Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins

- Title Page

- Prologue

- CHAPTER I

- CHAPTER II

- CHAPTER III

- CHAPTER IV

- CHAPTER V

- CHAPTER VI

- CHAPTER VII

- CHAPTER VIII

Here's What Readers and Reviewers are Saying About

Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins…

Immediately, I sensed I was holding an epic, entertaining read in my hands. I can tell you that Lor Mandela did not disappoint

- William R. Potter Readers Choice Reviews

For someone that is extremely hard to please this book has succeeded in not only capturing my interest, but now I am begging for more

- Woven Strands Reviews

I would call LOR MANDELA 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"

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Destruction from twins, and so it must end…

ONE comes swiftly in the morning.

ONE unknowing moves in haste.

ONE beloved though mighty fallen.

ONE is chosen to forget her place.

ONE though strong must fall forbidden.

ONE made low shall rise again.

ONE must be as these words written,

Then will ONE forever reign.

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Lor Mandela

Destruction from Twins

Book 1 in the Lor Mandela Series

Copyright 2010 L. Carroll

2011 Smashwords edition

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

*This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

This ebook 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.

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For my Fix-it Girl, Maggie’s Twin,

The Boy Who Discovered the Squanki,

Glogan, and Pooka.

And for the Love of my Life.

On to the next adventure . . . .

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Prologue

The alarm clock clicked from 6:04 to 6:05 a.m., and let out a sadistic buzz which jolted Maggie from a deep, comfortable sleep. With great effort and a disgusted moan, she reached out and smacked the top of the clock, hitting the snooze button for the first of three routine extra ten minutes. The room was quiet and almost completely dark; a faint cool breeze played with the sheer curtains that hung on the open window. In Maggie’s estimation, these were the ideal sleeping conditions—a fact that only added to the cruelty of it being morning already.

Bzzzzz. Smack!

Wrapped in her favorite blanket and surrounded by a mountain of pillows, she wandered back and forth between awake and asleep—one moment aware of her surroundings, the next, slipping effortlessly into the beginnings of nonsensical dreams.

Bzzzzz. Smack!

She pulled herself upright and sat, still half asleep, on the edge of the bed. Her eyelids dropped, and her head bobbled around as she nodded back off; a sudden falling sensation brought her instantly back to life with a jolt. Her eyes popped open, but then, once again, blinked slowly shut.

She had just started to doze back off, when she realized that she had seen something in between blinks.

“What in the. . . ?” she mumbled as she forced herself to wake up. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted toward the other side of the room.

There, outside her second story window, two bright white lights—no bigger than a dime—darted around behind the fluttering curtains. They zipped to the right, stopped, and held still for a second, and then spiraled down together to the left. They made a faint but peculiar noise as they jumped from place to place, like a cross between static on a television and chirping crickets.

Maggie had been a little skittish since the break-in, but at this moment, curiosity was stronger than fear, so she stood and started toward the window. As she walked, the floorboards of the old house creaked ominously beneath her feet, causing her confidence in the situation to rapidly decline. By the time she was half way across the room, she was forcing herself to stay calm.

“C’mon, Maggs! Don't be such a wimp!” she scolded under her breath. “It's probably just lightning bugs!”

She reached the window and lifted her hand to pull back the curtain for a better look. All at once, two more little lights zipped up and joined the first. Maggie jumped and her breath caught in her chest. Her heart began to race as an uneasy feeling stirred—the feeling that she was being watched. She inched her way backwards.

“It’s okay,” she breathed. “They’re just bugs.”

The four tiny illuminations whizzed around in formation for a second or two, and then the lights started to multiply. Out of nowhere and everywhere all at once, hundreds and hundreds of bright, piercing, white orbs whirled and buzzed outside her open window, creating a riotous screech. Maggie slapped her hands over her ears as the volume of the bizarre noise grew...and grew...and grew. Blinding flashes, like bolts of lightning, burst in through the window and ricocheted around the room, creating a turbulent strobe effect. They crashed into the walls and the floor, making the whole room convulse violently.

Maggie’s fear grew to sheer terror! She turned and tried to run, but as she did, the floor bumped hard, knocking her to her knees with a painful smack. She screamed, but her voice was drowned out by the horrendous buzzing of the chaotic little lights.

Horrified, she curled up into a ball on the floor—hands clasped tightly over her ears, eyes squeezed shut—and begged, “Oh please . . . oh please . . . oh please! Someone help me!”

Just then, her bedroom door swung open. Within a split second, the multitude of lights vanished; the quaking stopped, and the dreadful noise came to an abrupt halt. All was as it had been before….

*^* Part One *^*

Destruction from Twins

CHAPTER I

ANIKA

“Anika? Highness?” The booming deep voice of General Kort echoed through the evergreen-lined halls of Trysta Palace.

“Yes, Kort . . . come in.”

Next to the general, the prickly emerald branches of a stately pine slowly swished downward, revealing an intricate carved stone doorway, which framed a room so ethereal, that it looked more like a wooded forest glade than someone’s bed chambers. At the back of the room, a woman, short and petite, with long, dark, wavy hair, hurriedly flipped a silver satin cloth over the top of a stone table. She was almost elfish in appearance, and dreamily illuminated by the rays of bright sunlight streaming through the high glass-like ceiling overhead.

“I’ve been expecting you, General.”

The general’s brow furrowed. “You have?” He replied as he hunched over and ducked through the arch. He ducked, not because the arch was small—on the contrary—it was because General Kort was quite a tall man. As he entered, the leaf-covered floor crunched beneath his feet. The warm sunlight from above spilled over him, defining his strong, muscular physique with a bright white outline. “How’d you know I’d be coming?”

Anika started toward him. She seemed to float rather than walk; there was no crunching of leaves as she approached. She moved in complete silence, her olive-colored gown and silky brunette hair twisting and flowing hypnotically around her. She stopped close to Kort. There was such a contrast in their sizes that they looked rather odd standing beside each other. “Honestly, Kort,” she explained, “I knew you’d be here as soon as you heard that my mother was dead.” She reached up and swirled her finger through a stray lock of auburn hair hanging on his forehead. “You’ve come to secure your connection with power—to make sure that when I am made the vritesse, you won’t be left out somehow.”

Kort cleared his throat. He seemed offended that he’d been so easily read. “That’s a pretty bold statement, Anika,” he snipped. “What makes you so sure it’ll be you and not your sister?” He turned away in an attempt to hide his pride in such a bold comeback.

Anika was not amused. Without the slightest hesitation, she grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him around as though he were nothing more than a small child. Her lavender eyes glowed eerily and as they did, Kort dropped to his knees, sending up a whirling of leaves.

“Aaaaaggghhh!” he screamed curling into a ball on the floor, writhing and groaning in agony, as a strong surge of electricity like thousands of needles stabbing into his skin simultaneously twisted through his body.

“My mother was not stupid, General!” Anika’s normally silky smooth voice was now loud and coarse. “She’s always known that I am the strong one! Not Lantalia . . . me!” She stepped back a bit and the glow in her eyes faded.

Kort gasped and strained for breath as he dragged himself back to his feet. “Forgive me, Anika. I was just . . .” he coughed, “just playing with you.”

“Lantalia and I were born seconds apart, Kort. No one even thought to pay attention to which of us was first. I guess two at one time was just too much for their simple minds to process.” She walked over to a large stone pillar on the other side of the room and leaned against it, her back facing the still gasping general. Lost in her thoughts she continued, “Lantalia is weak. She’s never been able to lead anything. She’s never . . . .” Her voice trailed off into nothingness as she stood silently staring for several seconds, but then spun back around.

Kort winced at her abrupt movement, fearing that she might attack him again with another energy surge. When he saw her face though, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “Anika? Wh . . . what’s going on?” he asked. The skin on her face and the color of her eyes had suddenly, and very noticeably, darkened.

“There’s nothing going on, Kort. Everything is perfect. You see, I will be vritesse! No one, not even my dead mother, can stop that!”

“But you’re . . . .”

A bellowing voice, calling from somewhere outside the room, interrupted Kort’s retaliation. “The Council of Lor Mandela will convene in two hours’ time; the new vritesse will be called. All council members are required, without exception!”

Anika smirked triumphantly. Her hair, skin and eyes all seemed to be getting darker by the second. “You were saying?”

Kort reached out and took her by the hand. “Listen to me, Anika. There’s something happening to you—right now—right in front of me! Something’s not right!” The changes in her were unnerving. He’d never seen anything like this before.

She grimaced condescendingly and replied, “What are you talking about? I’m fine! Honestly, Kort, you need not act so . . . well, dramatic.”

“I have a right to be concerned!” he scolded. “I’m your entrusted! I’m supposed to care about you, aren’t I?”

“Come on, Kort, you’re just overreact . . . .”

“Anika,” he interrupted, “look at yourself! Your eyes and skin just darkened right in front of me!”

With a huff and a roll of her eyes, she looked down patronizingly and gazed at her hands. “Hmm,” she mumbled, turning them over and observing the change for herself. It was odd, but certainly didn’t seem like anything worthy of such concern. “So what?” she replied. “Maybe it’s just the vritesse powers finding me.”

Kort frowned. “Listen, I know that you should be the vritesse, Anika. Everyone knows it!” He took a deep breath and added, “But if your mother did choose Lantalia, what can

you . . . .”

“I’ve already told you, General!” she snapped. “I will be the vritesse! If Lantalia happens to get in my way . . . .”

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

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

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

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

“Taken? Wait! You mean stolen? How?”

“There are ways,” she mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

THE NEW VRITESSE

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

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

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

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

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

Anika strained to smile as she turned to face Lantalia.

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

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

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

Anika just grimaced and shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room fell silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sisters stood and exchanged glances.

“Jonathan Borloc, Aton of Lor Mandela.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anika is strong; she is courageous and powerful—all qualities a vritesse must possess.”

Anika could not hide her smile this time.

“Nonetheless, as I ponder the needs of my people, and all of Lor Mandela, I know what I must do.”

Anika’s smile vanished in an instant and her face became tense. What Mother? What must you do? You didn’t . . . . She glanced up pleadingly at Cristoph.

As Cristoph read the last lines of the note in his hand, an expression of surprise played across his face. He looked out over the crowd, cleared his throat and boomed, “I call Lantalia! Daughter of Satia . . . Vritesse of the Trystas!”

The room exploded in gasps, followed almost immediately by cheers and applause. Anika watched in a stunned daze as her sister’s platform and the empty one at Jocelynne’s right switched places.

Cristoph lowered the paper and commanded, “The vritesse of the Trystas! Rise and obtain all of the Trysta powers and keys, all authority and wisdom!”

Lantalia stood and looked out over the adoring congregation. She glanced down at Anika, fully expecting to see a dejected, disappointed face; but much to her surprise, Anika was applauding right along with the rest of the delegation.

Strange, she thought to herself.

At length, when the roar subsided, Cristoph reached down and handed her a small silver box. “Rule the Trystas well, Lantalia,” he uttered.

Lantalia slowly opened the box. Anika seemed most captivated as she watched her sister lift the tiny box’s lid. All at once, a blinding flash of white light exploded from it, filling the entire room. The light was so bright that everyone in the arena was forced to shield their eyes. After a moment though, the light dimmed, and spiraled its way back in, enveloping Lantalia, and hiding her from view. Pale wisps of different colors periodically drifted out of the light and floated down to the ground below. After a few minutes, the light dissipated, and Lantalia became visible again; a soft amber aura glowed around her and lingered for several seconds.

“Atoc Cristoph,” she began in a new, formidable voice, “I have accepted the powers bestowed by my mother, Satia.” She looked around the room at the many council members who all seemed delighted by her appointment. “I am Lantalia, Vritesse of the Trystas!” Again the room filled with applause, cheers and shouting.

“Council is hereby adjourned!” Cristoph bellowed over the din.

One by one, the delegates exited the room, chatting excitedly as they left. When most of them had gone, the platforms of the Nobles slowly lowered to the ground.

Anika wasted no time. She rushed to Lantalia and grabbed both of her hands. “Oh, Lantalia,” she exclaimed, “I’m so happy for you!” She embraced her energetically.

Lantalia was more than a little shocked by the overwhelming show of support from her sister. She knew that Anika wanted to be the vritesse; indeed, this was not at all what she expected. “Thank you, Ani. Are you sure you’re all right with this?”

“Of course, Tali,” Anika assured, “you’ll be a wonderful vritesse!” She smiled warmly. “Oh, I admit, I was disappointed at first, but you’re my sister; I will support and help you however I can. I’m not going to be a scorned loser; that’s not what our mother would have wanted.” She hugged Lantalia again. As she backed away, she noticed General Kort standing across the room watching them.

“You will be my chief advisor, Ani, won’t you?”

