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Chapter 13: The Dark Oracle’s Ascension

“The Tribe of Prophets is led by a mysterious figure they call the Oracle. Sadly, like so much about the Desert Tribes, how this Oracle is chosen or anointed remains shrouded in mystery.

Modern Desert-Plains Relations

Tor had set a blistering pace northwest across the desert. But they arrived too late, as he had known they would. The sun kissed the sky with the pink tinge of dawn by the time they reached the T’Kulpa on the southeastern shore of the White Sea. Now Tor stared out across the shimmering salt flat where the rising haze had already hidden the Island of Black Glass from his view.

Stephen Silver-eye and his storm chasers stood behind the troubled Prophet, a solid and devoted presence. They were as winded as Tor from their overland flight. And yet Tor had no doubt that they stood ready to step out onto those killing fields, if such was his command. He felt the Shadow stir within him at the thought, and possibilities clicked into focus like the myriad facets of a crystal lens.

“My Prophet, what is it you seek?”

“Destiny Silver-eye, always destiny. We all move eternally toward fate. We have no other choice. Are you ready to seize your destiny, my Shaman of the Storm?” Tor turned to his white-maned companion, capturing the shaman’s icy gray eyes with his gaze.

Stephen lowered his chin to his chest. Tor was pleased to see the rest of the five storm chasers follow suit. “The Shard Wardens stand ready Brother Tor.”

“Excellent. Go now and collect the Tears of the Sea from the cavern below. Return here and wait until nightfall. Meet me when the Island of Black Glass rises again. Tomorrow you stand with my order among Ten Fallen Stones.”

“Of course, my Prophet.” Stephen gave a quick hand signal to forestall any outbursts from his flock. As silently as clouds creeping across the face of the sun, the five storm chasers slipped back toward the crystal studded tunnel into the heart of the T’Kulpa.

Tor was suddenly seized by an overwhelming premonition, stronger than any he had ever had before. “Meena, I have a task that requires your speed.”

The dark skinned scout looked quickly to Stephen, who gave her a quick nod before continuing down the tunnel. She turned and sauntered back to the Prophet with her ever present shardspear held loosely in one hand. Tor saw the ever present predatory look in her amber eyes. “How may I serve, Brother Tor?”

She smiled widely as Tor reached into one of the many folds of his dun colored robes. But her smile faltered as he withdrew a swath of rough woven cloth a handspan in width and an armspan in length. “I need you to collect as much sand from the entrance of the T’Kulpa as you can carry in this.”

Tor saw the questions spring into her eyes. Clearly this was not the service she had anticipated. In overlaid facets of his vision, he also saw how much it would delay him to answer her, or to indulge her other expectations. He raised one finger to her lips quickly, pressing the cloth into her belt with his other hand. “No time for questions Meena. Silver-eye tells me you are the fastest of your troop. Fly for me now, quick as the wind.”

Meena flashed her wicked grin as Tor turned her gently but firmly toward the tunnel. He turned back to contemplate the deadly expanse of the White Sea. He had walked the salt flat by day before of course. An hour of such exposure was one of the tests required of all Migrating Prophets. They were trained to skirt along the edge of the White Sea if they were being pursued, leading the Tribe’s enemies to their deaths or leaving them safely behind.

But now he was contemplating a full crossing in broad daylight. Such a feat was theoretically possible, for someone with the strength of the Oracle, for example. Tor had never heard of any simple Prophet accomplishing it before. But he would make the crossing. He could hear it in the whispers of the breeze, the faint seductive voices of the Island of Black Glass that reached his Prophet’s ears even here. And the shimmering reflections brought on by the sun’s glare seemed no different than his new kaleidoscopic sight. In countless wavering images he saw himself stepping boldly out into the sun and striding alone across that seemingly endless sea.

Meena was as fleet as he could have hoped. He turned at the sound of her footsteps crunching in the sand strewn across the tunnel floor. She handed him a tightly wrapped bundle, heavy with its weight of sand, and he tucked it back into one of the folds in his robes. He was not even certain what he would use it for, only that he would need it before nightfall. He nodded quickly to Meena. “Excellent. Now rejoin the others and help them prepare to cross to the island as soon as night falls.”

“And where will you be Brother Tor?”

Where, indeed? One corner of Tor’s mouth ticked upward in amusement as he realized that a part of him already knew the answer. “I have guests to attend to. And although the sun and the sea conspire to hide them from my vision, nothing can shield them from my Sight.”

Guided by the resonating whispers of the Shadow within him, Tor did not dismiss Meena before starting out. Having a witness to this act could have its benefits, he mused. Wordlessly, he turned back to face the salt flat. He removed his sandals of toughened lizard leather. His overlapping vision showed him inky black shadows oozing across the soles of his bare feet. He drew a coarse cloth across his face as he raised his hood, leaving only his eyes unshielded. And then he stepped from the stone shelf of the T’Kulpa onto the deadly salts of the White Sea. Within a few steps, the shimmering haze closed behind him, leaving no trace of his passage.

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