors, he flopped her back over his shoulder and strode down the length of the mall, looking into shops for further clues to their whereabouts.

In the center of the mall’s main corridor was a three-sided lighted sign, with the word “INFORMATION” glowing in scrolling yellow letters across the top. On one side was a mall directory, on another, a vintage-looking poster about the Founder’s Festival Rodeo — but on the third side, the presence of a detailed map of the town of Glenhill proved the ultimate find. Ryannon studied the map thoroughly for several minutes and seemed to be memorizing every detail. Finally, he turned his attention away from the map, and moved to the side with the Rodeo poster on it. “Sponsored by the Glenhill High School Drama Club,” he read the credit at the bottom of the poster aloud, “Gabrielle Pearson, President . . . Maggie Baker, Vice President.” The red, sparkling flecks in his eyes intensified and the same delighted smile he’d had when they arrived in the ghost-town of a mall returned. “Well, how perfect, Tabbit,” he sneered, giving her a demeaning swat on the backside and turning toward the exit doors. “It’s time to make our presence known.”

Just beyond the mall parking lot — and in a glaring contrast to the interior of the mall — the town of Glenhill was quite active. People, horses and long, gleaming horse trailers crowded Main Street.

Across the street from the mall were two large buildings. One was Palmer Equestrian Arena, where most of the throngs of people were gathering, and the other was Glenhill High School. Ryannon headed directly for the school, weaving his way through the masses. A few people eyed the nearly six and a half foot tall man carrying a limp, white-haired rag doll over his shoulder, but no one thought much of it. It wasn’t uncommon for the rodeo and other Founder’s Festival activities to turn out colorful characters each year.

Tabbit couldn’t even lift her head now. The ten or so crickets she’d eaten had done little to rejuvenate her.

In front of the high school, a big, cement marquee sign which read “Glenhill High Panthers” rose from a small section of lawn. Ryannon moved toward the covered and locked structure and lowered Tabbit’s inanimate body onto the top of it. He reached into his pocket, and this time pulled out a glowing, purple crystal shaped like two entwined hands. On one side of the oddly shaped crystal, were a square black button and a display window. He pushed the button a few times almost in rhythm, and strange green symbols flickered and scrolled across the display. “There we go,” he smirked as he depressed the button once more. The entire crystal blinked twice and then evaporated into thin air.

Ryannon stared at the marquee for a minute, and then smiled as though he’d hatched a brilliant idea. He retrieved the black ball he had used on the door at Pet Land and aimed it at the lock on the sign, which rattled a bit, heated to glowing amber, and then popped out and dropped to the grass, crackling, steaming and sputtering as it lay on the damp ground. He then quickly went to work, using the spare letters that sprawled across the bottom of the sign to change the “Welcome Rodeo Guests” message into something more suited to his requirements.

Once finished, he tossed Tabbit back over his shoulder, and nearly sprinted back to the mall. He returned to Pet Land, marched quickly to the cricket cabinet, pulled a clear plastic cup from a stack next to it, slid open the top and scooped out a generous cup full of the chirpy little creatures.

He plopped Tabbit back onto the cabinet, held the cup to her mouth, forced it open and started dumping crickets in. Tabbit gagged and sputtered as Ryannon pushed her jaw up and down. She swallowed hard, struggling not to choke as crickets dropped down her throat wriggling and squirming the whole way. For the first time in her life, crickets were revolting. She didn’t want any more, but Ryannon pried her mouth open again and shook in another large helping. Then, reaching back into the cabinet, he refilled the cup, picked up a vented lid from another stack, and popped it on top.

“Time to go,” he sneered. “It’s time to find our lovely friend, Audril.”

He lifted the tattered lower edge of Tabbit’s dress, ripped another piece from it, and tied it around her mouth. “You make so much as a peep when we get back to Lor Mandela, and I will lock you in a whole room full of hungry crickets and let them enjoy you piece by piece. Your magic will do little to save you then! Do I make myself clear?” He shook the cricket cup tauntingly in front of her.

Tabbit nodded, her eyes even wider than normal.

“Excellent,” he snarled, as he tossed her back into the usual position, dangling over his shoulder.

He rushed to the portal that shone on the woodwork outside the Pet Land doors and started through. A loud hissing permeated the mall air, and out of the corner of her eye, Tabbit caught a glimpse of a huge fiery burst. A second later, they were sucked into the flash of the portal, emerging into the labyrinth of tunnels at the back of the Ator’s Anaria.

Ryannon wasted no time. He pulled some of the thinner roots from the walls and used them as cords to bind Tabbit’s small hands, arms and feet, taking extra precautions to make sure she couldn’t roll her fingers into a fist, or lift her arms out to the side. He then tethered her waist to one of the thickest roots.

“Now, Tabbit,” he began, “I’m off to find our beloved friend, Audril. You stay put!” he insisted, patting her forcefully on the cheek. “I’m counting on you for later.”

Ryannon knew where he would find Audril tonight. Everyone who was anyone in Mandela City would be at the premiere event of the year, the Celebration of Light. He left Tabbit and made directly for the gardens outside of Mandela Palace’s Terrace Ballroom — a room so named because of the spacious, beautiful outdoor terraces, lush plantings in every imaginable color, and lacy, gazebo-like structures that bordered it.

It was not uncommon for the festivities to begin in the ballroom, and then trickle out into the luxuriant surrounding stair-stepped gardens as the evening progressed — as Ryannon was well aware. He had himself romanced his fair share of young ladies over the years at the Celebration, and now used this familiar area to gain a different sort of advantage.

After seeking out a secluded spot behind a long, meandering hedge near the bottom-most terrace, he waited, earnestly scouting the area for any sign of Atoh Audril. Several minutes passed, and he was forced to watch snuggling couples wander through the gardens as he searched. Finally, he spotted her inside one of the smaller, more intimate gazebos dancing cheek to cheek with a neatly groomed young man with a strong build and brown curly hair.

“There you are,” he sneered in a whisper, as a searing flood of jealousy burned through his core, “and with that freak of a loner, Dallin Doone. I thought you had taste.” Ryannon’s blood boiled. Dallin was too close — touching and holding his Audril. He was breathing in her perfume and feeling the motion of her body against his. Dallin’s hand, which was on the small of her back, was sliding slowly up into her silky black curls.

“How dare you,” Ryannon hissed, raising his gloved hand into the air and taking aim. Dallin was an easy target, and one that Ryannon would be only too delighted to watch fall. He held his arm steady, locked on Dallin’s neck, preparing to fire, but then stopped himself. “No!” he seethed, coming to the realization that a murder at such a public event would draw far too much attention. Furthermore, he needed Audril for his plans to succeed, and unless she came to him willingly, things would become more complicated than necessary; killing her little boyfriend, as gratifying as it may be, would have to wait for now. Ryannon hesitantly lowered his arm and growled, “Later, farm boy, later.” He glared angrily at Dallin for a few more seconds and then skirted around the shrubberies, moving in closer to listen and observe.

Ryannon located a spot behind a row of large-leafed weeping trees with hanging sickles of deep purple blossoms, close to where Dallin and Audril danced. He ducked behind them unnoticed and could now hear their conversation perfectly.

“You wanna take a walk?” Dallin asked, looking as desperate and pathetic as any man Ryannon had ever seen.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Audril answered. “There’s somewhere I’ve been dying to go see.”

Ryannon stared at her lips as they moved; those lips that had twice been against his. They were full and silky coral, with the slightest hint of a pout. “Soon, Audril,” he breathed, “even if I have to take it by force again.” His breath caught in his chest as his gaze licentiously wandered over her. Her vivid blue eyes glittering under the flickering lights in the trees above; her raven curls cascading in soft ringlets down to the middle of her back; her long, dusky lavender gown hugging each subtle curve; everything about her was fueling his insatiable carnal lust. “Yes, soon, Audril,” he practically panted.

Another violent surge of anger washed over Ryannon as Audril locked arms with Dallin, who playfully leaned his head onto her shoulder. “Where have you been dying to go?” he asked.

Her response soothed Ryannon’s rage a bit. “The Ator’s Anaria,” she answered.

“Well, how very fortuitous,” he whispered. A devious smile played across his lips as he watched Dallin lead her back into the ballroom. He waited until they were out of view, and then turned on his heels and raced away from the terraces and back across the field.

Once he reached the big tree, he ducked quickly into the cave inside the massive trunk and went down the hall. He crossed the main room into the maze of tunnels to wait for Dallin and Audril to arrive.

He had barely set foot inside the largest tunnel, when he realized that something was not right. Tabbit was no longer where he’d left her. He scoured the shadows for any sign of the little Squanki, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Ghandentel,” he barked, “the portal!” He kicked violently at the root wall, leaving a deep white gash in one of the twisted masses. “Ghandentel!” he repeated.

He hurried back to where the sliver of blue glowed on the tunnel floor, and was just about to step into it, when suddenly there was a flash and a pop, and two figures materialized before him — one, a bulky, muscular, dark-haired man roughly the size of a brick wall, and the other, the still-bound and struggling Tabbit, who was being held firmly around her mid-section by the brawny man.

“Milord,” the imposing man muttered as he lowered to one knee and held out the squirming Squanki. “I thought you might like this back.”

“Grayden?” Ryannon gasped, clearly shocked to see the man kneeling before him. “What a charming surprise. I didn’t realize you were still alive. You’re the last person I expected to run into. How ever did you find the portal?”

Grayden rose to his feet and patted Ryannon on the shoulder, and together they strolled back into the Anaria’s main room. “Well, let me see. I heard reports of a town that had been completely destroyed in a single explosion, right up to, but not exceeding its borders. No one on Earth has that technology; not many on Lor Mandela, either. It had your name written all over it. Naturally, I came looking, though I must say, I was rather hoping to find you there and not this thing,” he scowled as he pointed at Tabbit, who Ryannon had flopped over his shoulder yet again. “But at least she was somewhat helpful in leading me to the portal.”

Tabbit lifted her head to snarl, but the exertions of the evening finally overcame her, and she slipped into a dark unconsciousness.

Ryannon rolled his eyes, and lowered her to the ground. “Shadow Squanki,” he groaned, “aside from their periodically useful skills, they really are such pests.” He flicked Tabbit hard on the side of the head, but she did not stir.

Grayden nodded in agreement.

“So, General,” Ryannon began, “You’ve been trapped on Drolana all this time? How did you find it?”

“Pitiful,” answered Grayden, “most of the people there are so wrapped up in their own petty problems, they’ve lost all potential. I did find one interesting woman, though. She’s intelligent, yet easily persuaded. She’s been helping me these last few months . . . helping me work on a plan to get back here.”

“Last few months?” asked Ryannon with a confused grimace. “Excuse my ignorance, General, but exactly how long were you on Drolana?”

“Nearly ten months, sir . . . why?”

Ryannon’s surprise was evident, but then a knowing sneer reminiscent of the evil smirk that used to grace the face of his father suddenly spread across his rugged, handsome face. “Ten months . . . of course! Ten months. Why, General, this is quite excellent, isn’t it?”

“Excellent?” quizzed the general. “What is so excellent about it?”

“Oh, trust me, Grayden. This is going to be something you won’t want to miss.” The crimson glints in Ryannon’s eyes flickered as he continued. “This woman friend of yours, can she locate shelter for us on Drolana? The more remote the location, the better.”

“Her family owns an old wood mill building in an abandoned town. I don’t think you could find a more remote location. I’ve spent a few memorable weekends there myself. Trust me, sir, there’s no one around to hear you scream.”

“Perfect,” Ryannon smirked, “follow me and bring the Squanki!”

As Grayden lifted Tabbit’s limp body, he unknowingly grabbed her by the wound on her leg, and Tabbit awoke with a scratchy, squeaky, blood-curdling scream. “Ahhhh! Noooo!” she shrieked loudly.

Her sudden outburst startled Ryannon, who stumbled backward and bumped against a bookshelf that was already teetering awkwardly atop a pile of rubble. The shelf tipped and crashed to the floor with a loud bang which echoed through the tunnels.

Ryannon raised his arm and angrily back-handed Tabbit across her face with enough force to render her unconscious once again.

“Tabbit! Tabbit! Where are you?” Audril’s concerned voice rang out from the maze.

“Come on!” Ryannon commanded, pointing at Tabbit. “Bring her!”

They raced to the portal, stepping on it just as the shadows of Audril and Dallin appeared at the end of the corridor. The glint of blue light expanded beneath their feet, followed by a loud, whooshing roar. With a pop, they emerged in what were now the charred remains of Glenhill, Iowa.

“Over here,” instructed Grayden. He led Ryannon to what was left of a cinder block wall a few feet away, and they dove behind it.

A few seconds later, a flash of blue blasted through the air, and Audril and Dallin appeared from out of the portal.