“Oh, Lantalia, thank you! I would be honored.” Anika glanced over at Kort, who was eyeing her suspiciously, and shot him a disapproving scowl.

“What is it?” Lantalia asked, turning to see who Anika was grimacing at.

“Oh, er . . . it’s just Kort. I hope you’ll excuse me, Tali. It seems that I am . . .” She cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows. “. . . wanted.”

Lantalia chuckled and brushed Anika’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Of course, thank you, Anika.”

Anika nodded respectfully and moved toward the door. She walked up to, and then right past Kort, and with an annoyed wave signaled for him to follow. She walked very quickly. Even with Kort’s size advantage, he was practically running to keep up. “You will be my chief advisor, Ani, won’t you?” she scowled, “Ghandentel!”

Once they were away from the council room—where no one would hear a male speaking disrespectfully to a Trysta female—Kort decided to test his limits. “Okay, Anika, what are you up to?”

Anika stopped. She whirled around, and stared angrily at him. “Listen to me, General.” Kort took a small step backward, expecting to see that all too familiar glow creep into her eyes. “I owe you no explanation! I owe you no answers! I owe you nothing!”

“No, Anika, you don’t.” His tone was terse.

“So then why are you here?” she insisted. “Why aren’t you pursuing my sister right now? She’s the vritesse! She’s where the power is! We both know that’s what you want!”

General Kort looked poised to fire back, but all at once stopped. He shrugged his shoulders and admitted, “Okay, Anika. You’re right. It’s the power. I can’t help it.”

Anika raised one eyebrow. “You’re obsessed with it, Kort. It’s intoxicating to you.” She seemed just a little disappointed. “So go ahead. If that’s what you want. Go to Lantalia. I release you. Go!” She waved him off, trying not to show any emotion.

“I have no interest in Lantalia, my dear,” Kort smirked. If I remember correctly . . .” He ran his hand down her arm. “Just a few hours ago, I was told that you would be the new vritesse . . . no matter what.”

A mischievous smile grew across Anika’s face.

He continued, “Why would I want to be the entrusted of a temporary vritesse?”

Anika slid up to him and reached her hand behind his head; she pulled him down and kissed him passionately. “Come with me,” she whispered. “I have something I want to show you.”

CHAPTER III

ELAHK E BER – A PLAN GONE WRONG

Anika led Kort back to her room and rushed directly to the rock table. She threw back the satin cover and lifted her grandmother’s journal to her chest. “This is it, Kort!” she began. “It was here the whole time!”

“What was?” he asked, clearly frustrated that Anika’s ‘something to show him’ was nothing more provocative than an old book.

“My great-grandmother’s mother should have called her,” Anika explained, “but she didn’t! She called a self-righteous, power-hungry cousin instead. It was a plot—a scheme to overthrow the Borlocs. But Grandmother found a way to take the powers back . . . the powers that were rightfully hers to begin with.”

“I see.” Kort raised an eyebrow. “So that’s what you’re trying to do?”

“Lantalia can’t do this, Kort! She’s weak, and too good.” Anika cringed. “Besides, Mother didn’t give any reason at all! She said I was powerful! Me! Did you hear any mention of Lantalia’s strengths in her calling?”

Kort plopped down onto a large, over-stuffed chair that looked as though it was made entirely of golden leaves. “So you’re going to take the powers away from Lantalia? How do you propose to do that?” he asked.

Anika started slowly flipping through the journal; her darkening eyes studied each yellowed page before she turned to the next. “Do you know where the powers come from, Kort?”

Kort had heard the stories just like everyone else in the Trysta Empire. “Um, yeah. They come from the soul of Lor Mandela, right? Through the Koria Caverns?”

“Exactly,” Anika answered, lowering down next to him. She held out the book and showed him a page covered with hand-drawn diagrams and sketches of caves and rocks. “All of the powers are gathered by the vritesse, and then harnessed in this.” She pointed to a drawing of a small box at the bottom of the page.

“Hey, isn’t that the box that the atoc gave to Lantalia?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “there’s nothing extraordinary about it; it’s just a simple little box with the Trysta emblem scratched in the lid. But if I can get a hold of it . . . .”

“Wait,” Kort frowned, “you just said the box has no significance.”

“No, Kort. I said it wasn’t extraordinary. It’s very significant! You see, my love, it’s not uncommon for the vritesse to periodically bring that silly little box to the caverns to renew her powers . . . you know, after a grueling battle or an illness or something.”

“Yeah . . . uh-huh . . . so?” Kort mumbled distractedly. At the moment, he was only partially intrigued by the plan. Anika was sitting so close to him, so very confident and powerful. He was having difficulty concentrating.

Anika noticed his lack of focus and rose up out of the chair. He tried to follow, but she held up her hand signaling for him to stay put. “Will you try to pay attention?” she pleaded. “This is important. I have to convince the soul of Lor Mandela that I am Lantalia.”

“And how, exactly do you do that?” he asked, resignedly dropping back down into the chair.

“I’ve already taken care of the hardest part,” she bragged.

“Oh you have, have you?”

“Yes, I have.” She looked supremely pleased with herself. “It was tricky,” she explained. “There were a lot of steps involved, but one of my great-grandmother’s powers was spirit-cloning and, as it turns out, I have that ability as well. I used it, along with my invasion powers to, um, borrow Lantalia’s spirit while she was sleeping the other night.”

“You borrowed her spirit?” Kort stood and moved toward her. He ran his hand down through her wavy hair, moving it from her neck, and leaned down to kiss her.

“Come on, General!” Anika whined. She pushed him off, causing him to lose his balance and fall back into the chair. “Try to control yourself.”

“Fine,” he snipped, “so you borrowed Lantalia’s spirit. I get it. Wait! You did what?”

Anika smirked proudly. “I invaded my sister’s body, borrowed her soul and made myself a copy of it. Now, I have a clone that I can use whenever I need.” Kort looked at her like she’d gone completely mad, but she didn’t really care. She continued as though this was the cleverest plan ever concocted. “Of course, I had to do it before she had the vritesse powers or she would have sensed me.”

“Of course.” Kort’s skepticism was evident in his tone. “So, now what? You just take your little clone to the Caverns and say something like, ‘Look, Lor Mandela! I’m Lantalia. I just had a bad cold. I need my powers refreshed’?”

Anika glared at him. “Nooo, it’s a little more complicated than that, my dear.” She floated across the room while she continued. “But if all goes as planned, the powers of the vritesse will leave Lantalia and come to me.”

“Hold on a minute. Isn’t that dangerous? What if you get caught?”

“It’s not without risk, Kort, but I can do it. I’m not worried. I’ve studied this thing constantly for months.” She glided back to where he was sitting and lowered down next to him.

“So then poof! You’re the vritesse and Lantalia is powerless?”

“It will take some time for the powers to drain from her, as the powers I get from Lor Mandela will only be renewals. But, they’ll be enough for me to draw the real powers away eventually.”

Kort kissed her on the forehead and asked, “Won’t people wonder when you all of a sudden have increased powers?”

"It won’t be hard to convince the council that Lantalia is unfit to be vritesse, Kort . . . especially when her powers start failing. I just need to be discreet about using my new powers until I am called, of course.”

“Of course.” Kort traced over her cheek with his finger. “So, when does this little soul-swap take place?”

“In the morning,” she answered. Her lilac eyes were dim and distant. “I wish you could come, my dear, but I have to go alone.”

“What? Why?” Kort was tremendously disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to watch such an important and powerful event.

“The soul of Lor Mandela will not allow any witnesses to a vritesse renewal. It would be fatal for you.”

“Really?” he gulped.

Anika stood back up and held her hands out to him. He took her hands and she gently pulled him to his feet. “It’s time for you to go now, General.”

“What? But wait! No! You’re serious? Now?” His displeasure was apparent.

“I need to get some rest tonight, Kort. I’ll call for you when I get back from the Caverns.” She kissed him goodnight and pointed toward the tree door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Kort sighed. “Fine . . . Good night, I guess.” He pouted and grudgingly, ducked out into the hall, and disappeared behind the evergreen barrier.

Anika walked back to the chair and sunk down into it. “As if I could rest,” she muttered to herself.

After a while, she got up and walked over near the door arch. The sun was setting, and the room was growing dark. She touched one of the tree branches, and a soft white glow illuminated the walls and ceiling. Once again, she picked up her great-grandmother’s journal, and leafed through the pages, reading bits and pieces aloud. “Elahk E Ber . . . the balance of all . . . grant me. . . .” She stopped and looked out across the room. “Hold on,” she whispered, “what exactly am I waiting for?” She gazed at the ground for a minute, collected her thoughts, and then rushed to where she’d thrown her cloak earlier. She snatched it up—still clutching the journal in her other arm, and headed for the door. “I need that box!” she breathed.

She was almost to the descending branches when she stopped short; a displeased scowl spread across her dark face. “I almost forgot,” she seethed and turned back around. She floated over to where the picture of her mother hung. “Ghandentel, Mother!” she sneered, ripping down the portrait and hurling it across the room. It smashed into bits against the hard stone wall.

Without another word, she glided back across the room and out into the dimly lit, tree-lined halls. Quietly, she made her way through the corridors; the lower branches of the trees swayed gently as her cloak billowed through them. After floating down two long hallways, she came to a wide tunnel—the only part of Trysta Palace that wasn’t tree-lined. At the end of the tunnel, shimmering in the few glints of moonlight coming through the clear glass ceiling above stood an ornate gold door. Anika took a deep breath and glanced nervously around. Confident that she was alone, she started toward the door and was within just a few feet of it when, without warning, it swung open and Lantalia appeared in the doorway.

“Lantalia?” she breathed restlessly, “I, uh . . . I . . . .” she stammered.

Lantalia was surprised to see her, too. “Anika? “What’s going on? Is everything okay? What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Anika snipped. “I can’t even come to see my own sister?”

Lantalia eyed her suspiciously. Just seconds before, she had a strange feeling—a sort of premonition. Something didn’t seem right. Her new vritesse powers made her sensitive to such things. She sensed that someone was coming to harm her; it was disturbing indeed for her to open the door and find her own sister standing there.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Anika pried.

“Um, yes . . . of course. Please come in,” Lantalia responded, eyeing Anika in a way that she had never seen before. It was a look of superiority—and of suspicion. In the few short hours since her calling, Lantalia had already become stronger and more in tune. “What can I do for you, Anika?”

Anika knew she’d have to be careful. She couldn’t risk Lantalia reading her intentions. Fortunately for her, one of the many powers she possessed was the ability to lock her mind from outside influence. Normally, a mind block wouldn’t work with the vritesse, but since Lantalia’s powers weren’t fully established it was worth a try.

“I couldn’t sleep, Tali,” she explained. “I have something to ask you.”

Lantalia’s expression softened—indicating that the mind lock was working. “What is it?” She asked. She glanced at the journal Anika had forgotten she was clutching in her arms. “And what’s that?”

“Oh . . . um . . . this is?” she stuttered. “It’s just our great-grandmother’s old journal.” She looked down at the book and an idea popped into her head.

With a new sense of confidence in her voice, she continued, “I was flipping through it earlier, Tali. Grandmother wrote about receiving her powers . . . that’s what I wanted to ask you.” She paused and smiled at her own cleverness. “What was it like when you opened the box? I mean, it must have been so incredible!”

Lantalia did exactly what Anika hoped she would. She walked across the room, picked up the small silver box, and brought it over to show her. “It was incredible. I can’t describe it. It was a feeling of absolute power and control.” She handed the diminutive box to her sister. “It isn’t much,” she observed, “but there’s more to it than you see.”

“Especially when it contains the powers, huh?”

“The powers are only part of it,” Lantalia whispered. It’s alive.”

“The box?”

“Shhhhh,” she scolded. “This doesn’t leave this room, Ani!”

Anika lowered her voice to appease her sister. “So you’re saying that this box is a living thing?”

She was having extreme difficulty holding on to her mind lock. Lantalia’s powers were trying to penetrate it—and now, the opportunity of a lifetime had just been literally handed to her. I don’t have to steal the box, she thought, I just have to clone its soul!

She turned her back to Lantalia, and pretending to examine the box, clanked it around loudly enough to hide a whisper. “Elahk E Ber silver box,” she breathed quietly. She clapped her hands around the box to conceal the blue flash that zipped out from it, as a perfect little clone appeared in her palm.

“I would have never believed it myself,” Lantalia continued oblivious to her sister’s doings, “but the whole time the powers were being bestowed, it was instructing me.”

Anika tucked the replica of the silver box into her cloak and turned back to face Lantalia. “Instructing you? What was it saying?” she asked as she handed the real box back to her trusting sister.

Lantalia ran her hand over the box’s lid. “I . . . I probably shouldn’t say.”

