Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins Read online

  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 a
nd 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 rais
ed 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.”