“A portal?” Dallin yelped. “I thought the Squanki were s’posed to destroy ‘em all!” He looked at Audril who was staring out in horror. All of the color had drained from her face, and she was barely breathing.

He followed her gaze to see what had caused such a reaction, and was met with a scene unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. Piles of what appeared to have recently been buildings lay smoldering across the landscape. Trees and shrubs were blackened and smoking. There was no movement at all — no activity and no life whatsoever — for as far as the eye could see.

“Oh, no.” Audril’s nearly inaudible voice shook. “Dallin, we’re in Glenhill.”

The expression on Dallin’s face dropped as he surveyed the annihilation before him, but then, as his eyes fell upon one particular sight, it changed from a look of shock and dismay to one of sheer terror. He grabbed at Audril, catching the skirt of her dress with his hand. He yanked frantically, pointing with the other hand, while keeping his gaze locked on a single structure — the only one that remained intact. Audril looked in the direction of his finger to where the high school that she had attended once stood. There, surrounded by a brownish haze, was the school marquee sign, and across it in black plastic letters were the words, “WELCOME BACK, ATOH AUDRIL BORLOC.”

Dallin quickly grabbed Audril around the waist and pulled her back toward the portal. “What are you doing?” she screamed, struggling to get away.

“No, Audril!” insisted Dallin, “I’m getting you out of here! Now!”

“But this was my home! I’ve got to. . . .” she shrieked as he lifted her from the ground.

“NO! We need to get . . . .” his voice vanished abruptly as he yanked her backwards and they disappeared back through the portal.

Ryannon stood and calmly brushed some stray dust from the legs of his pants. “Well,” he began, “that couldn’t have gone much better.”

“What do you mean?” Grayden asked, rising from his crouched position behind the jagged wall, leaving Tabbit lying unconscious on the charred and dusty ground. “What are you plotting?”

Ryannon’s reply was vague at best. “That, General . . . that was almost too easy. I didn’t expect to get her here so soon. This should speed things up tremendously,” he muttered, pacing back and forth.

“Speed what up?” Grayden tried again.

Suddenly, Tabbit bolted upright with such abruptness that it made both of the men jump. The wisps of her white hair which were bound under the gag started to weave and thrash wildly. They pushed, twisted, writhed and snaked until at last, the gag slipped from her mouth and dropped down around her neck. Her bulgy blue eyes were even larger than normal and devoid of all expression.

She turned her head toward Ryannon and locked him in an eerie, catatonic gaze. “What we do know, Atoha, is dat de answers you seek . . . de answers only you can find . . . day are steel hidden from you. Day are steel hidden in de Advantiere.” Her accent — deep, flowing, and hypnotic — perfectly mimicked that of a Shadow Dweller.

Ryannon and Grayden listened in astonishment as she continued but this time in her own squeaky tonality, “Squankis don’t tells . . . lady comes backs . . . lady comes backs . . . return the powers . . . four hundred days . . . four hundred days.”

Ryannon leaned down and gave her a robust jab in the shoulder with his index finger. “What are you rambling about?” he demanded.

“Squankis don’t tells . . . lady comes backs . . . lady comes backs . . . return the powers . . . four hundred days . . . four hundred days,” she chanted again.

Grayden sighed in disgust. “Well, there you have it. She’s lost her mind. Why don’t we just shoot her and get it over with?” From a worn leather pouch at his hip he pulled out a black and silver hand-gun and aimed it at the mumbling Squanki.

“Put that away!” Ryannon barked. “Didn’t you hear what she said? She said that the answers are still hidden in that wretched Advantiere! What does that mean?” He turned a disapproving eye on Grayden who was reluctantly stuffing the gun back into the pouch. “Really, General . . . ? Primitive,” he scolded, shaking his head.

“It’s nonsense. It doesn’t mean anything, sir,” Grayden replied, ignoring Ryannon’s rebuke. “She’s off her truglunt, that’s all!”

“Listen, General,” Ryannon hissed, the flecks in his eyes surging brighter. “You would be wise not to dismiss things so easily, especially where Shadow Dwellers and Squanki are concerned.” He turned his attention back to Tabbit who was still droning on.

“Squankis don’t tells . . . lady comes backs . . . lady comes backs . . . return the powers . . . four hundred days . . . four hundred days.”

Ryannon lifted her from the ground, a bit more gingerly than he’d done previously, and wiped some of the soot and dust from her tattered dress. Tabbit didn’t as much as blink; she simply continued repeating her cryptic message over, and over, and over again.

After listening with intrigue for a few seconds, Ryannon turned to Grayden; his confident sneer had returned. “General, I need you to introduce me to this intelligent, yet easily persuaded woman, with the old wood mill in an abandoned town.” His eyes were almost a solid, glistening red as he added, “My little plan just gets better and better by the minute.”

Chapter Iii

Glaron’s Cell Phone

The sun was just beginning to peek over the northern mountains as a taller-than-average, athletic guard — General Glaron of the Trystas — made his final early morning sweep of the areas surrounding Mandela Palace. Following the alarming events reported by Audril and Dallin after the Celebration, Atoc Jonathan had placed his generals on high security alert.

Glaron’s green eyes diligently scanned terrace gardens for any sign of trouble, but the only mischief taking place was the odd straggling, romantically involved teenaged couple who hadn’t been able to part at the end of the night — nothing that a playful threat of parental notification didn’t cure.

Glaron whistled happily as he moved around the front of the palace, toward the magnificent courtyard. He was hurrying another youthful pair on their way as a tiny form bounced into view near the edge of East Mystad Field.

The visitor, who was no larger than a child, had a shock of thick, messy white curls atop his head, which flopped unnaturally as he bounded closer. “Oh, Master Glarons!” he squeaked, his bulbous grey eyes widening to the point of creepiness when he realized he’d found exactly who he was looking for. “I haves a message . . . er, um . . . a somethings for you.” The small messenger hopped over and stopped very close to Glaron. His basketball-sized stomach protruded out above dusty brown pedal pushers, and from underneath an ill-fitting, floral print shirt. It sloshed and bounced up and down like a water balloon as he moved. He looked up nervously at Glaron, rolled up onto his tiptoes, and snapped his hand to his forehead in a salute.

“Good morning, Guddlebee,” Glaron greeted, taking a small, retreating step for fear that the chubby little Squanki’s belly might throw him off balance and send him tumbling backward. “What is it?”

Guddlebee, whose demeanor usually bordered on obnoxious enthusiasm, glanced around uncomfortably and breathed, “Strange newsies, Master. Very strange newsies! I don’ts knows what it is.” He reached into a black satchel bag at his side and pulled out a shiny, rectangular device. He seemed terrified to touch the thing as he lifted his shaky hand toward Glaron.

Glaron’s emerald eyes widened. “What?” he gasped, “Guddlebee, where’d you get this?”

Guddlebee whimpered and shook his head frantically back and forth. Unspilled tears shimmered in his large eyes. “It was ats the courier’s offices when I arrived. I swears! I don’t knows where it came froms! Please, Master Glarons! I’m just doings my jobs!”

“Guddlebee. It’s all right, calm down,” Glaron soothed, handing the distraught Squanki a pouch full of bugs and stones. “You’re not in any trouble. It’s just that . . . well . . . this device isn’t from Lor Mandela.”

Guddlebee gulped and stuffed the pouch in his satchel; again his big eyes bulged eerily in their sockets. “Bewares, Master Glarons! Bewares of the evil things! The stars speaks to Guddlebee. Things on Lor Mandela aren’t rights.” He stroked one of Glaron’s forearms in a tender gesture of warning, before turning on his toes and abruptly bounding off in the direction from which he had come.

Glaron turned the device over in his hand. There was a small note taped to it that read, “Under videos. File name-Glenhill.”

“Great big son of a slarp,” he breathed. “How in the world did this thing get here?” His long, sandy hair dropped forward, and though the wavy locks nearly hid his emerald eyes, they did little to shield the look of worry on his tanned face.

He pressed a couple of buttons on the thin gadget, and a dignified, middle-aged female appeared near the top on a small screen. Glaron recognized her from his time on Earth, Shawna Spence, a tenured and popular reporter from KRLN — a television network out of Omaha, Nebraska. Behind her, the air was a thick cloak of brown dust punctuated by weak swaths of heavily filtered sunlight. It was hard to tell through the haze, but it looked as though nightfall was nearing. A sense of helplessness and awe was apparent in Shawna’s expression as well as the uneasy shakiness of her voice as she spoke. Glaron noticed immediately that her words flowed far slower than usual.

“Authorities have no explanation for the strange and tragic explosion that leveled the entire town of Glenhill, Iowa this afternoon. The blast, which took place at approximately four o’clock p.m., Central Standard Time, ripped through Glenhill just as many of the residents were gathering for the annual Founder’s Festival Rodeo. Officials are on high alert, and are only allowing a few news teams into the area at this time. We are seeing first-hand, Mike, the total annihilation of this once quaint, peaceful Midwestern town.”

Images of rubble piles, charred trees and plants, and a blackened landscape flashed across the screen as the report continued.

“We’ve confirmed accounts that the explosion was oddly confined to the borders of Glenhill. As you can see, there is absolutely no damage whatsoever where I am standing . . . just five feet away from Glenhill’s eastern border . . . in the neighboring town of Palmerton. In fact, this strange blast, powerful enough to nearly disintegrate an area eight miles wide and six and a half miles long, did not harm any of the surrounding towns in the slightest. Crews continue to search for survivors in the rubble, but rescuers fear that the chance of finding any of the missing twenty-five hundred plus residents, and as many as one thousand Festival visitors, alive is very slim. Michael . . . back to you.”

Glaron didn’t wait to hear more. He stuffed the device into his pocket, and rushed across the neatly manicured courtyard toward the palace. He rounded the end of a rich green hedge, and sprinted up a sprawling, curved marble staircase which led to two towering, etched glass doors. A stocky guard in a meticulous pale grey and black uniform bowed respectfully and pulled one of the doors open for him. “Where is the atoc?” Glaron asked, barely slowing.

The guard cleared his throat and replied, “In court six, sir.”

Glaron ran through the stained glass enclosed foyer, and down a shimmering hallway toward the courts. After a nearly three hundred yard dash, he erupted through the large wooden door of court six, surprisingly full of breath, and exclaimed, “Jonathan, Kahlie, you need to see this. Guddlebee just delivered it.”

Atoc Jonathan’s face twisted into a perplexed grimace as Glaron pulled out the device. “Is that an MP3 player? Glaron how did that get here?” he asked.

“No, it’s not an MP3 player,” Glaron corrected. “It’s a cell phone . . . my old cell phone, to be exact. But that’s not what I have to show you. It’s about Glenhill.” He fumbled with a couple of the miniscule buttons and held the phone up at eye level in front of Atoc Jonathan and Vritesse Kahlie. Again, the devastating report played, and as it ended, the screen darkened, and a voice — deep, slightly distorted and equally as disturbing to encounter — sounded from the phone’s miniscule speaker.

“Hello, Atoc . . . Vritesse . . . Ryannon of Brashnell, here. I do hope you enjoyed my little video. I wanted you to see what I’ve been up to since we last met.”

Kahlie gasped and looked at Jonathan, whose cobalt eyes blazed with loathing as he listened to the voice of the man who had murdered his first Entrusted, and then tried to kill his daughter.

“Atoc? Are you familiar with Catorian explosives? Perhaps my father mentioned them to you. They are amazingly accurate and far-reaching . . . as you saw from my little test detonation documentary. It worked so well in your old hometown that I’ve decided to expand my efforts. I’ve placed about seven hundred of them in some of Drolana’s most intriguing locations. I’m sure that once one or two more of these beauties go off, the governments of this planet will be quite anxious for answers. So, when I come forward and convince them that the Highest Ruler of the distant planet, Lor Mandela, ordered such a violent and senseless attack on the billions of Earth’s inhabitants, I’d just bet that they’ll be more than willing to retaliate. You and your insignificant army will be grossly outnumbered, and won’t stand a chance.”

There was a brief pause, and then the recording resumed.

“Of course, all I need from you, Atoc, is one thing . . . your enchanting daughter. Have her come through the portal in the Anaria . . . the same one she and her boyfriend came through earlier; only tell her that HE isn’t welcome this time. I can guarantee you that no harm will come to Audril if you cooperate; she’ll just be a little less powerful when she gets back . . . that’s all.

“And Jonathan, don’t you dare try to trick me. I’m counting on you to see this through according to my instructions. You have two weeks. By then, I will probably become impatient. I think Los Angeles might be a nice place for my next test. You are familiar with L.A. of course . . . three million people or so . . . .”