Anika could feel her mind lock deteriorating fast. She realized that she had to get out of there now, or Lantalia would know everything.

“Whoa!” she groaned, slapping her hand onto her stomach.

“What is it? Are you all right?” Lantalia asked.

Anika fell back dramatically against the wall. “Whew! I, um . . . I’m sorry, Tali. I don’t feel well all of a sudden. I’d better go-oh!” She clapped her hand over her mouth, and mumbled through her fingers, “Excuse me, Lantalia. I’ll talk to you tomorrow!” She turned and quickly sped out the door.

“Do you need any help?” Lantalia called after her.

“No! I . . . I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Lantalia leaned against the door frame and watched Anika practically sprint down the tunnel. “What was that all about?” she questioned aloud as she stepped back into her room and closed the door.

Meanwhile, Anika made her way out of the palace and headed for a large hill in the distance. She couldn’t help but laugh out loud at her amazing good fortune.

“It’s alive!” She mimicked her sister and sniggered, “I am the stupidest vritesse ever! Here, Anika, why don’t I just tell you everything?” She was positively giddy. She continued until she was a safe distance from the palace, and then stopped in a large, grassy meadow. She knelt down, pulled the cloned box from her cloak and kissed it. “You are a beautiful little thing, aren’t you?” She set it gently on the damp ground, stood, and then looked skyward and shouted, “Stoi Cantara . . . Lantalia!”

Slowly, a figure rippled up from the ground beside her, and within seconds, a perfect replica of Lantalia, with straight brown hair and magenta eyes stood at her right. The clone was glassy-eyed and seemed to be devoid of emotion.

“Nolta,” she mumbled.

The clone reached its hand out toward her as another hand materialized at the end of her left arm. The clone took the phantom hand and pulled. Instantly, and in a flash of red, the spirit of Anika and the clone spirit of Lantalia traded places and Anika visibly became Lantalia. Her own soul stood glassy-eyed and emotionless beside her.

“Wait here,” she commanded, in Lantalia’s voice.

Her catatonic soul made an almost indiscernible nod.

Anika picked up the little box and continued up the hill, her dark silhouette rippling across the field. Within just a few minutes, she had reached the top where she paused for a moment to stare out at the intimidating landscape that stretched before her on the other side.

It was steep, and the trail was long, narrow, and seemed to lead down into an endless pit.

Anika’s eyes glowed, lighting everything in front of her with a focused beam of intense pink. She drew in a deep breath and started in a run toward the trail. “The Caverns!” she shouted loudly.

Just as she was about to run right off the edge of the trail, there was a faint pop, and she vanished into thin air.

When she rematerialized, she was standing at the entrance to a massive black cave. She glanced back just to make sure that no one was around, and then scanned the cave with her glowing eyes.

Upon sufficient confirmation that she was alone, she proceeded cautiously into the cave, where the need for the additional light suddenly ceased. The Caverns at Koria were brightly lit and absolutely exquisite.

Throughout Lor Mandela it was common knowledge that the Caverns were among the most glorious places in existence. Huge, glowing, pastel-colored rock formations hung down from the high, glistening, crystal-encrusted ceilings; the vibrations of the planet bounced from formation to formation resonating in soft harmonious hums. Despite their location, far below the surface, the Caverns were well illuminated by a warm silvery glow, originating from an unknown source.

Although they were beautiful, the Caverns were also deadly. Inside, steep, sharply-winding paths bordered jagged cliffs—the walls of which were miles high. Over the years, even the tiniest errors in judgment had caused many to fall to their early deaths.

Anika didn’t pause to take in the view, though. Tonight, she was on a mission. She nimbly maneuvered up the path until she reached a huge rock that jutted out over the cliffs like a giant platform. She stepped out onto it, held the cloned box in front of her and shouted skyward, “I am Lantalia, daughter of Satia, and Vritesse of Lor Mandela! Soul of Lor Mandela, grant me renewal! The balance of all powers from the beginning until the end!” A pillar of white light shot up through the center of the Caverns and bulleted toward Anika. It whirred and spattered and wrapped its way around her, completely enveloping her.

In the light, Anika heard a faint voice. It surged in and out. “Lantalia . . . Vritesse . . . you’ve only just received these powers. How is it that they are in need of renewal?”

Anika had anticipated that this might happen and had an answer prepared. “Wise spirit, my mother was very ill at her final renewal. I believe she was not able to fully gather all that you bestowed.”

There was a pause before the voice answered. “Lantalia, Vritesse of the Trysta people, be ren . . . .”

Suddenly, the glowing white pillar lost its form. Violent shards of light shot through the air ricocheting off of the walls and rock formations. The voice boomed, “I am the soul of Lor Mandela! Lantalia . . . Vritesse . . . twin!”

Anika’s stomach lurched. She had been discovered—or so it seemed.

The light bounced wildly throughout the Caverns but then, much to Anika’s relief, it slowly gathered back into a straight column and the calm, rhythmic whir returned.

The voice spoke again, much more serenely than before, and the pillar of light shrank away. “Take your renewed powers, Vritesse . . . and go.”

Anika felt strange. She tried to take a step backward but teetered awkwardly and collapsed, unconscious, into a heap on the rock platform; the hand holding the little silver box precariously flopped out over the edge.

It was several hours before she regained consciousness. She moaned softly, glanced around, and realized that the box was teetering near the end of her fingertips. She gasped and pulled it quickly toward her, hoping that nothing had escaped. A tiny sliver of white light peeked out from around the lid indicating that the powers were still inside. Anika sighed and rose groggily to her feet.

“That was more, um . . . physically demanding than anticipated,” she breathed, as she dragged herself back down the path.

Upon exiting the Caverns, she realized that the sun was already rising. She would need to get back her own soul before it was discovered. She headed off at a furious pace. “Koria field!” she yelled skyward and was instantly transported back to the field on the opposite side of where she’d left her spirit.

The unresponsive soul was still standing across the meadow like a statue; luckily, no one was in sight.

She sprinted toward it and shouted, “Nolta!”

In response, her soul zipped toward her and dove aggressively into her, knocking her to the ground. Right when they hit, the cloned spirit of Lantalia burst out of her back and fell to the earth.

Anika looked like herself again except now there was no mistaking it. Her skin was very, very dark. “Strange,” she mumbled as she rose to her feet and brushed herself off. She started off toward Trysta Palace, staring at her hands and arms as she went. She hadn’t gone far when she remembered that her sister’s cloned soul was still lying in the field behind her. She sniggered as she contemplated leaving it there for someone to find. “Erun cantara . . . Lantalia!” she commanded.

The spirit clone rippled and distorted. It wiggled around a bit, and then dissolved slowly into the ground and disappeared.

Anika glanced over her hands again and shook her head. “Very strange,” she muttered, as she sped off again toward home.

Once she was safely back inside her room she wasted no time. She was very anxious to set her plan in motion. She lifted a small stick-like object from a bedside table and spoke into the end of it.

“Send for General Kort, immediately,” she ordered.

A few minutes later, he was outside her door calling her name.

She rushed over and pulled him in, right through the branches that were still descending.

“Ouch! Anika,” Kort exclaimed, brushing the pine needles from his shirt. “What’s so urgent?” He picked a stray needle from his auburn curls and glanced at Anika, who was even darker than before. A look of concern spread across his rugged face. “Have you figured out what’s causing this darkening yet? Is it because of the spirit cloning?” he asked, staring.

Anika didn’t want to discuss that now. “Do you want to see this, or not?” she quizzed impatiently.

“See what?”

Anika smiled mischievously. “See the rightful vritesse receive her powers.”

“What?” Kort gasped, “I thought I wasn’t allowed to watch.”

“No, Kort . . . you couldn’t be with me in Koria, but I haven’t done the power transfer yet,” she explained. “Get ready, General. You’re about to become the entrusted of the vritesse!” Her voice was sing-songy and playful.

Kort slowly lowered on to the bed and didn’t say another word.

Anika lifted the silver box in front of her and removed the lid. A bright light surrounded her, and little wisps of color dreamily floated out of it.

Once again she heard a voice. Only this time it seemed almost sad. “Balance . . . balance is the key. Trysta . . . Borloc . . . balance.”

“Balance,” she repeated as the light wrapped tighter around her.

“The powers from Lor Mandela to . . .”

There was a long pause, and then the voice whispered, “Anika.”

The light faded and Anika stood enveloped in a tawny glow for several minutes. She looked at Kort who was absolutely engrossed.

“Did you hear the voice?” she asked.

As the glow around her dissipated the most troubling change in her yet became evident. “Anika!” Kort gasped, “Your eyes!” The general appeared quite mortified.

“What about them?” She snapped and walked over and peered into a looking glass that was on the rock table near where the book had been before. Her eyes, which were usually a sultry purple, had changed to a dull, dark black. “That’s strange,” she whispered. “The journal didn’t say anything about darkening. I wonder what’s going on.”

Kort gawked at her from across the room.

She started towards him, but had no sooner taken her first step when Kort bolted to his feet and flew toward her at an amazing speed!

In under a second, he was in front of her, wide-eyed and panting. “What was that?” he asked weakly.

Instantly, he rocketed into the air again, this time smacking against the wall with a loud thud.

Anika shrieked. “Kort! What are you doing? Are you okay?” She rushed over to where he lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. “What’s going on?”

Kort shrunk back as she touched his arm.

“Don’t!” he cried, sounding like a scared child.

Anika stepped back and stared at him.

“Can you get up, love? Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Please, Anika! Stop! Let me go,” he pleaded.

“Kort!”

She wanted him to look at her but he kept his face turned into the wall. “I don’t have a hold of you! I’m not even touching you!”

“Annnniiiikaaaa,” he whined miserably, “noooooo!”

She leaned down and pulled him to his feet and a loud, mournful yelp issued from his lips.

“Kort,” she demanded, “look at me!”

Slowly he turned his head toward her. His eyes were tightly shut. “Noooo, Anika. Please . . . I’m sorry . . . don’t . . . please . . . .”

Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Stop! Pleeeease!”

“Kort!” she yelled. “Open your eyes!”

All at once his knees buckled and he went completely limp and slumped over into Anika’s arms.

Anika lowered him to the ground and frantically tried to revive him. “Kort! Come on! What is it? Kort!”

After a few seconds, his eyes fluttered open; he looked up at Anika drowsily.

“Oh, Kort,” she gasped, “are you all right?”

He shakily pulled himself to sitting and panted, “Anika, you’ve got to stop this! Something’s wrong! Please end this now! I mean it! Something is really wrong.”

CHAPTER IV

DESTRUCTION FROM TWINS

It didn’t take long for Anika to realize that Kort was right. Something was terribly wrong. Although her powers were stronger, she had no control over them—no matter what she tried. In fact, they seemed to be controlling her—and Anika’s powers weren’t the only thing out of control.

As the days passed her skin became muddy gray and her hair, which looked wild and unkempt, darkened to nearly pure black.

Her eyes had remained black since the morning she had attacked Kort, but now even the whites of her eyes were a dull, murky gray. She had grown tired of the questions, and the whispers, and the stares, so she stayed confined to her room whenever possible.

As for Lantalia, her powers hadn’t diminished in the slightest. In fact, since her calling to vritesse, she had been able to master almost every Trysta power imaginable and was well on her way to becoming the most powerful vritesse of all time.

Early one evening, Anika was once again alone in her room. She stood gazing at herself in a glass, wondering what was going on and if she’d ever be able to stop it, when Lantalia’s voice blasted from the hall.

“Anika! You’ve finally gone too far!”

Anika spun around as the tree that normally guarded her door vanished entirely and her angry sister fumed in its place.

“This!” Lantalia hissed.

She moved across the room and shoved their great-grandmother’s journal toward Anika. “So, this is what you’ve done?” she sneered, dropping the journal at Anika’s feet.

“Where did you get that?” Anika’s voice was scratchy and deep. “That’s mine!”

Lantalia glared at her in disgust. “You left it in my room the night I was called! I was too busy to look at it . . . until last night.” A fiery magenta glow rose in her eyes. “What made you think this would work, Anika?”

As the glow in Lantalia’s eyes surged, a painful electrical charge twisted through Anika’s body. She winced, but refused to give her sister the satisfaction of seeing her cower in pain.

“How dare you!” she growled, “Mother was foolish to choose you! You’re nothing!”

Lantalia had to force herself to turn away and break her torturous hold. “I should have known you were lying, Anika,” she sneered. “All of that, ‘Oh, Lantalia! I’m so happy for you’ and ‘that’s not what Mother would want’ rubbish!” She whirled back around and faced her sister. “Now look at you! You’re hideous and weak!”

Anika glowered at Lantalia for a moment, but then began cackling wildly. “No, my dear Lantalia! You’re the weak one! I am becoming invincible!” She appeared positively mad as she shoved Lantalia hard and staggered across the room.

“Anika! You’ve gone too far!” Lantalia repeated, both anger and concern evident in her tone. “Do you have any idea? Do you even know the seriousness of what you’ve done?”

Anika scowled bitterly; her black eyes glared in disdain. She raised a dark arm and pointed it at her sister and the room began to shake violently. “Leave now, Lantalia,” she seethed, “or I swear, I will kill you!” Her voice was evil and coarse.

“You can’t kill me,” Lantalia calmly responded. A quick wave of her hand and the shaking stopped. “We’re twins, Anika. You kill me, and you’ll die too.”

Anika snarled like a caged animal and then charged toward Lantalia with every intention of attacking. All at once her black eyes rolled back in her head and she slowly rose into the air.

“Twin! Soon you will have no power over us!”

The voice was coming from Anika’s mouth, but it wasn’t Anika’s. It was bizarre—a single voice, neither male nor female, and yet somehow both; the volume of the voice was earsplitting. “We made you, Lantalia, and we will destroy you!” Two powerful bolts of silvery electricity shot from Anika’s eyes.

Lantalia spun out of the way, narrowly avoiding the bolts which crashed in an explosive shower of sparks against the wall behind her. She looked up at Anika, who was hanging in the air in a trance-like state. Lantalia closed her eyes and began to chant in a monotonous drone. “Reloia sa . . . reloia sa . . . reloia sa.” As she breathed the strange chant over and over and over, a low hum surged in and out through the air. The hum grew stronger until the air itself began to vibrate in visible waves. The volume of Lantalia’s chant rose to meet the volume of the hum.

The humming and chanting climaxed in a thunderous explosion which rippled throughout the entire palace, shaking the walls and floors violently. With her eyes still tightly shut, Lantalia raised her arm skyward and yelled, “reloia sa, reloia sa, reloia sa!” and made a flicking motion like she was throwing an invisible object at her sister.

Anika’s shadowy body twitched and shook in the vibrating air; then, all at once, she fell hard to the floor, landing awkwardly on her right shoulder.

Lantalia rushed to her side and lifted her in her arms. “Anika? Anika! Wake up,” she demanded gently slapping Anika’s cheeks.

Anika’s eyes blinked open. She groggily whispered, “Lantalia? Wh . . . what’s happening to me?” Her mood was the polar opposite of what it had just been and her voice sounded normal.

“Anika,” Lantalia blurted, “when you were receiving the powers, did you hear a voice?”

Anika nodded feebly. “Yes,” she wheezed. She was getting weaker by the second.

“Stay with me, Anika!” Lantalia persisted, “What did the voice say?”

She took a few shallow breaths. “Balance . . .” she muttered. “It said something about balance.”

“Balance?” Lantalia asked. “Anything else?”

“Yes . . . .” Anika’s eyes slipped shut.

Lantalia shook her to keep her conscious. “Come on, Anika. Stay awake! We don’t have much time! What else did it say?”

“It said . . . it was giving me . . . the powers.”

Lantalia shook her again. “It said the ‘powers to Anika’, but from where? From where, Anika?”

Anika’s head slumped onto her chest. “Fr . . . from . . . Lor Mandela,” she gasped laboriously and then slipped into unconsciousness.

Lantalia lowered her sister to the ground and somberly rose to her feet. “From Lor Mandela?” she gasped. She slid down onto the edge of the bed and stared at Anika’s limp body. “Oh, you fool! What were you thinking?”

Just then, Anika stirred. She moaned and rolled to the side.

Lantalia quickly sprang to her feet and raced for the door. She waved her arm and again, the branches of the tree disappeared and she darted from the room.

Anika struggled to lift herself from the floor and rubbed her aching shoulder. The tree branches rematerialized without her even noticing that they had been gone. “Oh, what now?” she questioned aloud, having no recollection of what had just taken place.

She took a few steps across the floor and stumbled on something. “What in the . . . ?”

There, at her feet, lay her great-grandmother’s journal where Lantalia had dropped it. She reached down and picked it up.

“Where did this come from?” she asked. She couldn’t remember when she had seen it last. She ran her hand over the faded burgundy cover and pulled it open. “Elahk E Ber,” she sighed shaking her head, “what have you done to me?”

Meanwhile, outside Trysta Palace, Lantalia hurried toward Koria—for the Caverns. She knew what Anika had done, and why, but hoped that if she acted quickly the remaining consequences of her sister’s stupid actions could be avoided. When she reached the cave, she headed directly for the rock platform; she had barely stepped out onto it when she shouted, “Stoi Cantara, Lor Mandela!”

A quiet voice seeped up out of the Caverns. “Only the vritesse can call on the spirit of Lor Mandela.”

She took a deep breath. “Forgive me, kind and gracious one. I am Lantalia, daughter of Satia—and Vritesse of Lor Mandela.”

The voice answered, a little stronger this time. “Vritesse Lantalia, or the twin? What is the blood in your veins? The soul has been corrupted.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “my sister has corrupted it. However, my soul is pure.” She paused, and then added, “I invite you to determine.”

The voice was slow to respond. “Vritesse Lantalia, are you aware of the danger?”

“I am,” she answered, “but it’s the only way for you to be safe, wise spirit.”

“Very well,” the voice replied.

A sudden breeze swirled throughout the Caverns, quickly escalating into a ferocious wind. Dust, leaves and even small rocks whizzed through the air.

Lantalia stood amid the debris and did not move. Her hair and clothes blew violently in the intense wind, but she maintained a statue-like stance. As the wind grew stronger and stronger, bright flashes of red light began slicing through the air, zipping and popping all around her, narrowly missing her. Had she flinched at all, the bolts would have cut through her like a sword and she knew it. She remained frozen in place for several seconds until the lights and the wind finally calmed, and eventually ceased.

The voice spoke again. “Lantalia . . . the true vritesse of the Trysta people . . . you have come to me to save your sister. Is it not so?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“But why, Vritesse? She stole your spirit, did she not? Stole it, and then cloned it?”

Again she answered, “Yes.”

“A twin spirit cannot be cloned,” the voice scolded. “The clone will be corrupted and corrupt all that it contacts.”

Lantalia nodded; her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid it has corrupted her and . . .” She paused as a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. “It’s also corrupted you, hasn’t it?”

This time the voice replied, “Yes.” After a long silence, it continued. “The corrupt part of my soul—the darkest portion—even now possesses your sister. She is dying, Lantalia, and I am dying because of her.”

Although Lantalia knew this in her heart, the verbal confirmation pierced her to her core. “But surely there’s a way to stop this! What can be done?” She feared what the answer might be—unfortunately, it was that exact answer that followed.

“She must die, Vritesse.”

Lantalia dropped to her knees.

“And therefore, I am so sorry to say, beloved Lantalia, you must die as well.”

Lantalia nodded mournfully. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

Again, there was silence.

After several agonizing seconds, she whispered almost inaudibly, “What about you? Our entire world is doomed then, isn’t it?”

The spirit’s voice was slow to respond. “There is a way,” it whispered. “Perhaps . . . yessss, if balance is restored . . . yesss, that’s it!” Again, the spirit of Lor Mandela seemed to gather strength. “You must go to your daughter,” it advised. “You must go to Gracielle.”

“Gracielle?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine what she had to do with any of this.

“Yes, Gracielle,” the voice of the soul replied. “Go to her quickly. Once you are with her, call on me, and I will show you both what can be done. There’s not much time, Vritesse. Every moment is crucial. The process must be initiated immediately.”

“Of course.” She bowed reverently.

Suddenly, another voice echoed through the Caverns. “Vritesse! Vritesse, are you here?” It was General Kort, and he sounded frantic.

There was a rapid swoosh as the spirit of Lor Mandela retreated back down through the center of the Caverns.

Lantalia quickly tried to pull herself together. “Kort? I’m up here!” She stood, blotted her cheeks with the back of her hand, and brushed the dust from her knees.

Kort appeared at the bottom of the path, visibly agitated. Vritesse! Come quick! Hurry! It’s Anika!”

CHAPTER V

THE ADVANTIERE

Lantalia didn’t wait for an explanation. The details didn’t matter. Anything that was happening with Anika right now was certainly not good. She rushed to Kort and the two of them took off at a full run back toward the palace.

Once they reached the gate, Kort tried to explain. “Ultara is with her . . . she just fell and started thrashing around. We couldn’t get her to stop! And . . .” His eyes grew wide as he added, “She’s totally black now!”

Lantalia touched Kort on the shoulder and nodded. She hurried off ahead of him toward Anika’s room.

Ultara met her at the door. “Vritesse!” she blurted, “she’s gone!”

“Wh . . . what do you mean? She’s dead?” Lantalia tried to remain calm despite the panic twisting inside of her.

“No, Vritesse,” Ultara explained, “she just vanished. She was jerking and convulsing for almost an hour. A few minutes ago she stopped. I thought she was coming out of it, but then she whispered something about Gracielle and disappeared.”

“Oh no!” Lantalia gasped. “She knows!”

Without further explanation, Lantalia dashed down the hall and out of the palace. She ran through the doors and while in a full sprint shouted, “Mandela Palace!”

In a flash of blue, she vanished and reappeared again outside a sprawling cluster of grandiose white buildings, in the center of a large courtyard. She ran past rich emerald hedges and up a large stone staircase. As she approached the top, she waved her arm, and the set of tall etched glass doors leading into the palace foyer bolted open.

“Gracielle!” she shouted feverishly, “Graaaciiieelle!” She sped through the elegant foyer, which was surrounded by stories-high stained glass and marble, and into one of the many tan hallways leading from it. The usually bustling palace was oddly silent. “Gracielle!” she shouted again as she maneuvered through the corridor.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang and a lot of commotion at the end of the hallway. Without hesitation, she flung her arm skyward, and one of the doors a few feet away blasted open. A thick, pewter fog billowed ominously through the open door.

The same strange voice that had possessed Anika in her room before oozed out from the fog. “Please, Gracielle. We need your help.” The voice was eerie and hypnotic. “Just take our hand.”

“No! Don’t!” Lantalia burst into the room. She was completely enveloped in a bright magenta light.

Gracielle was sitting on the floor in a cloud of black mist, held in a trance by Anika, who looked like nothing more than a black, three-dimensional shadow. She was standing above Gracielle—her scraggly black hair floating all around her head—with her hand outstretched to her niece.

A dazed Gracielle reached forward.

“No, Graci . . . don’t!” Lantalia pleaded. Gracielle didn’t respond.

Lantalia lowered her head and closed her glowing eyes.

The shadowy Anika sneered and growled and all at once, gasped sharply and bolted into the air. She flew across the room and crashed into a large window—shattering it into millions of pieces—before dropping like a rag doll to the ground.

Gracielle instantly snapped out of the trance. She jumped to her feet and dashed toward the door, not even realizing that her mother was there until she caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of her eye. “Mother!” she cried. “What’s wrong with Anika?”

“There’s no time to explain!” Lantalia yelled. She gestured toward the floor and a large section of it completely vanished, revealing an endless dark pit. “Stoi Cantara! Lor Mandela!” she commanded.

A hazy white light grew from deep within the pit, but then faded.

Once more she shouted, “Stoi Cantara! Lor Mandela!”

The light returned—a little stronger this time—but then went out again.

“Stoi cantara! Lor Mandela!” She literally screamed it this time.

A blinding flash blasted from the pit, knocking Gracielle and Lantalia to the ground. The heavy fog that had been consuming the room quickly dissipated, and the room became eerily silent.

Gracielle slowly rose to her feet. “Mother, are you all right?”

Lantalia was curled up in a motionless ball on the floor.

“Vritesse?” Gracielle tried again, cautiously moving toward her.

For a moment, Lantalia didn’t respond but then, she suddenly pushed up onto all fours. Her back heaved up and down, and her breathing became heavy and labored. She lifted her face and stared wide-eyed at Gracielle.

Much to Gracielle’s surprise, something—some sort of image—seemed to be materializing in her mother’s lavender eyes. “It . . . it’s Lor Mandela,” she whispered as a revolving likeness of the planet came into focus in each eye.

Lantalia nodded. “Yessss, Atoh.” Her voice was clearly not her own. It flowed from her mouth like a deep haunting song. “I am a portion of the spirit of Lor Mandela. The rest of me resides in Anika and we are both dying.”

“What? But how . . . th . . . that would mean . . . .” Gracielle muttered.

Lantalia moved closer and locked Gracielle in her stare. Her lilac eyes glowed brightly with the now crystal clear images of Lor Mandela. As Gracielle watched, pools of large tears began to well up and flood out onto her lashes.