There was a click, and the recording ended. Jonathan stared at his shoes for a few seconds, and then turned his gaze to Glaron. A passionate anger was evident in his squinting eyes and clenched jaw. “Find Statlen and the two of you meet us back in our chambers,” he seethed. “I thought I ordered all of the portals, except the one in the Bogs, closed!” The volume of his tone escalated as he spoke. “Send Guddlebee to the Anaria and have him close that portal, immediately!” He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, but they didn’t appear to have the desired effect. In a tone every bit as scathing as the one he had just used he sneered, “I’m going to go have a talk with my daughter.”

Glaron nodded and slipped out of the room.

“Jonathan,” Kahlie tried, “let her sleep. She was pretty upset about Glenhill. I think she was up most of the night. We can get to the bottom of this in a while.”

“She lied to me, Kahlie! She said that the portal was down by the lake! What was she doing in the Anaria?” Jonathan fired back.

“She’s next in line to be the ator, dear. She has every right to go to the Anaria whenever she wants,” Kahlie argued but in a tone far more composed than that of her Entrusted.

“Yes, she does! Which brings me back to my point,” he snipped. “Why did she lie?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll tell you why! She knew that I’d have the portal closed! She was going to use it to go back there! After I absolutely forbade her! No wonder we couldn’t find one at the lake!” He paced around the room, flailing his arms in a full fledged tirade. “No! She’s done sleeping! She has some explaining to do!”

Kahlie tried to calm him by placing her hand warmly on his arm, but to no avail. He shook his head and stormed from the room, leaving his Entrusted without saying another word.

Chapter iV

Jonathan’s Plans

Why should we even worry about it?” boomed General Statlen. “It doesn’t concern us! What happens on Drolana is their problem!” The tangle of battle scars about the older general’s worn face did little to hide the deep lines of concern in his forehead.

“We can’t just leave them to die!” Glaron argued. “They’re in this mess because of us!”

“They’re in this mess because of Ryannon, not because of us!” Statlen fired back.

Ator Kahlie observed the argument from her maroon velvet chair, remaining silent as the generals bickered between themselves. At the moment, she was more worried about the likely unpleasant scene happening across the hall in Audril’s chambers, and wondered why she hadn’t heard Jonathan’s shouts echoing from behind the quarreling generals.

In an uncharacteristically aggressive manner, Glaron moved his face close to Statlen’s and barked, “Atoc Jonathan and I spent thirteen years on Drolana, and he is not about to let a world he called home for that long be obliterated by some lunatic!”

“Glaron, relax,” Kahlie warned, in a tone befitting the highest ranking Trysta on Lor Mandela. “I’m sure we’ll think of something. Why can’t we send travelers to retrieve him?”

Glaron glanced at her apologetically, but then sneered back at Statlen. “He said that if anyone tries to stop him, he’ll destroy Earth. You saw what he did to Glenhill, Vritesse. It’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen. We’d be risking the lives of everyone on that world.”

“And again, I say we should just stay out of . . . .”

All at once, the large wooden door at the back of the room flung open and Jonathan burst in. Kahlie rose to her feet, and the generals lowered to their knees. “We have less than twenty-four hours . . .” he blurted as he strode authoritatively across the room, barely acknowledging the reverence being shown him. “Less than twenty-four hours to formulate some sort of plan.”

“What? Why?” quizzed Kahlie, tucking a lock of her wavy raven hair behind her ear.

Glaron and Statlen stood and exchanged heated glances.

“Audril and I were there for thirteen years,” Jonathan explained, “yet only one year passed on Lor Mandela. If time on Earth passes thirteen times faster than it does here, two weeks will pass there in about twenty-four hours.”

“I should have realized that,” Glaron whispered, disgusted with himself for not having made the connection.

Jonathan paced from where Kahlie and the generals stood to the stately pedestal desk at the opposite side of the room. He leaned over it, placing both hands on the desk’s burled top, as he struggled to organize the ideas racing through his mind. “This is insane,” he whispered, “less than a day.” He remained hunched over the desk for several moments, lost in deep thought. Kahlie lowered back into her chair and General Glaron and General Statlen took seats on opposite sides of the room.

Suddenly, Jonathan bolted upright. “Glaron,” he gasped, spinning around so quickly that it startled the unsuspecting general. A surprising smile graced his lips. “You’re familiar with altering, right?”

“Y . . . yes, sire,” Glaron spluttered. “I’ve witnessed one, and as you know, I’ve had a tendency to alter myself on occasion.” His eyes sparkled mischievously.

Jonathan chuckled as he recalled his best friend on Earth. For thirteen years he’d known him as Dr. Paul Brockman, a gifted surgeon and calming force to his own often high-strung personality, but in actuality, Dr. Brockman — for all of those years — had really been the altered Glaron. “How long does the altering process generally take?” Jonathan asked.

“About six hours,” Glaron replied.

Kahlie’s sapphire eyes lit up. “Are you thinking what I think you are?” she asked. “That’s perfect!”

General Statlen rose from the brown leather chaise, and nodded in understanding. “An altering . . . of course.”

“If he wants Audril, we’ll give him Audril,” Jonathan answered, winking at Kahlie. “Vritesse, your permission to recruit a Trysta Warrior with altering powers?”

“Absolutely,” she beamed, “Branlor and I were just discussing his niece, Mikil, the other day. She would be perfect! She’s a commander in the Seventh Order, and she’s altered many times in the line of duty.” She touched Glaron on the shoulder and asked, “Will you see to it, General? Have her alter right away and then bring her back here.”

“Of course, Vritesse,” he replied as he bowed and promptly headed for the door.

Jonathan turned his attention to General Statlen. “Mikil will need assistance. What do you suggest?”

“I can ready a division of our soldiers to accompany her, sire. But won’t that be rather conspicuous? Perhaps . . .” he seemed to weigh his thoughts carefully before proceeding. “Perhaps we should send Dwellers, Atoc,” he suggested. “As long as they stay hidden in shadow, Ryannon won’t be able to see them.”

“Hmmm, Dwellers?” Jonathan replied, stroking his chin. “Yes, that’s an excellent idea. Dwellers are exactly what we need. See if you can find Lortu and have him join us right away.”

Statlen nodded and he too hurried from the room.

Kahlie floated over to Jonathan, kissed him on the cheek, and gave him a tight squeeze. “This is a wonderful plan, my love. Now, we just have one more little problem to deal with.”

A scowl played across Jonathan’s handsome face. “A problem?” he asked. “And what problem is that?”

“We have to tell Audril.”

Jonathan’s deep cobalt eyes dimmed.

Kahlie studied his expression earnestly and then explained, “Jonathan, we can’t very well send Mikil without allowing her to learn Audril’s mannerisms and speech. She’ll be discovered the second she opens her mouth. Audril will have to brief her, especially on encounters she’s had with Ryannon. She has to be in on this if it’s going to work.” She placed a hand warmly on Jonathan’s cheek and asked, “She is still speaking to you, isn’t she?”

Jonathan listened, but did not respond. He walked to the desk and plopped down into the burgundy and gold tapestry chair behind it. He drew in a deep breath, blowing it out slowly as he placed both elbows on the desk and buried his head in his hands. “I didn’t wake her. I was too upset,” he mumbled. Thick locks of his straight, black hair slid around his fingers as he added, “This is going to be one intense conversation.”

Kahlie lowered back into her chair; she appeared suddenly exhausted for a woman of just nineteen. “I wish there was another choice, Jonathan. I suppose we could tell her that we’re sending Mikil and the Dwellers to capture Ryannon and bring him back, but she’ll want to know why a Trysta Warrior would have to alter into her to do that.”

“I know,” he moaned, “but if she finds out that he is holding the entire Earth ransom for her, she’ll do whatever she can to get there.” He repressed a shudder. “Who knows what he’s planning on using her for? He’s even more of a monster than his father was . . . and that’s saying something!”

Just then, the door squeaked open, and Audril’s black curls appeared around it, followed by the rest of her. “Good morning,” she began hesitantly, almost as if it were a question.

“Good morning,” Jonathan replied, “come over here.”

Sensing that she was in trouble, she glanced nervously at Kahlie as she crossed the room, and then lowered onto the arm of her father’s chair and kissed him on the forehead. “You know, Dad, I should go to Earth. If I were to go, with say . . . .”

“Out of the question,” he snapped.

“But, Dad, you’re not even listening!” she whined, jumping to her feet.

“There’s nothing to listen to, Smaggs! You’re in hot water so deep you’ll be lucky if you get as far as Delovic anytime in the next six months! You told me . . . .” Before he could finish his sentence the door flew open, and Dallin stood wide-eyed and out of breath in the doorway.“Audril! It’s Bridgette! She found out about Glenhill!” he gasped.

“What? Oh no! Dad, I gotta go! How? I mean . . . she was supposed to be sleeping!”

“I don’t know,” Dallin blurted, “but she’s hysterical!”

Audril didn’t wait for further explanation. She raced from the room, grabbing Dallin by the shirt and yanking him along behind her. Her best friend, Bridgette, had accidentally been transported to Lor Mandela three weeks earlier. She had been having such a magical, romantic evening with Glaron at the Celebration the night before that Audril didn’t want to ruin it. She had decided not to tell Bridgette until morning that their home town had been destroyed.

“You weren’t supposed to say anything!” she shouted over her shoulder to Dallin as she sprinted up a flight of marble stairs and down a pearly corridor toward the hall that housed the guest chambers. “We were going to wait until she woke up!”

“I didn’t!” he insisted, “I wasn’t even with her! I ran into a guard who was lookin’ for you or your dad. He’s the one who told me about her!”

Audril stopped outside of Bridgette’s room, pausing to catch her breath. “Then who was it?” she panted.

“I don’t know,” answered Dallin.

Audril acted like she hadn’t heard him. “Who would do this, Dallin? Who would tell her? Who would want to destroy her like this?”

All at once Audril’s mood plummeted as if an emotional dam that had been waiting to burst for the last several hours had suddenly ruptured. She could no longer conceal her own shaky emotions — let alone deal with Bridgette’s. She looked pleadingly at Dallin, as a big, glistening droplet jumped from her eye and rolled down her freckled cheek. The full weight of the tragic events washed over her in a choking wave. She gasped sharply and burst into tears as the picture of the smoldering scene in Glenhill jumped to the forefront of her mind. An agonizing, wrenching pain twisted in her stomach, followed by the horrifying realization that the home that both she and her best friend had shared for most of their lives no longer existed. Apart from Bridgette and her dad — all of her friends — all of the people she’d grown up with were gone.

“I can’t do this,” she breathed and fell, sobbing, into Dallin’s arms.

As he tried to soothe her, Jonathan and Kahlie turned the corner into the corridor. Neither of them said a word, but Jonathan’s face bore a peculiar expression of concern and disappointment — both of which seemed to be directed at Dallin.

Kahlie took notice. “Here,” she said, calmly coaxing Audril from Dallin’s embrace and into her own. “You two go ahead and help Bridgette and we’ll be along momentarily.”

Dallin rushed to open the door for Jonathan who didn’t look at all pleased with the effort. He whisked past without making eye contact, and entered the room.

“She’s dead!” Bridgette wailed, “My mom! My mom! Everyone! Lorri, Gabby, Ms. Devereaux, Principal Stockman, Brian, Charlotte! They’re all gone!”

A female Shadow Dweller stood by the bed, tenderly stroking Bridgette’s long, blonde hair as she sobbed.

Jonathan sat down next to her, and placed his hand on her arm. “Oh, plea-heeease! My mom! My mom!” She fell against him and buried her head in his chest. Her muffled cries were the only sound filling the uneasy air in the room.

Jonathan gently folded his arms around her and kissed her softly on the top of her head. “Okay, sweetie,” he soothed, “I know.”

The sad truth was that he did know. Ryannon’s father, Darian, had murdered both of Jonathan’s parents, and now a portion of the pain, anger, and fear he had felt when he found them strangled and mutilated on the dining hall floor stabbed into his chest beneath Bridgette’s tears.

After a few minutes, Kahlie entered the room alone and calmly approached the bed. She placed a hand on Bridgette’s heaving shoulders, and turned her around so that she was facing her. Her blue eyes emitted a soft, hazy glow which seemed to instantly calm Bridgette.

Jonathan stood and watched in awe as she guided the now subdued young woman down onto the fluffy mound of pillows and smoothed the white rumpled blankets over her.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” she whispered so quietly that only Bridgette heard.

Within seconds, Bridgette’s reddened eyes drooped shut as she sank into a deep sleep.

Without another word, Kahlie locked arms with Jonathan and they walked from the room, followed by Dallin and the mysterious Shadow Dweller, who continued past them and faded away into a darkened spot in the corridor.

Audril was sitting against the wall with her head lowered onto her knees.