Just as they were about to spill from her eyes, they swiftly reversed their course, rolling back like waves—breaking violently against the glowing purple images. They swirled and twisted, swelling into torrential rapids that pounded buildings, swept away animals and people, and consumed everything in their destructive path. After a few seconds—and much to Gracielle’s relief—the waters seemed to calm and finally recede.

She kept her gaze fixed on the images as somewhere far behind Lantalia’s eyes, the sound of an eerie, distant rumbling started to build. The rumbling grew louder, and louder, and louder; the images of Lor Mandela shook and shuddered; and then—in a deafening explosion—they burst into billions of tiny pieces and disappeared in a haze of glowing purple dust.

Gracielle jumped. “No!” she cried. “Wh . . . what does this . . . Lor Mandela can’t . . . I mean . . . what does this mean?”

“Yes, Atoh, Lor Mandela is doomed. But there is one way to save us,” the voice explained. “This will be our fate unless balance is restored.”

“What do you mean?”

“Balance has been destroyed—the balance that has kept Lor Mandela alive.

Suddenly, an evil, gravelly voice seethed from across the room. “Nooooo,” it screeched. The shadow of Anika had regained consciousness. She sprang to her feet and in a smoky, black blur, sped toward Gracielle.

Lantalia instantly threw herself between them, catching Anika completely off guard. She slammed into Lantalia and fell lifeless to the ground, but the blackness that had possessed her was no longer there. It was now inside Lantalia.

Lantalia’s appearance was shocking and strange. Not quite half of her was a dark, inky shadow, while the other part of her glowed fiery purple. Her voice was distorted and strained. “Gracielle!” she shrieked, “Your daughter! She is the Child of Balance!” Her voice changed to a shrill, hissing screech, “Trysta mother . . . Borloc father . . . balance!” Lantalia struggled to continue. “The Child of Balance must . . . be . . . protected!”

All at once, the light around Lantalia intensified. She let out an ear-splitting scream and the black ripped out of her and flew directly back into Anika, who moaned and began to stir.

The voice of Lor Mandela’s spirit burst from Lantalia’s mouth again, speaking very loudly this time. “THIS IS THE ADVANTIERE OF THE TRYSTA LANTALIA! AT THE APPOINTED TIME, THE MESSAGE WILL BE UNDERSTOOD. ONLY THE CHILD OF BALANCE CAN SAVE OUR WORLD. SHE HAS ALL POWER, BUT CANNOT CALL ON IT ALONE. THE RIDDLE MUST BE SOLVED FOR, OR BY HER. TWINS MUST LIVE STILL TO PLAY THEIR PARTS, HER FATHER’S HATRED DIE FOR LOVE TO GROW, AND BALANCE BE MAINTAINED FOR THE EXACT TIME BALANCE WAS MISSING. ANY OF THESE ELEMENTS MISSED, AND LOR MANDELA WILL CEASE.”

The volume of the spirit’s voice was so great that it seemed to have a density to it. With every booming syllable, the floor and ceiling and walls bumped wildly, causing them to crumble under the heaviness of the spirit’s roaring proclamation. Chunks of plaster plummeted from the ceiling and gaping cracks ripped across the walls.

Oddly though, one wall in the room seemed completely undisturbed. As the soul of Lor Mandela spoke, a shower of red sparks sizzled across the wall, leaving behind the words of Lantalia’s Advantiere:

Destruction from twins, and so it must end.

They are the lock, yet they are not friends.

The Child of Balance can only restore.

Her father the key and she is the door.

The riddle now told, the Advantiere presents,

healing begins following future events.

ONE comes swiftly in the morning

ONE unknowing moves in haste

ONE beloved though mighty fallen

ONE is chosen to forget her place

E lahk E Ber Lor Mandela!

ONE though strong must fall forbidden.

ONE made low shall rise again.

ONE must be as these words written

Then will ONE forever reign.

E lahk A Ber Lor Mandela!

With the final syllable, the spirit of Lor Mandela rocketed out of Lantalia’s body, and retreated into the pit.

Lantalia fell limp to the floor.

Gracielle rushed to her side, but as she did, Anika—who had again become the dark, evil shadow—glided back toward her.

“I will have power,” she seethed. “There will be no Child of Balance!”

Gracielle quickly scrambled backward and raised her hand in the air. The floor creaked and a wide crack zigzagged across it; a glowing, golden, needle-thin spike bolted out of it and raced toward Anika.

It sliced a deep gash across Anika’s forearm.

“Fool!” she screeched, “Your powers are nothing! Do not attempt to cross me!” She pressed her hand against the wound which was bleeding an inky black. She slid one of her hands behind her and grabbed for something and then flicked her wrist like she was flinging an invisible object at Gracielle.

“Gracielle! Move!” A voice called out from across the room followed by a flash of gold ricocheting through the air. Gracielle fell to the ground and rolled just as a sharp, black object disintegrated less than an inch over her head. She looked up and saw Anika’s daughter, Ultara, still glowing gold standing near the door.

Lantalia was back on her feet and shouted in her own voice, “Ultara! Get Gracielle out of here! Now!” She knew that Ultara would never disobey the vritesse.

Within a fraction of a second, Ultara was next to Gracielle. Her black cloak flew upward, swirled around them, and they disappeared.

The shadow of Anika didn’t seem discouraged in the slightest by this little setback. She slinked her way over piles of broken glass and concrete to the door and set off through the palace in search of Gracielle.

Lantalia hurriedly followed.

“Anika! Stop this! You can not win!” she yelled as they reached the stained glass foyer.

Anika’s shadowy silhouette headed for the large glass doors, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Lantalia was in pursuit.

“Little Atoh?” she cackled, “Where are you? Come out, dear little Gracielle!”

Lantalia flung her arm upward and Anika’s dark shadowy form jerked abruptly, as though she had been hit by a large object.

She growled and turned to face Lantalia. “Forget about it, sister!” she sneered. “You cannot win against us!”

She raised her hand and a strange sound—like hailstones hitting glass—echoed outside the palace. All at once, hundreds of large wooden thorns broke through the walls and bulleted toward Lantalia at a startling speed.

Lantalia thrust both hands into the air and a pillar of crystal blue water—almost as wide as the foyer itself—rose from the ground. The thorns smacked into it and fell with loud clanks onto the marble floor.

“You cannot win!” Anika repeated. “I will find the Child of Balance and I will destroy her!” She pushed her hands forward and a crackling wall of black flames formed out of the air directly in front of her, sending an intensely hot wind blasting throughout the room. She opened her arms out to her sides and the dark fire surged and zipped toward Lantalia.

The vritesse made a pushing motion and the massive wall of water moved toward the flames. They collided in the center of the foyer, twisting and tangling together, forming a sizzling, spattering cyclone.

“Anika!” Lantalia yelled over the roar of the water and the loud snapping of the fire. “Stop now! Neither of us will survive this!”

“So be it!” Anika hissed. Her dark form walked through the center of the fire and water and they instantly disappeared.

She reached into her black cloak and produced a jagged charcoal dagger. “If we both must die, sister, I’ll let you go first!” She hurled the dagger ferociously toward Lantalia. No sooner had it left her hand, than it vanished in thin air.

Lantalia hesitated for a moment, but then leaned to one side as the invisible dagger grazed past her head, narrowly missing as it raced through her hair. It whizzed past her, but then reversed its course and came at her again. She turned to face where she thought it was and dove sideways just as it raced by. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. She waited for the dagger to come at her again and then ran, full-force, toward Anika. Just before the inevitable collision, she dove to the side and rolled across the floor.

The maneuver caught Anika so off guard she didn’t have time to respond. With a loud gasp, she jerked violently and grabbed at her chest. In her hand, the shiny hilt of the dagger materialized; fully half of its blade was embedded in her coal black chest. Slowly, the blackness slid down her like thick tar seeping onto the floor. As her normal color returned, she looked pleadingly at Lantalia, and then sank to the ground. Anika was dead.

Lantalia crawled over to her just as Gracielle and Ultara ran in from one of the hallways. They stopped and glanced at each other and then raced to Lantalia’s side.

The vritesse was choking and sputtering—trying frantically to get a full breath.

“Mother?” Gracielle pleaded. She knew that with Anika dead, it was only a matter of seconds before her own mother would be too.

Lantalia fought to lift her hand. “Protect her,” she gasped, pointing at Gracielle’s mid-section.

Gracielle put her hand to her stomach and nodded weakly.

Lantalia turned her gaze to Ultara and fumbled through her cloak while struggling to breathe. “Ultara . . . .”

Ultara knelt down beside her. “Yes, Vritesse. What is it?”

Lantalia held out her trembling hand and placed it in Ultara’s. “Rule well,” she sighed.

Ultara looked down in surprise. There, in her palm, was the little silver box.

The vritesse smiled, drew in one large gulp of air, and was gone.

CHAPTER VI

THEY ARE THE LOCK, BUT THEY ARE NOT FRIENDS

After several quiet minutes in the palace foyer, Ultara's voice broke the heavy silence. “Come on, Graci,” she whispered. “We should go. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

She stood and held out her hand.

Gracielle stared at their mothers’ bodies for a few more seconds. A nauseating emptiness twisted in the pit of her stomach. Her mother was gone; it didn't seem real. Yet the evidence was right there, tragically staring her in the face. She looked up at Ultara, took her outstretched hand, and pulled herself to her feet. “I . . . I suppose you’re right,” she sighed.

Ultara put her arm around Gracielle’s shoulder. “I’ll walk you to your room, and then find someone to take care of the bodies,” she offered in a cracking voice.

Gracielle fought back tears as they started across the foyer.

A nagging voice inside her head whispered over and over again, the Advantiere . . . the Advantiere . . . the Advantiere.

She ignored it, but it repeated. The Advantiere . . . the Advantiere . . . the Advantiere.

As they entered a hallway, the voice echoed in her mind again.

Gracielle stopped. “I . . . I’m sorry, Ultara,” she said. “I just can’t seem to shake this. I’ve got to go back to the Advantiere.”

Ultara gaped in surprise. “You too?” She’d also heard a voice urging her back. “This doesn’t really seem like the right time,” she protested, “but, I don’t think either of us is going to get any rest until we take a look at that thing. I’ll get help from Koria first, and then meet you back in the room.”

Gracielle nodded in agreement.

Ultara turned and walked quickly toward the main doors, intentionally refusing to look in the direction of her mother’s body. Once outside, she ran down the palace steps and vanished in a flash of blue light.

Gracielle had to look again, just one more moment to be in the presence of the woman she loved and admired the most. She glanced over at her mother’s motionless form and tears spilled in thick streams down her fair cheeks.

The Advantiere . . . the Advantiere . . . the Advantiere. The voice returned, louder and more demanding than before. The Advantiere . . . the Advantiere . . . the Advantiere.

She drew in a deep breath and started toward the corridor that housed the Advantiere room.

She had barely taken two steps into the hall, when Ultara returned looking very agitated. She informed Gracielle that a group of Trystas were on their way, and then stomped her foot and shouted skyward, “Yes! The Advantiere! I know! We’re going!”

When they reached the room, Ultara waved her hand and the door flew open to reveal an overwhelming scene. Piles of broken glass, chunks of concrete, twisted metal, and splintered wood completely covered the once-marble floor. The only break in the mess was the huge, gaping chasm—the pit from which the spirit of Lor Mandela had come when it revealed to Gracielle that she was carrying the child responsible for saving their entire world. The very thought of it made her insides feel like they had been tied in tight knots.

Cautiously, they maneuvered through the rubble and around the hole in the floor to where the Advantiere glistened glittery-red on the wall. They stood and stared at it for several minutes.

Finally, Gracielle read aloud, “The Child of Balance can only restore.” She placed her hand on her stomach and sighed. “You know? I just found out today. I haven't even told Jonathan yet.”

Ultara touched her cousin warmly on the arm. “If it’s any consolation,” she tried, “it says, 'The riddle must be solved for or by her'. I can only assume that means this isn’t going to happen immediately. It's going to take some time.”

She smiled at Gracielle, who was looking all at once pale and green.

“I'm sure she'll be remarkable, Graci. But I don't know of any infant who can solve a riddle.”

Gracielle managed a weak chuckle. “No, of course,” she replied.

She couldn't help but allow her mind to wander for a moment. She visualized a beautiful little girl with tight black ringlets, round porcelain cheeks and vivid blue eyes. She imagined her playing—happy and carefree—while hordes of people stood around, anxiously watching; waiting for her to do something miraculous to save them all from certain doom. She didn't want that for her baby. She didn't want her to have that kind of pressure. She forced her thoughts back to the present, stared at the Advantiere again and attempted to move on.

Unfortunately, the next line she read did little to calm her. “Twins must live still to play their parts. Wait!” she gasped. “How can that be? It's not possible! I mean . . . how are they . . . how are they supposed to . . . ? They're dead!” She looked pleadingly at Ultara. “Have we failed already?”

Ultara didn't respond right away. She seemed distant—lost in her thoughts. “Maybe they’ve already played their part,” she tried.

“No,” Gracielle answered, “it says that they must live still.”

Ultara glanced away and began pacing.

“Then maybe it means the other set of twins,” she muttered.

“What?” Gracielle pressed. “What other set of twins?”

Ultara plodded back and forth for several seconds before responding.

“Nobody, Graci, and I mean nobody, knows about this. It can not leave this room, understand?”

Gracielle nodded. “You have my word.”

Ultara took a deep breath and explained, “Thirteen years ago, I gave birth to a son, remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

Everyone knew about Ultara’s son. It had been a great scandal. It was law among the Trysta people that the firstborn child of a woman in line to become vritesse had to be female. They believed that a first-born son was contrary to nature, and subsequently flawed.

Fortunately, nature itself usually took care of it. It was quite uncommon for a vritesse heiress to have a son first. But, if a son was born first, the law dictated that he would have to be put to death. In fact, it even stated that if twins were born and one or both were male, both were to be destroyed.

“Darian was so proud,” Ultara continued. “There was no way he was going to allow anyone to kill his son!”

Darian, her former entrusted, was a very handsome, captivating, influential man. He was Chief Ruler of the Brashnellans—a race of people descended from the Trystas. The Brashnellans had divided from the Trystas nearly two hundred years earlier, due coincidentally, to the first-born son laws. With each passing generation their magical powers diminished; however, their civilization had continued to prosper and flourish. Over time, Brashnell had grown to encompass almost one quarter of Lor Mandela.

Ultara took another deep breath and continued. “When I gave birth, Atoh, I was alone. There were no witnesses.”

“Really? Where was Darian?” Gracielle replied.

“He'd gone to Brashnell to meet with his father.” She leaned against the wall. Her wavy auburn hair glowed red under the luminescent letters above. She lowered her voice and admitted, “The truth is, I gave birth to twins.”

Gracielle's eyes grew wide. “What? How?” she replied. “I mean, I knew about your son, but what happened to the other one?”

“I was young and weak, Graci. I didn't want to kill my children.”

She seemed almost ashamed of herself.

“A few minutes after the birth, I gathered as much strength as I could and created a hidden room next to mine in the palace. I placed my other child—a daughter—in that room and told Darian that I'd given birth to a son.”

Gracielle could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“Brashnellans believe that a first-born son brings power,” Ultara continued. “I knew Darian would never allow anyone to harm his son. Turns out I was right. I told Darian that he could have his son for two days, but at the end of them, the child would have to be put to death.”

Gracielle was beginning to understand. “You knew he'd take him, didn't you?”

Ultara nodded.

“But, that doesn't explain what happened to your daughter.”

Ultara thought for a moment and then asked, “Do you have the ability to alter, Gracielle?”

“No, of course not. There are only a handful of Trystas with that power.”

Ultara smiled proudly. “Yes, and I am one of them.”

Gracielle raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“I kept my daughter hidden until she was two years old. Then I altered myself so I would appear to be going through another pregnancy. When the time was right, I returned myself to normal and altered my daughter into an infant again.”

“Nenia?” Gracielle breathed.

“Yes, Nenia. Now, Darian has my son and I have my daughter. They look two years apart, but they are twins,” She smiled and added, “and there's nothing flawed about either of them.”

Gracielle contemplated her words for a moment. “So then I guess that means that your children . . . they must be part of this Advantiere as well?”

“I guess so,” she sighed. Suddenly, Ultara’s expression grew deathly serious. “Listen, Gracielle, Darian can't know about this . . . nobody can . . . but especially not Darian. He hates me passionately. He's already tried to get to Nenia—for revenge, I suppose. He thinks that since I was willing to kill his son I don't deserve to have a child of my own. If he knew that she was his son's twin, he would hunt her like an animal. He would not rest until she was dead.”

“I understand. I won’t tell a soul,” Gracielle agreed.

Ultara pointed at the Advantiere and asked, “So what do we do about this, then? Who do we tell?”

“I don't know,” Gracielle answered. “It might be best if we just keep it to ourselves . . . at least until we’ve had a chance to think it over. I imagine we’ll be busy with other things for the next day or so.”

As her thoughts returned to her mother, she recalled her last moments and how she’d given Ultara the little silver box.

Ultara was still holding it in her hand.

“I guess you’re the vritesse now, Ultara.” Gracielle’s voice quivered as she spoke.

Ultara looked at the box and sighed, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Gracielle glanced up at a large window that had somehow remained intact and noticed the sun sinking below it. “It's nearly time for me to meet Jonathan and his parents for dinner. I need to let them know what’s happened. I expect they’ll want to call a council meeting.”

“I should get back to Koria, too. I want to inform the rest of my generals as soon as possible.” Ultara responded.

They made their way out of the demolished room and agreed to seal it so that no one could accidentally stumble across the mess, or more importantly, the Advantiere. Once outside, Gracielle lifted her hand and a small yellow spark appeared in the bottom left hand corner of the door. It buzzed and zipped upward and sped around the door frame. By the time it reached the lower right side, the door had completely vanished.

“Thank you, Atoh,” Ultara mumbled.

“Good night, Vritesse.” Gracielle bowed and they went their separate ways.

Gracielle slowly made her way to the Grand Dining Hall where Jonathan was waiting for her outside the door. As soon as he saw her he moved to meet her; as he got closer a look of concern grew across his face. “Graci, what is it? What happened to you?” She was pale and covered in dust and dirt.

The reality of the day’s events suddenly hit her hard. All at once she felt dizzy and sick. She tried to steady herself against a nearby wall but was still having difficulty standing. “It . . . It's the vritesse, Jonathan,” she panted. “Anika attacked her. They’re both . . .” Her knees buckled and she slumped over. “dead.” Jonathan barely caught her before she hit the floor.

Her collapse was witnessed by Atoc Cristoph and Ator Jocelynne who had just come around the corner by the dining hall. “What's wrong?” Cristoph shouted as they hurried toward them.

Jonathan held Gracielle tightly. “She says that Anika attacked Lantalia and they've both been killed!”

Jocelynne gasped and both she and Cristoph froze in place.

Gracielle babbled, “Lantalia called Ultara . . . downstairs . . . sending for the bodies . . . the council will need to . . . .” Her eyes fluttered; she took a deep breath and seemed to regain a little of her strength.

Jonathan, who was still concerned, however, looked at his father and shouted, “Can you get the doctor? I'll take her to our room.”

Cristoph nodded and he and Jocelynne rushed away.

Jonathan helped Gracielle down the hallway.

When they were almost at the end of it, he reached out to a beautifully carved wooden door and pushed it open. “Come on, Love, you need rest,” he insisted as he led her towards the bed.

“I . . . I think I'm okay now, Jonathan,” she assured. “A lot has happened today. I was just overwhelmed.” She sat down on the bed, gazed into space, and then blurted matter-of-factly, “Oh, and Jonathan . . . I'm pregnant.”

He stared at her for a few seconds and then mumbled a feeble, “What?”

She exhibited no emotion whatsoever. “We're going to have a baby.”

Jonathan paced for a moment and then asked soberly, “And if it's a son?”

“It’s not going to be a son, Jonathan. It’s a girl,” she replied.

“I understand it usually happens that way for Trysta Heiresses, but . . .”

Gracielle stopped him. “No, Jonathan, this has nothing to do with me being a Trysta Heiress. I've been told that it's a girl.”

“Told? Who could’ve told you? Nobody would’ve. . . . ”

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Gracielle answered, relieved that—at least for the moment—she wasn’t going to have to give further details.

A tall, slender man entered the room with Atoc Cristoph.

“Oh hello, Doctor,” Gracielle welcomed with a forced smile.

The doctor walked over and put his hand on her shoulder. “Good evening, Atoh. I'm so sorry to hear about your mother.”

“Thank you, Michelan.”

She leaned forward and gave him a hug.

“And thank you for coming, although I’m sure I'm all right now. It's just been a hard day; I let it get to me.”

The doctor frowned. “Of course, but I would feel much better if you'd let me take a look. I'd like to make sure both you and the baby are okay.”

Cristoph looked questioningly at Jonathan who smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “We'll be outside.”

He put his arm around his father and led him out of the room.

Jocelynne came walking down the hall toward them. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were splotchy; she'd obviously been crying.

“They've taken them,” she sighed.

Cristoph embraced his wife, and no one said anything for a few minutes.

Finally, it was Cristoph who broke the silence, “I think our son has something to tell us, Jocey.”

Jocelynne sniffled and looked at Jonathan, who gently embraced her. “Gracielle and I are having a baby.”

A knowing smile crept across Jocelynne’s face. “Of course . . . I should have realized. She hasn’t been herself lately.”

She was giving Jonathan another squeeze as the door to the room opened and Dr. Michelan peered out. “We're all finished in here. Everything looks fine,” he assured.

Jonathan sighed with relief and he, and his parents, stepped back into the room.

For the next couple of hours, Gracielle, Jonathan, Doctor Michelan, Jocelynne and Cristoph all sat in the room and talked. They spoke fondly of Lantalia and Anika and contemplated what Jonathan and Gracielle's child would be like. They discussed Ultara’s appointment, and debated over when they should call the council together to make it official.

“Are you sure it's not too soon?” Jocelynne questioned, when Cristoph suggested that the council convene the following afternoon.

“Ultara has already been called,” he answered. “She needs to receive the powers as soon as possible. It may be difficult, but I don't think we can put it off.”

“But Ultara can go to the Caverns and get the powers herself,” Gracielle argued. “The Council meeting is just a formality. Couldn’t we hold the meeting after things have settled down?”

Cristoph leaned back in his chair. “Yes, my dear, I suppose we could. But I think that making these changes with minimal disruption to our traditions may help people feel more secure; it’ll help them come to terms with this tragedy more quickly. Familiarity is comforting, you know.”

Jonathan and Jocelynne nodded in agreement.

“I suppose that's true,” Gracielle concurred.

“I'll make the arrangements and get the message out tonight,” Jonathan offered.

Cristoph patted him on the back. “Thank you, son. I think we should go now. Your entrusted looks as though she could use some rest.”

Doctor Michelan stood from the green wing chair in which he'd been sitting. “I believe you're right, Atoc,” he agreed.

They said their goodbyes and the doctor, Cristoph, and Jocelynne all left.

“Will you be okay while I prepare for the council meeting, Graci?” Jonathan asked.

“Of course I will,” she grimaced. “I'll probably just go to bed.”

Jonathan kissed her on the cheek and headed toward the door. “Okay, Love. I'll be back in awhile.”

Gracielle changed into her pajamas and got ready for bed, but didn't feel much like sleep. She felt edgy and restless. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep with everything that was bouncing around in her head. She curled up in a large, dark green chair, and tried to read for a while but finally ended up just staring out the window at the reflection of the full moon sparkling on the surface of Mystad Lake. “Goodbye, beloved vritesse,” she mumbled as tears welled in her eyes, and then flowed unchecked down her cheeks. “Goodbye, beloved mother,”

In the meantime, Jonathan had dispatched messengers to all of the chief council members telling them of the next day's meeting. He was updating Cristoph in a small, simply furnished sitting room, when there was a faint knock on the door.

A portly, young servant with a ruddy complexion and dishwater blond hair poked his head around the door. He cleared his throat and announced, “Atoc, Aton, Darian of Brashnell to see you, sirs.”

“Thank you, Phillip,” Cristoph replied. “Tell him to come in.”

Phillip bowed as a charismatic man with strong, masculine features and long dark hair came through the door and confidently strode toward them. He lowered to one knee and humbly apologized for the intrusion.

“Good Evening Atoc . . . Aton, I would have never dreamed of disturbing you at this hour, but I have some very alarming news.”

He looked up at Cristoph with eyes of pure black, except for the small orange, blue, and white fires that crackled where most people's pupils were.

Cristoph signaled for him to stand. “Alarming, Darian?” he questioned.

Darian rose from his knee. “Yes, Sire, I don't even know where to begin. I'm sure that it must seem bold of me to be bothering you in light of recent events, but I'm afraid that this cannot wait.”

“What is it, Darian?” Cristoph glanced over at Jonathan who was glaring at their visitor. He had never gotten along with Darian of Brashnell.

Darian explained, “I'm sure that you know that Ultara and I are not on—shall we say—the best of terms.”

Cristoph raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.

“Because of this unfortunate fact, I've found it helpful over these years to keep some close Trysta friends.”

“Friends? You mean spies,” Jonathan chimed in cynically.

“I suppose,” Darian smiled as the fires in his eyes seemed to grow larger. “That would be one way of looking at it.”

“And what alarming news have your friends brought you?” Cristoph asked.