“Come on, Buzz,” Kahlie whispered as she offered a hand to help Audril from the floor. “Bridgette will be all right. She’s sleeping now. I’ll walk you back to your room. Your dad and Dallin have some things to discuss.” She glanced sideways at Jonathan who knew he shouldn’t be surprised by her Trysta powers, including her ability to read his thoughts, but he was, nonetheless. He hadn’t yet fully grasped the concept of the woman who had once been the companion servant to his former Entrusted — and who he remembered very well as an awkward, gawky teenager — now being the most powerful woman on Lor Mandela.

Audril lifted her bloodshot, teary eyes, sniffled and took Kahlie’s outstretched hand. Kahlie placed an affectionate arm around her waist and led her out of the hall, glancing back and smiling reassuringly at Jonathan and a visibly nervous Dallin.

“How may I help you, Atoc?” Dallin asked as he shifted his weight from foot to foot and refused to look Jonathan in the eyes. The air was tense as he waited for the reply he feared — the reply that came quickly and painfully.

“I want you to keep your distance from Audril,” Jonathan muttered with an unmistakable seriousness. “Do I make myself clear?”

Dallin stared at him in a stunned daze. The response was even blunter than he had anticipated. It felt like a dull blade had been plunged into his chest. How could Jonathan do this to him? They had been friends since before Audril was born. Why was it so terrible that he was spending time with her now? Didn’t his happiness matter? Didn’t hers?

Dallin gathered all of the strength he could muster, took a deep breath, and answered, “Yes, sir. You make yourself very clear.” Again he inhaled deeply and then blurted, “It’s just . . . I think I deserve an explanation.”

Jonathan studied Dallin’s rugged face. All he could see were the dark eyes of a man who had never come to terms with the blows that life had dealt him — a man who, after his parents had died, had retreated so far within himself that Jonathan questioned his ability to ever feel happiness again.

“Don’t you understand, Dallin? I have to protect my daughter,” Jonathan replied.

“Protect her? Protect her from what?” Dallin blurted, his tone far from respectful. “What do you think I’m gonna do to her?”

“She doesn’t need any distractions right now,” Jonathan snapped back. “She’s young and naïve and it could be very dangerous for her to. . . .”

“Dangerous? Dangerous for what? For her to get close to someone? Is that what you’re sayin’?” Dallin interrupted. “You know I would protect her with my own life, just as I would you, or Kahlie! Besides, she’s not really in any danger! You heard Lortu . . . she’s immortal!”

“There are worse ways to hurt someone than by taking their life,” Jonathan retorted quietly.

Dallin choked back a rising lump in his throat. Could this be happening again? Was he being denied yet another chance to be happy — and by someone he trusted and admired?

“I would never let anything happen to her,” he breathed, fighting the emotions that were threatening to overtake him.

Jonathan’s eyes seemed to soften, but then changed in a second as he delivered his next blow. “I need you to go to Drolana, Dallin. Bridgette’s mother may still be alive, and I want you to find out one way or another.”

“Drolana?” Dallin questioned, fully aware that Jonathan’s intention was to initiate a plan that would keep him as far away from Audril as possible. “But sire, no one would have survived that. Anyone who was there would be dead.”

“Precisely. Anyone who was there,” he repeated, “but Bridgette’s mother may not have been there. We’ve been so caught up in our own lives here that none of us remembered that time goes by much faster on Drolana. Bridgette has been gone for months now . . . I can only imagine what her poor mother has been through.” He stared at the door to Bridgette’s room for a second or two before continuing. “At any rate, she was often away on business and may not have been in Glenhill at the time of the explosion. You will find out if she is alive, and if she is, let her know that Bridgette is safe. You can bring her back here if she wishes.”

“Surely Glaron would be better suited. . . .” Dallin’s rebuttal was stopped short by Jonathan’s raised eyebrow, which adequately expressed that the subject was closed to debate.

“That will be all, Dallin,” he insisted.

“Yes, sire,” Dallin groaned reluctantly as he bowed and sulked away to prepare for a mission that seemed rather ridiculous, and that would keep him worlds apart from the one person that he longed to be near.

CHAPTER V

Mikil Tu Shadow

Standing outside of a scrolling metal gate — the only break in the imposing amber stone wall surrounding Trysta Palace — Glaron stopped briefly to marvel at the beautiful edifice before him. The way that Trysta Palace played seamlessly into the bordering foothills had always astonished him. Seven domes — one large and six smaller — carved into the rock formed the Hall of Warriors, which literally glowed as the sunlight shimmered across the glass roofs and danced through the tall, spiny trees growing from the domes’ sides. Down the center of the grassy main courtyard, seven stone pillars — hewn from the same marbled rock as the wall — reached skyward, each one a symbolic representation of the seven Trysta disciplines: Courage, Strength, Wisdom, Honor, Self-Control, Unity in Nature, and Dignity in Death. Glaron recited the disciplines aloud as his emerald eyes trailed from one pillar to the next. After quoting the final discipline, he stated loudly, “Glaron, son of Maylinda, chief advisor to Vritesse Kahlie.” With his words the heavy metal gates slowly swung open.

He hurried across the courtyard, and up to a majestic evergreen that stood off to one side of the Hall of Warriors. He pushed against the rocks that ran alongside the tree, and its needled branches rustled and shuddered before swooping downward to reveal the main entrance into the Hall.

The room he stepped into was even more impressive inside than it was out. Six beautiful, weeping evergreens surrounded the main dome — each concealing doorways to one of the other smaller domes. The soft grey walls were covered with a dewy mist that glistened in the criss-crossing beams of filtered sunlight pouring through the cut glass ceiling above. Pockets of deep green mosses covered in clumps of tiny colorful blossoms grew up from the cracked rock and rich soil floor, clinging to the lower third of the wall, weaving artistic scrollwork around the entire room.

Unfortunately for Glaron, there was no time to linger and take in the beauty of the stunning room today. He needed to find Commander Branlor immediately.

Branlor — who had been chief advisor to the previous vritesse, Ultara, and had earned his rightful place in the Hall as a dignified and skilled soldier — resided in the Dome of Self-Control. However, since Ultara’s death, the discipline of self-control had grossly eluded the broken-hearted commander. His life had become quite meaningless and dissolute, and although he had managed to hide his destructive tendencies from Vritesse Kahlie, Glaron knew all too well of Branlor’s wanton binges and debauchery.

“Branlor?” Glaron called out when he reached the tree guarding the Dome of Self-Control. “It’s me, Glaron.”

The commander’s gruff and raspy voice called back, “Glaron, my boy. Come on in.”

A female gasp followed, as the branches of the tree descended and a young woman, at least half the commander’s age, fumbled for a red blanket to hide her nakedness. Glaron frowned at her as she wrapped the blanket around herself and jumped from the bed to retrieve her clothing.

“Get out,” he demanded, pointing at the door. She let out a frightened whimper as she ran past him and exited the room.

The interruption didn’t seem to upset Commander Branlor in the slightest. “Welcome, my friend. To what do I owe this honor?” he smiled, grabbing a black robe from the post of his bed and slipping it on. He staggered across the room to a table that was littered with bottles, odd wrappers, and half-eaten fruit. “Can I get you a drink?” he offered, draining one of the bottles into a tall wooden cup. “I’ve got Meronica. Tastes like seeva nectar in these wood things.” He tapped a gnarled finger on the side of the cup, causing some of the contents to slosh over the side and splash onto the leaf-covered floor.

“I don’t think you need any Meronica, Branlor,” Glaron scolded as he pulled the cup from the commander’s hand. “You can hardly stand as it is.”

The commander plopped down into a large green chair and stared blankly at Glaron for several seconds. “Hardly stand?” he repeated. After a long, awkward pause, he dropped his head into his hands and rolled it back and forth. His disheveled brown and silver-tinged hair flopped from side to side as he mumbled, “Oh, I’m sorry, Glaron. I just get so thirsty. So very thirsty. You know, Ultara used to call . . . .” It sounded as though he was crying as his voice trailed away, but then, as suddenly as his mood had changed before, he sat upright and grinned widely at Glaron as he said, “How can I help you today, sir?”

Glaron shook his head in awe of the fallen man in front of him. “I need to know where I can find Mikil,” he answered. “The vritesse has an assignment for her.”

Branlor struggled to lift himself from the deeply cushioned chair, and wobbled over to Glaron. He wrapped his arm around Glaron’s shoulder, winked and jabbed his elbow into Glaron’s side. “The vritesse has an assignment for her, eh? I think you have an assignment for her.” He winked and nudged Glaron again.

“Will you stop?” Glaron insisted, shoving Branlor away. “I don’t have time for your games right now, Branlor. Just tell me where she lives.”

“Of course, of course!” Branlor wheezed. The stench of his liquor-scented breath nearly knocked Glaron over. “She lives in Koria South. Eighty-fourth parcel, I believe. Big place with lots of Verulcae trees around.” He sank back into the chair and mumbled, “. . . bushes with red and purple flowers. The Greelan bugs will eat those things if you’re not careful. Such pests . . . such pests.” His head sunk to his chest and he let out a long, rumbling snore.

Glaron breathed a disappointed sigh as he touched the rock that opened the tree door and headed back into the hall’s main dome.

After leaving the palace, it didn’t take long for him to reach the Koria South region, where he soon discovered that there was no such parcel as eighty-four. However, after nearly an hour-long search, he came across a large home with mature evergreen Verulcae trees surrounding it, and since its parcel number was forty-eight, he deduced that this was the place he was looking for. He started for the door, and was almost to it when a loud, wailing cry emanated from somewhere behind the house.

Glaron dropped the satchel bag he was carrying, and quickly yet cautiously snuck around the side of the house. Three tall, twisting Verulcae trees grew perpendicular to the back wall, providing a convenient place for him to hide.

He jumped behind the tangled trunk of one of the trees, and was just poking his head around it when, “Heeyaahhaaaooo!” another shriek howled through the warm afternoon air. He pulled back instinctively, but then inched his head between two large clumps of glossy green needles and peered out. There, wielding a pair of enormous sword-like weapons was Mikil Tu Shadow — a tall, young woman with peachy brown skin and long, pure white hair. She flipped and spun the swords around as she ran from one side of the clearing to the other, whooping and wailing as she went.

“She’s part Dweller,” Glaron breathed as he observed her disappearing and reappearing whenever she would run through the shadows cast by the trees.

“Keeeeyaaahhhhaaa!” she screamed again as she planted one of the swords into the ground and used the hilt to launch herself skyward. She rolled in the air two or three times, landed, yanked the sword from the ground, and then faded into a twining shadow. When she reappeared she was panting heavily and glistening with perspiration. Glaron watched as she set the swords reverently onto the ground and then wiped a stray bead of sweat from alongside one of her pale, yellow eyes.

He couldn’t help but gawk a little. After all, here was this beautiful, physically perfect, scantily clad, mysterious warrior who’d just performed one of the most amazing battle sequences he’d ever witnessed. He leaned out a little further to get a better look, shifting his weight onto one foot, and causing a tiny twig beneath his boot to snap.

In one fluid motion, Mikil picked up the swords and vanished. Before Glaron could even react, she was behind him holding a sharp, jagged blade to his throat. “Awwww,” she moaned as she realized that she was about to slit the throat of the vritesse’s chief advisor. “What are you doeeng heah?” Mikil’s voice, which was deep, sultry and melodious, fit her perfectly.

Glaron turned to face her and bowed low. “Commander, I bring an order from the vritesse. She requires the honor of your service.”

Mikil seemed pleased with Glaron’s show of humility. “At least the vritesse has taught you how to act in de presence of a female Trysta Commandair. What is it dat she requires of me?” She plunged the blades of both swords deep into the soft ground and looked at Glaron smugly. “I assume it is eemportant.” As she spoke, her hair floated outward and twisted itself into a long, white braid before coming to rest on her nearly bare back.

“She requires you for a mission on Drolana,” Glaron explained. “There is not much time to go into details right now, but she would like you to alter into Atoh Audril.”

“Peh!” Mikil spat with a look of disgust on her face. “She wants me to alter into a selvish brat and go to de stupidest planet in exeestence. It is a good ting that you represent de vritesse. I would keel you right now if you brought dis assignment from anybody else!”

“I tink . . . um, think you would have killed me before I even opened my mouth if you hadn’t recognized me as the chief advisor,” Glaron snapped authoritatively. He had shown Mikil all the courtesy he was going to. He was second in command to Kahlie and Mikil’s blatantly disrespectful retort would not be tolerated.

Mikil realized that perhaps she had lingered in her defensive warrior persona for a little longer than was necessary. “Dat’s what you get for sneaking up on me,” she whispered sheepishly. “Forgive me, Glaron. I will, of course, serve de vritesse.”

“Thank you, Commander. Now, what do you need for the altering? Time is running short. You’ll have to alter immediately and come back to Mandela Palace with me.”