“Sire, when Ultara and I were still together, we—I am ashamed to admit it now—but we were plotting to overthrow the government and rule Lor Mandela together. The plan was to wait until she became vritesse. With her ruling the Trystas and my position in Brashnell, we would be able to gain control over Mandela City easily.”

“Why are you telling me this now, Darian?” Cristoph barked. Clearly, his level of irritation was rising.

Jonathan was beyond irritated and glared viciously at Darian.

“Atoc,” Darian continued, “this was at least fifteen years ago. Please believe me. It is all in the past.” He lowered his voice slightly and added, “At least it is for me.”

“What do you mean?” Jonathan insisted.

Darian smiled condescendingly at Jonathan. “Well, Aton, my friend Omer, who is of course a Trysta, came to me just a few hours ago and said that he overheard Ultara talking to her advisor. She said that the waiting was over, and that the time had finally come for her to gain control of Lor Mandela. He informs me that she is planning some sort of attack, and very soon.”

“Why should we believe you? Ultara has always been our friend!” Jonathan snipped.

“My dear, Aton,” Darian’s respect was clearly feigned. “I know that many people do not trust me. Indeed, you have no reason to trust or, in fact, to even like me, but as I see it, whether we care for each other or not, we are in this one together.

“Ultara is cunning and she loves power. If she sees a way to get it . . . well, let's just say that it doesn't matter who's in her way.”

He turned his attention to Cristoph and continued. “Omer didn't know who the attack was going to be on, Atoc—just that it was either your family or mine.” The flames in his eyes flickered wildly. “If we are ready—and help each other by keeping a watchful eye—it will surely benefit us both.”

He shot Jonathan another contrived smile, then added, “Perhaps I have been misinformed, but if not, it behooves us all to be on our guard.”

Cristoph nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. Thank you, Darian. Let us hope you were misinformed.”

Darian bowed humbly and then strutted out of the room.

Jonathan barely waited for him to get out the door. “Well? What do you make of that?”

“I don't know,” Cristoph answered. “Ultara has always been kind to us.”

“And Darian is known for being . . . what's the word . . . um . . . deceitful?” Jonathan added. His tone was heavily bitter.

“Jonathan, this is not the first time I’ve been warned about Ultara.”

Jonathan’s surprise was apparent.

“Lantalia told me that Ultara should be watched carefully. It shocked me when I heard it. It shocked me tonight when Gracielle said that Lantalia had called her as the new vritesse.” Cristoph looked his son squarely in the eye. “Darian's right, though. We need to be alert. Anything unusual is to be reported, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan replied. “I understand.”

CHAPTER VII

THE GRASPING CURSE

When Jonathan finally returned to his room, he found Gracielle fast asleep in the big green chair. She looked so peaceful and beautiful lying there in her soft peach pajamas with her silky hair sweeping over one of her cheeks. He watched her sleeping and thought about the first time he saw her—truly saw her.

Actually, he had known Gracielle most of his life. They had played together as children. But it wasn't until two summers ago that he had really noticed her. At the time, she was seventeen and he was nineteen—and it was the first year she was old enough to attend the Celebration of Light. Gracielle was very excited about being able to go. She and her girl friends talked of nothing else when they were together. One time Jonathan happened to overhear her going on and on about it, and seized the opportunity—as he often did—to tease her.

“Oh yes,” he mocked in a high, squeaky voice, “just look at me!” He thrust his hands onto his waist and puffed out his chest. “I'm a wooooman now!”

Gracielle, of course, slugged him hard in the arm and told him to go kiss a slarp.

But then, on the night of the Celebration, his eyes were finally opened. Gracielle arrived alone, wearing a flowing, pale blue gown that was the perfect shade to make her soft green eyes sparkle. Her straight, strawberry blonde hair that was normally pulled up in a messy, floppy ponytail was sleek, almost down to her waist and dotted with tiny blue jewels. Jonathan remembered how confident she looked, and how he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. It was that night that he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. It was that night that he realized that he'd been in love with her for longer than he could remember, and it was that night—while they danced and laughed under the silvery summer stars—that he knew he wanted to spend forever with her. Two months later they were engaged. Six months after that, they became entrusted to one another.

Throughout the engagement, Gracielle worriedly anticipated the process referred to as The Exalting, when Jonathan would pledge his devotion to her by repeating an ancient vow. The vow—an ages-old spell—would change her, giving her the characteristics that on Lor Mandela, only Borlocs possess. Gracielle had never pictured herself with the Borloc features, but within hours of the ceremony, her hair turned to a rich, raven black and her eyes changed from green to bright cobalt—and although she was beautiful before, the contrast of her fair, slightly freckled complexion against these new, more dramatic attributes, made her even more stunning.

Jonathan walked over to where she slept, draped a lush white blanket over her, and whispered, “That did take you a bit to get used to.” He kissed her on the cheek and then went to bed himself.

The sun had barely risen when there was a tapping at the door. Gracielle heard it first, and groggily staggered across the room to answer it.

Ultara stood behind the door in the hall. “Good Morning,” she whispered. “I thought I would check in and see how you're doing today.”

Gracielle pulled the door open wide and sleepily motioned for her to come in.

Ultara noticed Jonathan, who was staring at her glassy-eyed from across the room. His hair was wild and matted to his head on one side. “Oh, I'm sorry, Aton. Did I wake you? Should I come back later?” she asked.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Uh hmm . . . of course not, Ultara. How lovely to see you . . . this early.” He shot her a grumpy glare as he walked toward the changing room at the back of their chambers. “Excuse me . . . I'm gonna get dressed,” he groaned.

“So,” Ultara began, “how are you feeling?”

Gracielle, who was still trying to wake up, stifled a yawn. “Oh, I . . . I'm okay.” She smoothed her pajamas and asked, “How are you?”

Ultara shrugged. “As well as can be expected.” She glanced toward the changing room, and then took Gracielle by the arm and whispered anxiously, “I figured something out . . . something from the Advantiere.”

Gracielle’s interest was piqued. “Really, what?” she whispered in reply.

Just then, Jonathan came back into the room—fully dressed and looking quite put together for the short time he had been gone. “You two wanna go eat?” He was still a little grouchy. “You have to have something, Graci. You didn't get dinner last night.” He spoke to Gracielle, but kept his eyes locked suspiciously on Ultara. Ultara and Gracielle both took notice.

“Um . . . actually dear, I think I'll just have something sent up from the kitchens. I'm still a bit drained.” Gracielle made faces at him in an attempt to get him to stop glowering at Ultara, but he didn't blink.

The mood in the room was growing tenser by the minute. Even Ultara—who was not easily intimidated—was feeling uneasy about the mysterious stare-down. “Is there something wrong, Aton?” she finally asked.

“No,” he snipped curtly.

“Um . . . all right then,” she replied, “why don't I go to the kitchens and round something up for the three of us?” She didn't wait for an answer from either of them. She quickly backed out of the room, frowning at the aton as she went.

“What was that all about?” Gracielle demanded, as soon as Ultara was out of earshot.

“What?”

“What?” she blurted. “You were eyeing her like she was some kind of criminal, Jonathan!”

“No, I wasn't,” he insisted, “That’s silly.”

Gracielle gaped at him in disbelief. “What is wrong with you?” She threw her hands up in exasperation and stomped to the other side of the room.

“Okay,” Jonathan sighed, “maybe I was giving her a look; but you have to understand, Graci.”

“Understand what?” She turned to face him, folded her arms, and tilted her head to one side.

He explained, “Last night, I was meeting with father, when Darian . . . .”

“Darian?” Gracielle interrupted. She knew that if this had to do with both Darian and Ultara, it could not be good.

Jonathan continued, “Yes, Darian. He came to see us.”

He told Gracielle all about Darian's visit, and how he'd warned that Ultara was planning an attack.

“Impossible!” Gracielle retorted. “He's just trying to stir things up! He can't stand the fact that she's more powerful than him now!” She couldn't believe that her entrusted would listen to a word Darian of Brashnell had to say.

Jonathan ran over to the door and peeked out into the hall. Ultara was nowhere in sight. “Graci, after Darian left Father confided that even your mother warned him about Ultara—told him that she needed to be watched.”

“Oh, I see. So that's what you were doing, huh? Watching her?” Gracielle glared at him angrily and shook her head. “Honestly, Jonathan. You'd better check our food when she brings it back . . . make sure it's not poisoned!”

“Gracielle!” Jonathan snapped. “I'm just trying to protect you . . . and the baby!”

Gracielle, who was pacing irately, stopped in her tracks. She realized that her emotions were being stirred by events of which Jonathan wasn't even aware, and that he was only acting out of concern for her and their unborn child.

“You're right. I’m sorry,” she sighed as she walked over to hug him. “You know, I saw Ultara do some pretty amazing things yesterday. She actually saved me and the baby from Anika.” She embraced him tightly. “I don't think she would do anything to harm us.”

“I know,” Jonathan resigned. “I don't really think so either. It's just . . . I have to be careful.”

He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek as there was a faint rap on the door and it slowly creaked open. Ultara strolled through the door pulling a cart full of food and holding a folded piece of paper in her hand. She smiled slyly at Jonathan. “I didn't know what you wanted, so I had them give me three of everything.”

“Hey, Ultara, I'm sorry I was such a grump before,” Jonathan apologized. “I guess I'm not very pleasant when I first wake up.”

Ultara nodded as she unfolded the paper in her hand and started reading it. “Don’t worry about it, Aton. We all have our . . .” Suddenly, she became quite engrossed in the letter. “Um . . . uh . . . forgive me,” she stammered. “I . . . I have to . . . uh . . . I have to get back to the palace, this instant!”

“Is everything all right?” Gracielle asked.

Ultara shook her head and fumbled with the handle on the door. “I can’t . . . I'll . . . I’ll talk to you after the council meeting. I have to go!” She raced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“That was strange,” Jonathan said.

“Yeah . . . I hope every thing's all right. I’ve never seen Ultara get ruffled like that.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jonathan assured. “Whatever it is, she can handle it. I don’t think there's much she can't.”

Jonathan pushed the cart over to a small sitting area on one side of the room and patted the seat of the chair next to him, indicating to Gracielle that she should come and sit down. He lifted a silver dome from a tray full of fresh fruit and waved his hand over it like he was presenting it to her. “C’mon. Let's eat.”

Gracielle smiled and joined him. “Still . . . I hope she’s okay,” she sighed, as they proceeded with breakfast.

Meanwhile, in one of the dining halls, Cristoph and Jocelynne were also sitting down to eat. The food had just been brought in to them by two female servants, when the same young man who had announced Darian's visit the night before, entered the room.

Cristoph stood and walked over to him. “Good morning, Phillip,” he greeted warmly. Phillip smiled and bowed, then handed the Atoc a letter.

“Oh, thank you,” Cristoph said.

Phillip bowed again. “Enjoy your breakfast Atoc . . . Ator.”

“What is it, dear?” Jocelynne asked.

Cristoph turned the letter over and noticed a gold seal on the back. “Ah, it's a note from Ultara,” he replied, as he strolled back toward the table to rejoin Jocelynne.

She smiled and began to eat.

Cristoph slid his finger beneath the seal. “Let’s see what our new vritesse has to say.” Gently, he pried the note open.

“I hope there's not a problem. You know, with the meeting this after . . . .” Jocelynne stopped abruptly.

As Cristoph unfolded the letter, a pair of black, smoky hands oozed slowly from the paper. He watched in awe for a moment, but then realized what was happening. “NO! JOCE! IT’S A GRASPING CURSE!”

He immediately hurled the paper onto the floor, grabbed a linen napkin from the table and threw it down on the note. He fell to his knees and tried to spread the napkin over the paper.

“What?” Jocelynne exclaimed, seeing Cristoph's state of panic. “Cristoph! What is it?” She pushed her chair out and moved to stand.

“NO! Jocelynne! FREEZE!” Cristoph commanded, frantically jumping onto, and then across the long banquet table. He hurled himself through the air toward his entrusted.

“CRISTOPH! LOOK OUT!” she shrieked, as several more pairs of dripping black hands found their way out from underneath the napkin and sped toward Cristoph.

“NO! CRISTOPH!” Before she could say another word, the hands had a grip on him. Again, she started from her chair to try to help him.

“JOCELYNNE! DON’T MOVE!” He bellowed.

Slowly, she lowered back to sitting and held completely still, watching in horror as gnarled black hands started to rip and tear at him.

Two of them slid up and wrapped themselves firmly around his neck.

He tried to pry them off, but had no sooner reached up, when several heavy claws grabbed him around his hands and arms. He kicked and wrestled ferociously but was defenseless. A few seconds later, he let out a mournful moan, and then stopped moving.

“Cristoph?” Jocelynne sobbed. “Please . . . no!”

Another pair of fatal hands was now hypnotically weaving its way toward her. Still two more were heading toward Phillip who had just come in with more food.

Upon seeing Cristoph—bloodied and presumably dead on the floor—Phillip dropped his tray of food, and ran toward Jocelynne in a valiant effort to save her.

The hands responded though, and within a fraction of a second, he too was being ripped at and strangled by the oozing black hands.

Jocelynne was terrified. The claws moving toward her were now just inches away. She panted heavily, tears streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t think. She knew that if she moved she was dead, but she didn’t see how holding still would save her either. In a desperate attempt to get help, she sat perfectly still and began to scream.

The hands that had mutilated Cristoph and Phillip now were twisting toward her slowly and ominously.

She screamed even louder, but didn’t move anything but her mouth.

Two female servants burst into the room in reaction to the ator’s screams.

“GET OUT! GET HELP!” she shrieked.

The servant closest to the door barely escaped back through it as two of the inky claws slammed against it, scratching wildly at the wooden surface in an effort to get her back.

The other girl panicked and tried to lunge out of the way as a set of hands viciously grabbed at her. Her death came quickly. The force of the hands hitting her as she dove, jerked her so violently that her neck snapped instantly.

The servant who had escaped was now wildly searching for someone to help. She ran down the corridor toward Jonathan and Gracielle's chambers screaming hysterically. Several guards appeared in the halls, responding to the commotion.

“HELP! The dining . . . Atoc . . . Ator . . . HELP!” She was panic-stricken and not making sense.

Jonathan and Gracielle heard the commotion and came to see what was going on.

“BLACK HANDS!” she screeched, “THEY’RE KILLING . . . THEY LOOKED DEAD!”

“A grasping curse!” Jonathan gasped.

He didn’t wait for details. He sped down the hall towards the dining room, and Gracielle followed.

In the meantime, the first set of smoky hands had reached Jocelynne and had begun to wrap steadily around her throat. It squeezed just enough to squelch her sobs. She gasped for air, but the hands continued to tighten their deadly grip.

She knew that Cristoph was dead, and likely, that she was about to be.

In a final, hopeless effort, she tried to pull away. As soon as she moved though, the hands ensnared her and dragged her forcibly to the floor. She struggled and thrashed wildly, trying to get away—but there was nothing to be done. The curse was impossible to break free from once it had been unleashed.

A few seconds later, Jonathan burst through the door with Gracielle right behind him, but they were too late.

The scene was gruesome; blood, plates, linens, food and bodies were flung everywhere. Jonathan's parents and two of their servants were dead.

Though neither Jonathan nor Gracielle noticed, the fatal invitation was pulsating eerily underneath the napkin on the floor—the last traces of the deadly vapor disintegrating back into it.

Gracielle slapped her hand over her mouth; tears streamed down her cheeks.

Jonathan stood in the doorway in a state of shock.

“Mother . . . .”

It was all he could manage to utter. He sunk slowly to his knees and crawled over to where his mother’s body lay.

“No . . . no . . . mother . . . NOOOOO!”

He lifted her gently into his arms and wailed uncontrollably.

Gracielle walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Wha . . . how . . . who did this?” She mumbled through her tears.

Jonathan cradled his mother for some time, then laid her back down softly and stood and embraced Gracielle. They held each other tightly and cried.

By this time, a group of Palace Guards had arrived at the room and were already examining the scene.

The one who seemed to be in charge whispered to another, “Get news of this to General Statlen on the council.”

The other guard nodded and hurried away.

Soon, the room was packed with guards—some who were busily cleaning up, and others who were investigating the scene.

Jonathan and Gracielle stood in the doorway, watching in despair as the bodies of the atoc and ator were loaded onto stretchers and covered with white sheets. As the sheet was laid over Jocelynne's face, Jonathan's breath caught sharply in his throat and he turned away.

“Aton?” The head guard walked up behind Jonathan and touched him on the shoulder.

“Yes, Falken,” he muttered as he turned to face the guard.

“Sir . . . we found this.” Falken held a piece of paper in his hand. It was the letter that had contained the curse.

Jonathan took it and examined it. It appeared slightly burnt on the edges, and smelled of sulfur. There were no words written on it at all. He turned it over to the back side. There, a slightly torn, bright gold seal gleamed about half-way down the page. “Ultara,” he breathed.

“What?” Gracielle couldn't believe it. Jonathan shoved the paper at her.

“No,” she gasped, “I . . . I . . . .” She couldn't say anything else. She stared at the paper and shook her head over and over again.

Jonathan looked at Falken. “Bring me Ultara,” he seethed.

Falken bowed. He seemed very worried. Ultara was not someone he wanted to anger—but then again—neither was Aton Jonathan. He rose from the bow and walked out the door, feeling that the mission which had been thrust upon him was akin to suicide.

Gracielle's eyes were glassy. “What're you going to do, Jonathan?” she asked.

He didn't answer, but instead pointed to one of the guards and commanded. “When Captain Falken returns with Ultara, have him bring her to Court Four.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard replied.

Jonathan turned to walk away.

“Jonathan?” Gracielle called behind him.

He stopped and looked back at her. “I will take care of this, Graci. You go back to our chambers and don't leave them! I'm having Dr. Michelan come stay with you.”

“What? Why?” she asked.

Jonathan approached her and put his hands on her shoulders. “It's for your own safety . . . and the baby's,” he explained. “I don't know what's going on here, but for now, I have to assume that we're not safe. We can't take any chances.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Promise me you'll do as I say. Please. Don't leave the chambers until I get back!”

“But Jonathan,” she pleaded, “I . . . .”

“Please, Gracielle!” He was adamant.

She studied his teary eyes for a second, and then reluctantly nodded. She turned and slowly headed toward the chambers, while Jonathan went to Court Four to wait for Falken and Ultara.

In the meantime at Trysta Palace, the members of the council were arriving for the meeting. News of the vritesse's death spread quickly, and everyone knew that they were gathering to witness the calling of Ultara, but when the time arrived for the meeting to commence, none of the Nobles were present. Jonathan, Gracielle and Nenia should have all been in their seats by now. With a loud thunk, the three doors at the far end of the room swung open. The delegates rose to their feet . . . and waited for Cristoph, Jocelynne and Ultara to enter.

The room was silent; nothing happened. Several minutes passed, and still nothing.

Suddenly, a Lor Mandela Palace Guard burst in through the middle door and shouted, “By order of Atoc Jonathan, the Council is in recess until further notice!”

All at once, confused conversations filled the room. None of the delegates could recall this ever happening before. Council Meetings just weren't spontaneously canceled. But perhaps the most bizarre thing was what the guard had said. “By order of Atoc Jonathan”. It didn't make any sense. What was going on? Where were the Nobles? And why was Jonathan being referred to as atoc?

There was such a commotion, that no one noticed Darian—who was the only one not acting frantic. In fact, he stood calmly on his platform, not saying a word, grinning ear to ear with the flames in his eyes flaring maniacally. When his platform finally lowered to the ground, he nearly sprinted from the room and strode out of the palace to where an entourage of shiny silver vehicles waited. He stepped into one of them and told the driver to get him home . . . quickly! Within seconds the whole entourage was speeding noisily away. As the convoy raced toward Brashnell, he raised both arms in the air and smugly placed them behind his head. He stared out the window and chuckled, “This is perfect! Well done, my dear Ultara.” The fires in his eyes intensified. “Very . . . well . . . done!”

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAST OF THE TWINS

In the days following the brutal deaths of Jocelynne and Cristoph, evidence began to surface that Lor Mandela itself was dying. Trees and plants withered; the water levels of streams, lakes and oceans receded; and one of the two moons that usually illuminated the night sky had gone completely dark. Throughout Lor Mandela earthquakes shook crumbling hills and mountains; violent storms raged; and volcanoes that had slept for centuries suddenly awakened with a fiery fury.

In Mandela City, tension was escalating. Unpredictable weather patterns and un-natural disasters kept everyone on edge, but as soon as news leaked out that Ultara had murdered the atoc and ator, a general sense of hostility, which had never before been present, arose between the Trystas and the Mandelans.

Ultara had gone into hiding, and a huge wall had been constructed around Trysta Palace. No one—unless they were Trysta—was allowed in, and even though Gracielle was a Trysta by birth, she was no longer welcome in Koria.

Now, another disturbing report regarding Ultara was being delivered to Jonathan. His personal guard—a gruff-looking, stocky, older gentleman named General Davids—brought him the news.

“What is it, Davids? Has Ultara been found?” Jonathan asked anxiously as the general approached.

“No, sir,” Davids explained, “but it seems she had a good reason for rushin’ out on you and the ator that morning. She got a troubling message about her daughter, Nenia.”

“Nenia?” Jonathan questioned.

“Yes, sir. Apparently she's gone missin’.”

Jonathan's despise of Ultara was—for a moment—replaced by concern. “Missing?” he inquired. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Atoc,” the general explained, “I heard that she and some other Trysta girls were out near the Sybran. Seems they were attacked by a rynolt. Nenia was carried off, and accordin’ to what I've heard, she hasn't been seen since.”

Jonathan bowed his head sadly. He cared about Nenia. She was such a pleasant, intelligent girl. “But wait!” he blurted suddenly. “A rynolt attack . . . during the day? Rynolts don't attack in daylight, and since when do they carry off their prey?”

Davids shrugged. “Sir, with all of the strange things goin' on, what with the plants and the moons and all, I've heard a lot of people sayin’ their pets and livestock are actin’ really strange lately. Maybe it's makin’ the wild ones act up too.”

“Perhaps,” Jonathan replied, “I just wish I could figure out what's going on. It's like the whole planet’s gone haywire.”

Just then, Gracielle entered the room. “Hello, my dear . . . hello, General,” she greeted warmly.

“Good Afternoon, Ator,” Davids replied and bowed humbly.

“Graci,” Jonathan began, “Davids has just told me the most remarkable thing. It's quite sad though.”

“Sad?” she asked. “What is it?”

Jonathan repeated what Davids had told him about Nenia.

Gracielle’s reaction to the news was far more extreme than Jonathan had anticipated. “Oh, no!” she wailed. “This is dreadful! She can't be missing!” She grabbed Jonathan by the front of his shirt and cried, “Oh, Jonathan . . . you have no idea how horrible this is!”

Jonathan was bewildered by her frantic outburst, but then assumed that her emotions were being affected by her pregnancy. “Graci, I understand. It is horrible. I'm sorry. Maybe I should have figured out a better way to tell you.”

Gracielle shook her head. “No! It's just . . . . Oh, Jonathan,” she whimpered as big tears began streaming down her cheeks, “what will we do now?”

Jonathan put his arms around her and held her to his chest. “I know, Love. She's part of your family. Shhh, it'll be okay,” he soothed.

Slowly, she leaned away from his embrace and wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “No, Jonathan, you don't understand. Without Nenia . . . .” She paused for several thoughtful moments.

“Without Nenia, what?” He pressed. “What is it, Graci?”

Gracielle decided that she couldn't keep Ultara’s secret any longer. Jonathan was the atoc, and he had to know. She nodded towards Davids, who'd been standing silently in a corner. “Please excuse us, General.”

He bowed and backed out of the room.

She waited until he was out of sight, and then took Jonathan by the hand. “There's something I need to show you,” she sighed.

With all of the mayhem surrounding the deaths of Lantalia, Anika and Jonathan's parents—and with her own new position as ator—Gracielle hadn't really found time to study the Advantiere or to figure out a way to tell Jonathan about it without divulging Ultara’s secret. But now, one of the twins was gone. She didn't see how the Advantiere could possibly be fulfilled. Her only hope was to show it to him—ready or not—and see if he had any ideas.

As they approached the hall that housed the hidden Advantiere room, Jonathan asked, “What is it, Graci? What could be so important over here?” He had not been in this part of the palace for over a month. He had no need to come here—it was just old servant's quarters that were in the process of being renovated.

Gracielle stopped outside of where she’d sealed the demolished room almost two weeks earlier and stared at the blank wall. Slowly, she lifted her arm and a minuscule yellow spark jumped up near the floor. It buzzed and popped and gradually moved upward. Within a few seconds, the shape of a simple wooden door became visible. The little spark continued zipping across the top and down the other side of the door and then sputtered a few times and faded away.

“What's this?” Jonathan asked, taking a hold of the door handle and turning it.

“Wait!” Gracielle blurted. “I need to prepare you. This room will be a bit of a shock.”

“Why?” he grimaced as he continued turning the handle. The latch clicked and he pushed on the door.

Gracielle grabbed his arm forcefully and held him from going any further. “Don't.” Her voice and expression were very serious. “There’re some things you need to know before we go in there.”

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

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

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

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

“Anika diseased the planet?” He sounded skeptical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

Gracielle nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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