“Altering takes perhaps seex or seven hours. De palace is a five hour journey. I weel begin de process heah, and den we can leave for Mandela City. I have all I need,” Mikil answered as she strode quickly toward the house.

“You’re going to alter while we travel?” Glaron gulped. “Will you be all right?”

Mikil spun around and glared at him.

“Oh, okay, I guess you will be,” Glaron apologized as he watched Mikil evaporate into the shadows.

About twenty minutes later, a very different version of Mikil emerged from the house. Dressed in an orange and red ankle length skirt and a flowing white blouse, she looked feminine and refined. Her hair was pulled to the side and hanging over the front of her shoulder in pearly, cascading waves, and was complemented by a big, frilly, red flower tucked behind one ear. She didn’t say a word as she approached, but she didn’t have to. Her clenched-jaw, furrowed-brow expression spoke volumes of the pain that was twisting through her entire body. “Let’s go, Chief,” she muttered as she marched past Glaron.

Glaron followed her around to the front of the house, where he paused only to pick up his satchel bag, and then sprinted up behind Mikil. They walked swiftly and in relative quiet for nearly a mile. Every once in a while, Mikil would gasp or cringe or close her eyes and bite down on her lower lip.

Following a particularly anguished gasp, Glaron decided enough was enough. “Mikil, would you like a Greelan chew?” he offered, hoping that the small amount of Greelan bark contained in the candy would help ease her discomfort.

He was fumbling through his bag trying to find one when Mikil stopped in her tracks. All at once, her breath caught in her chest and her eyes became wide. “Mikil?” Glaron tried, racing to her side. “Oh . . . you shouldn’t be doing this! Come on! Let’s go back,” he pleaded.

Mikil placed her hand on his shoulder and forced a smile, “I . . . I weel be all right, Master Glaron,” she sputtered as the roots of her hair began to darken, and dozens of thick, black, curly strands popped randomly from her scalp, sending the red flower floating to the ground. The black hair twisted and twined itself around her alabaster waves. Within mere seconds, every strand of her bright white hair was surrounded and replaced by curly locks of rich, raven black. She lifted a few of the curls and studied them before muttering an approving, “Mm hmm,” and starting off again as though everything was as right as rain.

Glaron ran to catch up to her. “You know, I appreciate your willingness to suffer like this, but it really isn’t necessary. I calculated altering time into my plans. It’ll be all right if . . . .”

Before he could finish, Mikil whipped around and glowered angrily at him. “And I appreciate your concern, sir,” she seethed, “but seence you have no idea how this works, let me assure you, I am fine. I do not want to have to say eet again.” As she spoke, her eyes pulsated eerily and transformed from light yellow to vibrant blue. Again, she gasped sharply as an excruciating, stabbing pain pulsated in her forehead.

“It so happens that I do know how this works,” Glaron retorted loudly. “I’ve altered three times myself! And I can assure you that you are not fine! We are stopping when we get to Koria!”

Mikil opened her mouth to retaliate, but as she did, an agonizing pang sliced through her stomach. She folded nearly in half and let out a long, mournful groan. Glaron put his hand on her shoulder and she reached up and struggled to grab a hold. After a few failed attempts, she finally found his hand and squeezed it so hard that his knuckles cracked and popped under the strain. She whimpered miserably, and seemed to be straining for breath, when all of a sudden her upper body rolled to the side, and she crumpled, unconscious, to the ground.

Glaron dropped to his knees beside her. “Mikil?” he tried, shaking her gently on the arm, but she did not respond. He rolled his eyes and dropped his bag from his shoulder onto the leaves and twigs that all but covered the path they’d been following. “Well, I guess we’re stopping here,” he muttered.

He was just getting comfortable when a strange noise emanated from somewhere beyond the nearby trees, filling the late afternoon air with a jumble of odd clicks. “Oh, slarp drool!” he gasped, “Rynolts.” He patted Mikil frantically on the cheek, “Mikil? Commander? We’ve gotta go. Rynolts . . . Oh, come on! Mikil? Wake up!”

A screeching roar blasted from behind the trees, followed by the thudding of approaching hooves.

“Aw, man,” Glaron whined, quickly grabbing his bag, and pulling Mikil’s limp body into a position which would enable him to lift her. After one or two tries, he finally managed to maneuver her over his shoulders. With a grunt, he rose to standing and started running as fast as his legs would carry him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t fast enough.

With the crack of snapping branches and the rustling of leaves, a huge, scaly rynolt burst through onto the path not more than fifty feet behind him. Its two cobra-like heads weaved in the air, sniffing wildly and searching for prey with their silver, glowing eyes.

Glaron dove behind a nearby rock that was not nearly large enough to hide him and Mikil, but was the only cover in sight. As he dove, Mikil slipped down his back and her head smacked against the rock. “Aaa! Sorry,” he mouthed as he frantically struggled to fold her legs in.

The rynolt’s horse-like body pranced excitedly as its eyes locked on Glaron and Mikil. It let out another series of clicks, reared up on its massive back legs, roared loudly again and started its charge.

Glaron picked up a jagged rock from the ground and hurled it at the approaching beast. It whacked into the side of one of its snaking necks, but did very little to slow it.

Now the rynolt was just a few feet away, bearing its long, razor-sharp fangs. One of the mouths opened widely and raced down toward Glaron, snapping shut on the hem of his pant leg. The beast pulled back and Glaron’s feet went out from under him. As the rynolt dragged him across the ground, his shirt rolled up his spine; rocks and sticks scraped into his back, slicing painful gashes in his skin.

He felt himself being jerked violently into the air when all of a sudden, a strange surge of heat rippled through his skull. All he could think was that his head had been bitten and that the sensation he was feeling was death creeping into his body.

What happened next was quite unexpected. The rynolt let out an ear-splitting screech, and dropped Glaron to the ground; he landed with a thud on his back that knocked the breath out of him.

The searing heat in his head caused him to instinctively lift his hands to his forehead. As he did, he noticed something strange; his hands were glowing bright blue. In fact, everything around him was glowing bright blue.

The rynolt thrashed and twisted as though it were in agony. Glaron hurried to his feet as the creature raced shrieking back into the distant trees.

Glaron breathed a heavy sigh and patted himself to assess his injuries. All at once, the fire in his skull and the blue glow faded away into nothingness.

“Wh . . . how?” Mikil’s weak voice gasped behind him. He turned to see her standing behind the rock with a look of utter shock on her face. “I deedn’t know you are . . . .” Before she could finish, her body convulsed wildly and Glaron literally saw her shrink a couple of inches. She grappled to steady herself on the rock as her eyes rolled back in her head and she again collapsed unconscious onto the ground.

Glaron rushed to where she lay and dropped down beside her. Her face was twisting and contorting in a most bizarre manner. A big red goose egg, evidently inflicted when her head hit the rock, protruded almost an inch off her forehead. “Ewww,” he muttered, gently touching his index finger to the swollen knot.

The sun set beyond the eastern hills, and the sky faded from brilliant orange to pale grey blue. Glaron paused for just long enough to regain his energy. He worried that if they didn’t hurry along, more rynolts and other equally ferocious nocturnal creatures might show up and present more deadly deterrents. Leaving his satchel lying on the ground, he gently lifted Mikil in his arms. “Off we go,” he breathed and started toward Koria.

It was several minutes later when Mikil finally regained consciousness, and not a moment too soon. The muscles in Glaron’s arms — particularly in the right arm which held the bulk of her weight — started to burn and felt as though they would soon give way. He lowered Mikil to the ground and smiled as he observed progress of her transformation. She looked more like Audril than she did herself now, and the bump had magically vanished. “You’re almost done altering,” he announced as he massaged his right bicep.

Mikil lifted a hand to her cheek and felt around. “I tink so,” she whispered, eyeing Glaron like he’d sprouted another head.

“What?” he asked, “Oh, the hitting your head thing? Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, are you all right?”

Mikil gaped at him for a second or two and then spun around and walked away.

“Hey! I said I was sorry! It was an accident,” he called after her. “Thank you for saving me though.”

Mikil froze in place and then slowly turned to face him. “You tink I saved you? Dat is so teepical!” she huffed, spinning around and stomping off again.

“Wait! What?” Glaron questioned as he rushed to catch up. “What’s typical? I was about to be ripped apart by that stupid rynolt until you used your eyes, so yes, Commander, I do tink you saved me!”

“Why can you alter, Chief?” she snipped. “Don’t you tink eet is odd?”

“I was on Drolana when I did it. I can’t do it here. Ultara had to alter me when I came back,” he explained, “I guess it’s just different on Drolana.”

“Was Ultara with you when you tried to alter yourzelf?” Glaron finally managed to get a little ahead and was keeping up with her rapid stride. “No, why?”

“Noting,” she fired back, “just forget about eet.”

“Forget about what?” he tried, “You’re not making any sense, Mikil!”

“Just keep walking,” she barked, “I don’t have the strength to eexplain dis to you now.”

Glaron shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

They traveled the rest of the way to the palace in a strained silence. Mikil didn’t stop except for briefly, just outside of the Sybran forest, when her legs were transforming in such a way that walking in a straight line was nearly impossible.

They finally reached East Mystad Field, and were starting across it when they noticed two people walking together in the shallow water at the edge of Mystad Lake. As they came nearer, the duo — Atoh Audril and Bridgette — stopped what they were doing and stared at them in surprise.

“What in the . . . ?” Audril breathed as she observed the exact replica of herself standing a few feet away. “Glaron, what’s going on here?”

“Now don’t go getting all freaked out, Boo,” he cautioned. “I’m sure your dad will explain everything.”

“My dad?” she retorted, “Ugh! He’s sending her to Earth, isn’t he? What is he, nuts?” Without another word to her friend, she took off in a full run for the palace.

“Audril! Stop!” Glaron yelled after her, but she didn’t slow. He glanced at Bridgette who was gaping in utter shock at Mikil. “It’s okay, Bridge. I’ll explain later.” He grabbed both girls by the arms and pulled them quickly toward the palace.

chapter vi

The Solom Clan

Audril burst through the main palace doors just as Kahlie and Jonathan rounded the end of a hallway and stepped into the foyer. “You . . . her . . . why?” she shrieked, rushing up to Jonathan and pointing an accusing finger in his face; the deep red color of her countenance perfectly expressed her outrage. “She’s not . . . how could . . . this is the most . . . !”

“Now, just relax, Smaggs. I have my reasons,” Jonathan replied in a tone more scolding than soothing, as he put his hand on top of hers and guided it down to her side.

“So you’re willing to risk her life? Good grief, Dad! He can’t hurt me! You know that! Why are you sending someone he can? What’s wrong with this picture?”

Jonathan took a couple of calming breaths and then quietly, yet in a manner still charged with authority, replied, “I said I have my reasons.”

Audril opened her mouth to retaliate, but before she could speak, Glaron, Mikil, and Bridgette rushed in through the huge glass entry doors. Jonathan waved a dismissive hand at his furious daughter and approached the out of breath group, followed by Kahlie who shrugged her shoulders and smiled at Audril in a feeble attempt to smooth things over. Audril responded with a scoff and an indignant flip of her head.

“Commander Mikil, thank you for coming,” Jonathan began, wiping a small bead of sweat from his forehead.

Mikil lowered to her knee and bowed her head respectfully. A proliferation of jet black ringlets cascaded forward, blocking her face. “Tank you, Atoc . . . Vritesse. It is an honor to serve.”

She raised her eyes and looked with adoration at Kahlie, who signaled for her to stand. Kahlie’s hand twitched awkwardly, clearly expressing her discomfort in her newly discovered Noble status.

“This is ridiculous,” Audril huffed.

“This is ridiculous,” Mikil repeated in a perfect impersonation of the disgruntled atoh.

Audril glowered at her in disgust. “Okay, that’s so not funny! Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?”

Mikil thrust her hands into her sides, mimicking Audril’s body language with exactness. “Okay, that’s so not funny! Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?” she repeated.

“Stop it!” Audril snapped.

“Stop it!” Mikil echoed.

Glaron let out a pathetic whimper in an attempt to hold back the laughter that was welling at the back of his throat.

“Ugh! That’s it!” Audril yelped, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m old enough to decide for myself, you know! I’m going to Earth whether you all like it or not!” Without hesitation, she turned and started in a sprint across the foyer.

“Young lady!” Jonathan called out.

“No,” Kahlie cried, “Jonathan! She’s going to transport!”

Jonathan raced after her, but she was too far ahead for him to catch up. She looked skyward and loudly shouted, “The Anuh . . . .” but before she could finish, a hand slapped over her mouth from behind and a strong arm wrapped around her midsection, stopping her dead in her tracks.

“Are you nuts?” Dallin’s whisper sounded through clenched teeth. “They don’t know that the portal’s in the Anaria, remember? Are you trying to get us into even more trouble?”

“Let go of me,” she sneered, struggling to free herself. “Dallin, I swear, I’ll . . . .” As she twisted her body she suddenly found herself nearly shoulder to shoulder with her fuming father with his stabbing eyes and embittered scowl.

“Let me spell it out for the pair of you,” he hissed, locking them both in an uncomfortable stare-down. “I know all about the portal in the Anaria; it’s being destroyed as we speak.” Audril’s eyes lowered and Dallin blushed to an unbecoming shade of purple. “Ryannon wants you brought to him, Smaggs. I don’t know why; I have no idea what he’s planning, but I am not about to take him for granted and let him have you for whatever evil he has in mind. He knows you’re immortal, and yet he still wants you for something. Do you understand that I have a responsibility as your father and the atoc to protect you? And do you understand that as atoh, and the Child of Balance, you have a responsibility to the people of Lor Mandela to protect yourself?”

Audril continued staring at her feet as Jonathan scolded, “Don’t make me lock you in one of the dungeons in order to fulfill my responsibility, young lady.”

“Dad, you wouldn’t!”

Jonathan’s expression indicated that he was anything but joking. “With a full contingent of guards, if I have to,” he replied. “Mr. Doone. . . I believe you have an assignment.”

Dallin felt very much like a small child who had just been caught with his fist in a forbidden cookie jar. “Um . . . y . . . yes, Atoc,” he stuttered, “I was just coming to let you know that I will be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”

Audril shot him a bewildered stare. “Leave? Where?” she asked.

It was her father who answered almost before the words finished escaping her lips. “That is a private matter, which I will discuss with you later.”

She gaped at Jonathan, and then back at Dallin. Both her face and Dallin’s bore nearly the same wounded expression. “When will you be back?” she tried, but was interrupted by her dad clearing his throat loudly.

At that moment, a strange orange light began surging throughout the entire hall; it seemed to be coming right out of the walls.

“Solom,” Mikil gasped, both excitement and fear evident in her voice.

Everyone else was so occupied in trying to pinpoint the source of the strange illuminations that no one noticed her drop to her knees in a humble bow.

“Glaron! Get everyone dat is not Noble DOWN,” she shouted. “Dey’ll keel you if you are steel standing!”

Bridgette didn’t hesitate. The warning was enough for her and she quickly dropped into the same position as Mikil. As she did, the glow intensified, and then gathered and formed what looked like hundreds of tiny orange flames flickering on the walls of the room. Within seconds, the flames condensed even more and then transformed into sets of haunting, pupil-less amber eyes.

“Get down!” Mikil shrieked again, and this time Glaron and Dallin listened and lowered to their knees.

The walls of the foyer began to ripple and distort, darkening as they waved unnaturally. Dozens of large, black, bare feet started to materialize at the floor, followed by long, thin black legs. Suddenly, and with a strange swishing pop, creature after creature slinked out of the shadowy mass and moved further into the hall, eyeing the Nobles and weaving their heads side to side as they did. These beings were unlike anything Audril had ever seen before, and seemed to her rather like what one would witness in a demonic nightmare. They all stood at least seven feet tall — even the women — and had pure black skin. In fact, the only things on them that weren’t as dark as night were their eerie orange eyes, the long, golden loin cloths worn by the men, the short, golden toga-type dresses worn by the women, and the jagged pewter daggers they held out in front of themselves. Perhaps the most startling feature however, was the thick, black, scrolling ram’s horns on either side of their heads, which made their heads oddly disproportionate to the rest of their bodies.

As more of the creatures snaked out of the shadows, a shock of white hair appeared in the center of the group, followed by a familiar face. The form of Lortu emerged right out of the bodies of two of the black giants and — with knuckles dragging on the floor — he approached Atoc Jonathan. He looked oddly tiny and pale in the midst of his companions, but still carried himself as though he were the leader of the group.

“Atoc, you zent for us?” he began in his thick, deep voice as he rose up in front of Jonathan. “De Solom Clan is ‘ere to zerve.”

The atoc placed his arm around Lortu’s grey shoulders and whispered, “Solom, Lortu? How in the world did you arrange this?”

Lortu smiled and replied loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear, “Ahhh, dat is a question for Mikil, sire.”

Mikil, who was smiling and staring at one of the tallest Solom warriors, glanced at the atoc and sheepishly answered, “Lonoren . . . my Entrusted.” The warrior walked over to her and gently helped her to her feet before bowing to Jonathan. Three other Solom held their hands out to Dallin, Glaron and Bridgette.

“We will accompany Commander Mikil to Drolana, Sire,” Lonoren offered. Although the heavy accent possessed by Lortu and the other Northern Shadow Dwellers was absent from his voice, Lonoren’s tone was still deep and intoxicating. “We . . . the Solom are cousins to the Dark Watchers of Drolana, and can call upon them for assistance, if needed.”

Bridgette, who was standing close to Kahlie, leaned over and asked in a whisper, “How did he know she wasn’t Audril?”

“Oh,” Kahlie quietly chuckled, “all Dwellers can see through an altering. He just sees Mikil.”

Bridgette nodded slowly and went back to eyeing the group of tall, freaky creatures.

“Can I please say something?” Audril decided that she had held her tongue for long enough, and pushed herself between her dad and Lortu. “This whole thing is really stupid . . . I mean, no offense to you guys,” she nervously added, nodding toward Lonoren. “I just don’t understand why we’re going through all of this when I could just . . . .”

“Not now,” Jonathan insisted loudly.

“Then when, Dad?” Audril replied in a manner oblivious to the fact that she and her father were not alone. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said since last night! It’s just your way or no way at all! I can’t even have an opinion! I’m the Clest Anaria for Heaven’s sake . . . the Child of Balance . . . I freakin’ saved this whole planet! But apparently that doesn’t mean anything to anyone!”

“ATOH!” Jonathan barked back, as he grabbed his daughter by the arm and forcefully led her across the foyer and out of earshot of the rest of the assembly. “You are WAY out of line, young lady! I’ve already told you that I have my reasons for not letting you go back to Earth! And how dare you question me in front of everyone? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that this is the only way you’ll listen to me!” she retorted. “Can’t we at least discuss this?”

“Discuss what?” he fired back. “You want me to just let you go to Earth and do . . . do what? Have you even thought about what you’re gonna do once you’re face to face with Ryannon? Are you planning on tackling him to the ground and hog-tying him? Honestly! It’s obvious that you underestimate what he’s capable of, and that in and of itself is one very good reason why I will not let you go.” Before Audril could counter, he added, “Ugh, I don’t have time for this right now. . . Lortu?”

Lortu, who was talking with Dallin, rushed to the atoc’s side.

“General, would you please have a few of your friends escort my daughter to her room?”

“What?” Audril gasped.

“Bridgette can go with you,” he replied nonchalantly, and then spoke again to Lortu. “She is not to leave her chambers until I say so; is that clear?”

“You’re placing me on house arrest, Dad?” Audril sneered. “What . . . like I’m five years old or something?”

Jonathan ignored her.

Kahlie, who’d watched the scene unfold from across the hall, started toward them. “Jonathan, dear, don’t you think that’s a bit drastic?”

But Jonathan would not be persuaded. “General?” he raised his eyebrows at Lortu. “I meant now.”

“Yez, sire,” Lortu answered softly and pointed his bony, grayish finger at one of the Solom. “You der . . . take tree more and ezcort de atoha and hair friend to hair chambers.”

Audril gaped at her father in shock. “Dad,” she pleaded, “don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Angel, but you leave me no choice,” he replied. “Commander Mikil will be in to see you momentarily. I expect you to help her wholeheartedly.” He looked into her eyes and earnestly added, “You must understand that she will be in grave danger if you don’t give her what she needs.”

As the Solom escorts approached and surrounded her, with Bridgette in tow, Audril fought the impulse to kick and scream and run. While it was not in her nature to give up easily, fighting seemed pointless at the moment. After all, four large, intimidating warriors stood next to her, towering over her and her best friend. Furthermore, they had plenty of back up standing in the foyer behind them. With an indignant stomp and an evil glare in the direction of her father, she allowed one of the giants to place a massive black hand on her shoulder and guide her from the room. As they walked away, Bridgette complained aloud, “Why am I in trouble? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

CHAPTER VII

Another Riddle?

It was just after two a.m. when a faint rapping sounded at Audril’s door. She and Bridgette were not sleeping, but the pair was far from their energetic selves. The few words they shared in their hours of confinement were shallow at best. Neither wanted to talk about the loss of Bridgette’s mom or how Audril’s dad had cruelly sentenced them to a humiliating “time-out.”

“Who in the world . . . ?” Bridgette breathed.

Audril shrugged her shoulders and crossed from her bed to the beautifully carved door at the other side of the room. She opened it to find Glaron beaming with an expression of wonder and awe across his face. “That was so cool!” he bubbled. “I could see the light coming under your door . . . through his feet!” He chuckled, pointing his thumb toward one of the Solom guards who looked far from amused.

“What are you doing here?” Audril asked, shaking her head at the ease in which Glaron was entertained. “Let me guess, Dad heard us talking and sent you to put a stop to it?”

“Harsh, Boo,” Glaron replied as he walked right past her and over to Bridgette. “Hey, Pretty Dude. How ya doin’?”

Bridgette rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around Glaron’s shoulders. “Better now that you’re here,” she smiled and the two of them commenced in what Audril thought was a disgusting display of passionate kissing.

She waited almost patiently for about ten seconds before clearing her throat loudly and slamming the door shut. “You didn’t answer my question, lover boy. Why are you here? Or did you just come to make out with my best friend?”

“You’re in such a sun-shiny mood, Blue Eyes,” Glaron retorted, prying himself almost painfully away from Bridgette. “As it so happens, I was going to the kitchens to make sure Kahlie’s criwa cake didn’t go to waste, when I saw your light . . . shining through that guy’s foot, I might add . . . and I thought I’d stop in and check to see how both of you are doing.”

Audril flopped back down onto her bed. “We’re sensational! There’s been so much to do in here; we’ve hardly had a moment to think!” The sarcasm in her voice was not difficult to detect.

“Well, at least you didn’t let your sweetness interfere with what you had to teach Mikil. Ya know, it’s spooky how much she sounds and acts like you now, right down to the ‘tude.” He walked over and poked her gently in the side. “But then, she had a bit of her own attitude to begin with, so I guess that was the easy part.”

Audril glowered at him.

Bridgette observed her bitter expression and blurted, “Ugh, she’s been like this all night!”

In a split second Audril was on her feet. “Well, I’m sorry to inconvenience you both with my ‘sun-shininess’!” she shrieked. “My dad just arrested me . . . had me locked up, for Heaven’s sake! Am I supposed to be all happy about it? Oh, sure, Dad! Why don’t I just sit here and do nothing while your precious little changeling, Mikily-poo, gets herself killed? Sheesh! I don’t even know who he is anymore. Ever since we left Glenhill, he’s all serious. I swear! If I even blink he freaks out!”

“Listen, Boo,” Glaron tried, “I’ve known your dad for a long time. He gets like this when he’s stressed out, and you know as well as I do that the things he’s stressing out about now are a lot bigger than what he was used to back in his accountant days in Iowa. Eventually he learns how to cope and goes back to being his normal, fun-loving self, though. Just give it some time.”

His attempt at soothing her was unexpectedly interrupted by the quiet sobs of Bridgette. They both turned to face her as she whimpered, “At least you still have a parent.”

Glaron rushed to her side, and Audril sighed and joined him. “Come on, Bridgey, hey, come on,” she comforted. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been there for you today, have I?”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Glaron interjected, “Don’t cry. I’m sure Dallin will find your mom.”

The room fell silent. Both Audril and Bridgette turned their heads slowly toward Glaron, gaping. He looked like someone who had just been tricked into confessing to murder.

“What . . . are you talking about?” Audril began. “Dallin is going to Earth?”

“My mom is still alive?” Bridgette asked, her brown eyes wide.

Glaron dropped his face into his hands. “Oh man, I am so dead,” he mumbled through his fingers.

“Oh . . . you will be if you don’t spill,” Audril demanded.

With a heavy sigh, Glaron lowered into a small chair the color of robin’s egg blue — one of four surrounding a shiny, chocolate-colored table — and groaned, “You have to understand, Boo . . . your dad will hang me from the tallest tree in the Sybran if I tell you.”

Bridgette and Audril joined him at the table. “But Glaron, my mom . . . .” Bridgette whined, beseeching him with her big mahogany eyes. “Please tell me what you know . . . is she alive?”

He glanced at Audril, hoping to see an understanding face, but was met instead by batting eyelashes and a pathetic pout. “You promised you’d never keep secrets from me, Doc, and this seems like a pretty big one. Besides, we’re not gonna tell Dad. It won’t leave this room . . . we promise.”

Bridgette nodded emphatically.

Glaron took a deep breath. He was never very good at resisting the pleadings of his beloved Goddaughter. “All right . . . fine . . . I’ll tell you,” he relented, “but if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll make sure that both of you are swingin’ from that tree with me.”

Audril winked at Bridgette in triumph as Glaron explained how Jonathan was sending Dallin to Earth to find out if Bridgette’s mom was actually in Glenhill at the time of the explosion. “She traveled so often that it’s quite possible she was gone. He didn’t want you to know, love, because he didn’t want to raise your hopes . . . ya know, just in case.”

Bridgette’s lovely face was solemn. She’d hoped for better news.

“Oh . . . um, I guess I understand,” she whispered.

“Well, at least there’s a chance,” he tried, to which she responded with a barely detectable nod.

Audril leaned her head against Bridgette’s shoulder. “Come on, Bubbles. Glaron’s right, you’ve got to hold on to what you can.”

The atoh’s sincere show of compassion impressed Glaron. For the first time that day, she chose to focus on someone else’s feelings rather than her own. He rose to his feet and kissed her on the top of the head before holding his hands out to Bridgette to help her up. “I think I’ll leave you two ladies to get some sleep now. It’s probably pushing three.” He embraced Bridgette, who responded by pressing her lips to his.

This time Audril didn’t interrupt. She sat in quiet reflection and waited until they were done. When at last they moved apart, she asked, “Hey, Glaron? Did my dad give any reason why he would send Dallin and not you? Dallin’s never even been to Earth . . . I’m just curious.”

“Nope, it didn’t really make much sense to me either, but I’m sure he has his reasons.” He gave Bridgette another quick peck, tousled Audril’s raven curls, bade them both goodnight, and then ducked out of the room.

“You okay?” Audril asked, hugging her best friend warmly.

“Yeah, I’m . . . .”

A sudden loud rustling — like someone folding stiff paper — bristled from a shadowy corner, stopping Bridgette mid-sentence. Both girls glanced in the direction of the sound but could only see vague sections of black silhouettes cast by an antique doll house and an old child’s chair.

“What was that?” Audril mouthed as she cautiously started across the room. Bridgette rushed up behind her and followed, clutching her by the arm. They took only a few steps when, once again, the strange noise permeated the darkness — this time followed by faint whispering.

“Hello?” Audril tried, while Bridgette nervously whimpered behind her.

The rustling became more frantic, as though whatever or whoever it was didn’t relish the idea that it had been discovered.

As the girls took another wary step, a single sheet of slightly crumpled paper blasted out of the corner, with an unnatural force considering its size and weight. The breath in Audril’s chest seized sharply, and Bridgette jumped and let out a tiny, high-pitched “eep.” As the stiff, wrinkled page zipped through the air toward them, they stood frozen in place, watching it propel itself closer and closer, but then quite suddenly — and in a manner more characteristic of paper — it caught the air, and floated dreamily to the floor a few feet in front of them.

Audril reached for the lamp that was arms-length away on a small glass-topped table and switched it on. The light flooded the corner from which the paper had come. To both her surprise and overwhelming relief, no one was there. She started toward the strange paper but before she could take a second step, she was grabbed forcefully by the arm.

“Don’t touch it!” Bridgette warned in a terrified whine. “It might be cursed.”

“Cursed, Bridgette . . ? Really?” Audril questioned with a roll of her eyes. “I think you’ve seen way too many movies.”

“Noooo, like that grasping thing your dad told us about! It killed your grandparents! Don’t you remember?” Bridgette was practically trembling.

“This is not a grasping curse, Bridge,” Audril smirked. “A grasping curse has to be on a sealed note, and do you see any creepy black hands?” She leaned down and picked up the paper. “This is just a harmless . . . .”

She stopped short and scanned the mysterious words which were scribbled haphazardly across the page.

Who did tell of the Advantiere?

To make it so in merely one year.

Share with the schemer; the Channeler stays,

to keep what was lost for four hundred days.”

The answers are still hidden in the Advantiere, Atoh. But you must try to find them TONIGHT! Time is ticking.

“Ugh, what is it with this place and these ridiculous riddles,” Audril sighed, handing the note to Bridgette, who studied it for a moment before handing it back. “I mean, would it be so difficult to just say, ‘do this, and something cool or, ya know, something outrageously life-threatening will happen’?” Audril pointed to the words the Advantiere on the note before continuing. “First, the Advantiere . . . a mysterious glowing message that shows up on a wall . . . and now some elusive note? Yikes!”

“So, what do you think it means?” Bridgette asked.

“No idea.”

Audril walked over to her bed and dropped down onto it, reading the cryptic scribblings once more. “Who did tell of the Advantiere? Who did tell . . . Oh, come on!” She took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead. “Okay . . . so I guess that would be my grandma, Lantalia.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Bridgette chimed in, joining her friend on the bed. “Won’t it be a little difficult to ask her anything? Didn’t she die, like, years ago?”

Audril grimaced. “I’m just trying to figure this out, Bridge. It says, ‘who did tell of the Advantiere?’ I don’t really know of another Advantiere, do you? And Lantalia was the one who told it to my mom.”

“Okay. Well, where I come from spirits of planets don’t deliver messages through some random person, so honestly, I don’t know what. . . .”

“Bridgey! That’s it!” Audril blurted, “That’s why who did tell and the Advantiere are underlined! Look . . . .” She shoved the paper toward Bridgette.

“So what?”

“The spirit of the planet!” Audril explained, “That’s who told the Advantiere! Lantalia was just the messenger. I’ve got to . . . Oh my gosh, I wonder if it’ll even talk to me?” Suddenly she sprung up from the bed and started frantically sliding furniture toward the center of the room. “Help me!” she yelled to Bridgette as she attempted to move a large chest of drawers.

“Help you what?” Bridgette exclaimed, rushing to her side and leaning against the dresser. “What are we doing?”

“I need to clear a path!”

“A path for what?”

Audril didn’t answer. She continued pushing everything away from the walls into a large pile in the middle of the floor. Bridgette shrugged and joined in moving two tables, six chairs, a stack of tapestry covered boxes, a dozen or so stuffed animals, a mountain of books and a myriad of other things. After a few minutes, there was a clear race track-type path circling most of the room, and a mass conglomeration of textures, colors and shapes heaped in the center of it. Audril rushed to a closet and pulled out a ragged grey sweatshirt. “Thanks, Bridge,” she smiled as she tied it around her waist. “I’ll be back in a while.”

“Back from where? You can’t leave, remember? You’re supposed to stay in your room!”

“That’s never stopped me before,” she winked, “besides, I have to do this. I promise I won’t be gone long. Well, here goes . . . .” With a deep breath, she started running around the circle. Bridgette had to jump backwards onto the bed to avoid being knocked over as Audril sprinted past.

After two complete laps, Audril lifted her head skyward and shouted, “The caverns!”

Nothing happened.

Again she ran, this time doing three laps, trying to build up more speed, but the short distance between turns made it difficult to go fast enough. “The caverns!” she yelled, even louder than before.

“This is ridiculous,” Bridgette observed. “It’s not working.”

Audril didn’t give up though; after circling the room five times in a frantic dash, she raised her eyes to the ceiling and bellowed, “THE CAVERNS!” But to no avail. This time as she rounded a sharp turn and tried to stop, she lost her balance and tumbled with a shriek into the pile in the middle of the room.

Bridgette sprang to her feet. “Are you all right?” she gasped.

“I’m fine,” a shaky voice replied. “Just get over here and help me up.”

As Bridgette approached, she found Audril with her legs tangled in a couple of bras and a t-shirt, her rear end stuffed into a crushed tapestry box, and a lamp balancing precariously against her head.

“Oh, how regal,” Bridgette giggled, as she lifted the lamp and set it back on the table from which it had fallen.

Audril freed her legs from the attacking laundry, and held her hand up to Bridgette who planted her feet squarely and pulled. As Audril lifted from the floor, the smashed box which had formed itself to her backside dropped and smacked her behind the knees, causing them to buckle. As she started to fall back, she grabbed wildly at Bridgette’s free arm, which was only effective at pulling Bridgette down with her. The girls toppled — Bridgette landing right on top of Audril — and crashed with a bang into the side of a small nightstand.

Audril moaned and pushed Bridgette to the side. “Awesome,” she groaned as she examined the long, red welt burning on her upper arm.

Bridgette started to giggle. “That was beautiful,” she snorted, her giggle erupting into full fledged laughter. “Can you tell me one thing? Why, exactly, do they call you the Child of Balance?”

“Oh, tee hee! Very funny, Bubs,” Audril responded with a small slap on the back of her best friend’s head, “but now how am I going to get to the Caverns?”

Bridgette, who was still sniggering, slid out of the pile and got to her feet. She grabbed a hold of a big wooden wardrobe in a teasing attempt to better anchor herself, and thrust her hand enthusiastically toward Audril. “What are the Caverns, and why do you need to get there so bad?” she asked.

Audril pulled herself up, with success this time, and brushed herself off. “They’re where the soul of Lor Mandela lives. You said it yourself. The spirit of the planet delivered the message through Lantalia. If the answers are hidden in the Advantiere, then I need to go straight to the source.”

“But wait. Didn’t you tell me that only the vritesse can call upon the planet’s soul?” Bridgette asked, wiping a stray tear from her laughter.

“I have to try, Bridge. Everything’s outta whack and that stupid riddle thing says that I have to find out what’s going on tonight.”

“But how do you know the riddle’s for real?” Bridgette tried. “We don’t know who wrote it, or anything.”

“It was obviously a Dweller. They’re the only ones that can appear and disappear like that. Dallin once told me that Dwellers seem to know things long before anyone else does. I don’t think I’m gonna take any chances.”

“Okay.” Bridgette leaned back against the wardrobe. “So then how are you going to get there? You have four huge, black, goat people hanging out outside your door, remember?”

“I know . . . even if I get past them, I won’t be able to transport. They’ll know right where I’m going.” She paced back and forth in front of Bridgette. “And they’re Dwellers. They can get there almost as fast as I can.” She continued pacing for a few more seconds, and then all of a sudden stopped; a smug, knowing smile spread across her peachy lips. “Hey, Bridge, I have an idea. We both got A’s in drama.”

Bridgette nodded in nervous agreement, “Yeah, so?”

Audril linked her arm in Bridgette’s and started toward the door. “Come on. I think it’s time to show the Solom Clan what we can do.”

CHAPTER VIII

The Schemer

"Don’t tell me how to feel!” Bridgette screamed as she burst into the hall in such a rush that it startled the four Solom who were diligently standing guard.

“I wasn’t trying to tell you how to feel!” Audril snapped back, standing just inside the door. “You never listen!”

“Now, now girls, what is this all about?” one of the female Solom guards questioned.

Bridgette ignored her and bellowed, “I never listen, HA! Miss ‘daddy, daddy, why can’t I go to Earth?’ What a laugh!”

“How dare you?” Audril seethed. “I am the atoh! You will not speak to me like this!”

“Oh, that is it!” Bridgette retorted angrily, and stormed off in the direction opposite the foyer. Once she was a few yards away, though, she stopped, reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small hot pink device. She spun around and, sneering, pointed it at Audril. “Choke on this, Atoh!”

In an instant, all four of the Solom were on top of her, tackling her to the ground. This was Audril’s chance.

She bolted from the room and ran toward the entrance hall. By the time the Solom realized what was happening, she had already accelerated to an acceptable speed. Two of them started after her, but before they were able to reach her, she looked up and yelled, “The Anaria!”

With a bright flash and a pop, Audril disappeared and reappeared inside the massive tree cave.

Almost immediately, an orange glow started to permeate the sap-covered walls which were rippling and darkening to black. Audril sprinted into the dark tunnels, running almost blind. “Delovic Transendar!” she shouted, and was instantly transported to the top of a sprawling staircase outside of a large shimmering building. She raced down the steps and out into the straight stone road that ran in front of it. This time, she was able to get up to a full run before any indications of the Solom manifested. With a devious smile, she lifted her eyes toward the starry night sky and yelled, “The Caverns!”

In a flash, she appeared next to the entrance of a huge cave, quite out of breath from all the running. Huffing and puffing, she rushed into it, and hid off to one side. There she waited, watching for any sign that she’d been followed — but none came. She was alone, or so she thought.

“Clest Anaria?” The voice came in a whisper and was accompanied by a soft white glow which seemed to be brightening by the second. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

“H . . . hello?” Audril replied, her voice shaking with trepidation.

“Approach the platform, my dear.”

As Audril followed the path upward toward the large rock that jutted out over an endless pit in the center of the chamber, she realized that both the voice and the light were coming from deep within the chasm. “Uh . . . are . . . are you the s . . . soul of Lor Mandela?” she stuttered.

“I am,” the voice responded, stronger than before, but calming. The voice was somehow male and female, yet neither. It was unlike anything Audril had ever heard before. “I am glad to see you, Atoh. How did you know to seek me?”

“A note . . . in my chambers . . . from out of a shadowy corner.”

Audril cautiously made her way out onto the rock. For the first time, she got a good look at the caverns. They were stunning with long, crystal-covered rocks hanging in jagged cones from the ceiling, and glistening in lights that seemed to be coming from out of nowhere.

“A Shadow Dweller?” the voice chuckled. “I think you and I both know who that would have been.”

“Lortu?” she tried.

“A being of great worth and importance . . . but can he be entirely trusted?”

Audril smiled and rolled her eyes, “I’ve been asking myself that since I met him.”

“Hmmm,” the voice responded, “and yet we are going to have to trust him implicitly . . . trust him to be more admirable than any Dweller has ever been, and to forget his instinctive desires for gain.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What was the message he delivered to you? Do you remember?”

Audril pulled the note from her pants pocket. “I brought it with me, just in case,” she answered. “It says ‘Who did tell of the Advantiere? To make it so in merely one year.”

“Ahhh, which is why you came to find me,” the soul observed.

“Yes,” Audril answered before continuing to read. “Then it says, ‘Share with the Schemer; the Channeler stays, to keep what was lost for four hundred days.”

“And have you discovered the meaning of the rest?”

Audril sat on the rock platform. She was now completely at ease with the situation, and felt that the spirit with which she was conversing had prompted her telepathically to sit. “I think that the last part may have something to do with the line in the Advantiere about balance being maintained for the exact time balance was missing,” she tried.

“I believe you are correct,” the voice affirmed. “As it happens, from the time you were taken from us, until the time you restored my spirit . . . exactly four hundred days.”

“But what about the other part, ‘Share with the schemer; the Channeler stays’?” she asked.

“We’ve already discussed the biggest schemer either of us knows,” the soul responded with a chuckle, but then its tone changed, “and it is what you must share with him that concerns me the most.”

“Wh . . . what do you mean?” The nervousness in Audril’s voice was back. “What exactly do I have to share with him?”

Lor Mandela’s spirit was slow to answer, and did so with a most peculiar question. “Where is Dallin Doone, Atoh?”

“I . . . I don’t know. My dad is sending him to Earth . . . um, I mean Drolana in the morning.”

“And you will be accompanying him?”

“Uh, no,” she scoffed. “I think my dad is trying to keep us as far apart as possible.”

“Yes . . . well he loves you so much that he doesn’t want any harm to come to you. This is understandable.”

A twinge of guilt twisted through Audril. She had been pretty horrible to her dad the last day or so, and he hadn’t deserved it.

“Don’t worry; he will forgive you, my dear.”

“Can you read my thoughts?” Audril asked quietly.

“Your feelings,” the soul answered, “and they are most true to you. You want to go to Drolana, and that is a destiny you cannot avoid. You want to be with Dallin, and he will not live unless you accompany him . . . Yes, you must go to Drolana at daybreak. Your father will understand in time.” There was a moment of hesitation and then the spirit added, “Which brings us back to what must be shared.”

“And what is that?”

Again the voice answered with a question. “Do you know the real meaning of ‘Clest Anaria’?”

Audril was quick to reply. “Child of Balance.”

The spirit was quick to correct. “That was the translation of the Council, yes? But they are mistaken. The meaning of the ancient Derite term ‘Clest Anaria’ means ‘eternal ruler of balance’. If the Clest Anaria leaves Lor Mandela before the four hundred days is over, Lor Mandela may meet the same fate it would have met had you never saved us in the first place.”

Audril jumped to her feet. “Wait! What? You just said that I have to leave! Are you saying that I have to choose between Dallin and the whole world? That’s not fair!”

“That is not what I said,” the spirit answered with authority.

The frustration which had washed over her so quickly was all at once replaced by a soothing calm and she lowered back to sitting.

“There are three things that make you the Clest Anaria, the eternal ruler of balance,” the soul explained. “One is your appointment as such. Another comes from your parents . . . a Trysta and a Borloc . . . but if your parents were, say, a Trysta and a Lortus Dweller, it would have still been the same. The Lortus Clan of Dwellers is descended from a Noble family that was nearly destroyed a millennia ago by its love of profit.”

“And the third?”

“The third, which is no longer a necessary attribute, is that you were unborn at the time that my soul needed to be restored. Only a pure and perfect child, one untainted by life’s temptations would be able to receive the power to create and unite worlds.”

Audril listened attentively as the spirit continued, “Lortu could have also been the Clest Anaria. His mother was Dweller, and his father was a Trysta. He didn’t meet the third requirement, however; he was already born when my soul became corrupted. But as that is no longer a requirement . . . what you must decide is whether you can trust him to care for your powers in your absence.”

“Care for my powers?” Audril’s eyes widened.

“Yes. You have it within your abilities to transfer your powers to Lortu, but there is substantial risk. You will not be immortal while he is the Clest Anaria; he will be . . . and if he chooses not to transfer the powers back to you within the four hundred days . . . twenty-two of which have already passed . . . he will become the Clest Anaria permanently.” The spirit paused as though thinking. “I wish there was someone else . . . another way . . . but Lortu is the only one who meets the requirements.”

“He’s bailed me out before,” she tried.

“Yes . . . he has. Surely you realize, Atoh, that your powers will be more appealing to him than any other prize he could hope to acquire. It will be nearly impossible for him to return them.”

“Oh,” Audril sighed, “yeah . . . I didn’t think about that . . . but I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“There is always a choice, dear Atoh, but I know your spirit; you’ve already decided.”

Audril smiled and nodded. “If Lortu doesn’t give my powers back, at least you and Dallin still have a chance. If I don’t give him my powers, one of you will have to die, right? That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.” She looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper she was still clutching, and started to shove it back in her pocket when she remembered that there was still a line that had not been addressed. “Wait, what about the Channeler?” she asked. “I don’t know what that part means, ‘the Channeler stays’. Who or what is the Channeler?”

The soul of the planet didn’t answer for a few seconds. “I’m afraid even I don’t know the answer to that question, Audril. It is a legend among the Trystas that in every generation there is one being who can channel any Trysta power. That being . . . the Channeler, as she is called . . . when in the presence of another Trysta, will possess all of the powers of that Trysta; the Channeler can even channel the vritesse powers in the presence of the vritesse. But there has never been any evidence of a Channeler existing, and all the better. Vritesses can be very proud, as you are aware, and the idea of anyone being as powerful . . . if not more powerful . . . than the vritesse . . . well, this has been a worry of the Trysta High Court for centuries.”

“But if the Channeler is a myth . . . .”

“Why is it mentioned in your riddle?” the spirit guessed.

“Exactly,” Audril replied.

“I am uncertain, but perhaps our friend Lortu will know the answer . . . assuming that he was the one who delivered the message to you.”

“I see.” Audril stood and brushed some dust from the legs of her pants. “Well, then I’d better get going; I think it’s time for me to find Lortu. Thank you for your help.”

“Yes,” the soul answered, “but be on your guard, Atoh. Choose your words to Lortu wisely. If, in the end, he succumbs to temptation and refuses to restore your powers to you, his greed will eventually consume him. And then I fear that all you have done to save this world . . . will only have prolonged its death.”

CHAPTER IX

The New Clest Anaria

With no idea how to find Lortu, and even less than no idea how she was going to transfer her powers to him, Audril left the Caverns and transported to the north side of the Sybran Forest, near the Bogs — the favorite hunting ground of Lortu’s clan. She figured that she would have as good a chance of finding him there as anywhere.

After scoping out a place to sit near a tall outcropping of rocks, she made herself comfortable on the soft, dewy grass and waited.

The weeping branches of the massive Greelan trees at the edge of the forest swayed from side to side, and despite the overwhelming nature of every single thing that had gone on in the last twenty-four hours, Audril couldn’t fight their hypnotic power for long. After a few seconds, her heavy eyelids slid shut and she fell fast asleep.

She had just started to dream about drifting down a winding stream on a pink-sprinkled donut, when a familiar and alarming sound startled her back to reality — the whooping and wailing of Lortu’s clan of Shadow Dwellers.

Audril sprang to her feet. Her heart beat through her chest as the mischievous — and rarely lawful — clan circled her, slipping in and out of the shadows.

“Where’s Lortu?” she asked.

A pale, somewhat obese Dweller with coarse, matted hair and what appeared to be dried blood around his lips smiled menacingly. “Where is Lortu?” he repeated in a growl. “What is eet dat you want wit de noble Lortu, Atoha? I tink we can take very good care of you wit out de Lortu.” The creepy Dweller zipped up next to her and ran his dirty, rancid smelling hand down the side of her hair, prompting an uproarious burst of laughter and taunting from the throng.

Audril knew enough about the Lortus Clan to know that they enjoyed seeing their victims cower in their presence; she wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. “You will bring Lortu to me this instant,” she commanded loudly with a disgusted scowl. “I have no business with you or your . . . friends.”

“Dat weel be for me to decide,” the Dweller barked as he leaned down and wrapped his filthy, fleshy arm around her knees. With a jerk he hefted her into the air and flipped her onto his back.

Audril rolled to the side and struggled to escape, but the Dweller reached around with his long arms and forced her back. She kicked and punched at him but was in such an awkward position that her efforts were not very productive.

The Dweller snarled and let out an animalistic hiss. Within the blink of an eye, several dark shadows rushed to him, pressing tightly against him on all sides so that it was nearly impossible for Audril to move. She twisted as much as she was able — fighting to break free, and fully aware that if the clan moved into the Bogs she was in big trouble. The Dweller lowered his knuckles to the ground, a sign that he was getting ready to run. In a last desperate attempt, Audril opened her mouth and let out an ear piercing scream.

What happened next was quite unexpected. No sooner had the shriek left her mouth, than she was dropped with a thud to the ground. She watched in surprise as the entire wide-eyed clan bowed with humility, slinked backwards into the tree line and disappeared.

Amazed that a simple squeal had produced such a reaction, she glanced around to make sure that the Dwellers weren’t frightened away by something more terrifying than the high-pitched scream.

There, standing just a few feet in front of her, looking both irritated and apologetic, was none other than Lortu. “Wat are you doeeng heah?” he asked in his usual deep, flowing drawl as he helped her up from the ground. “Testeeng yoah eemortality?”

“Looking for you, actually,” she replied as she brushed herself off and tried to regain her composure. “But then, I think you know that, don’t you?”

“Know dat?” Lortu shrugged, feigning innocence.

“Oh, come on, Lortu. We both know that you delivered that note to my room earlier. Give me some credit for having a brain.”

Lortu paced slowly back and forth — just one of several of his habits that made Audril uneasy; he always seemed nervous, or like a big cat preparing to pounce on its prey. “I tink you are very eentelligent, Atoha. Dat note could not be deciphered by one witout de brain. But why are you out heah lookeeng for me at dis houah?” he asked.

“Well what did you expect?” she replied, a little annoyed by what seemed an unnecessary guessing game. “Share with the Schemer? Ring a bell?”

Lortu paced for a moment or two more and then stopped cold in his tracks. A look of horror, shockingly uncharacteristic of the overly confident leader of the Shadow Dwellers, washed over his face in a visible wave. “I . . . I am not de Schemer,” he gasped.

“Of course you are,” Audril insisted. “The Spirit of Lor Mandela told me you are . . . Wait! How can you not know this? You’re the one who brought me that stupid riddle in the first place!”

Lortu seemed to be frantically searching his thoughts. His icy blue eyes darted from side to side as he took several shallow breaths and began to pace again. “I cannot . . . dis is a meestake . . . de Spirit knows . . . .” he muttered. He continued rambling in panicked bursts for several seconds, but then stopped, looked Audril squarely in the eye and shouted an emphatic, “No!”

Without hesitation, he hunched over, his knuckles nearly on the ground, and in a hazy, dark blur raced away into the forest.

“Lortu!” Audril shouted after him. “LORTU! Get back here! I need you to take my powers!”

Before she was able to finish her sentence, Lortu was back, standing inches away from her, looking like an excited child on Christmas morning.

Audril jumped and clutched at her chest. “Aaaaaa! What’s wrong with you? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Of course Aye weel take your powahs from you,” he panted, his mood very different from what it was just a moment ago. “Anyting to help de beautiful atoha.” There was an awkward sense of ecstasy in his tone.

“Um, okay,” Audril answered slowly, unnerved by his apparent pleasure in being so close to her. “Lortu, you’re kinda weirding me out here.”

Lortu chuckled, but then his mood flipped again. His pale eyes squinted into a look of paranoid suspicion. “And what is eet dat you are trying to do?” he snarled. “Why do you try to trick de noble Lortu? Is dis how you repay a haumble servant for all de help he has geeven?”

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