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Things were much worse than Tor had feared. No one greeted their arrival. The Gathering hall stood empty, without a guide anywhere to be seen.

Tor burst into the first sentry’s alcove at the front of the hall to find the watcher hastily shaking himself out of a sound sleep.

“What is the meaning of this? Where are the watchers?”

“Brother Tor… you’re back! We’ve had no word…”

“I reported my return days ago.” The crystals in the roof of the cavernous hall began to glow. They responded to motion and the time of day on the salt flat above. Tor’s outburst had begun to rouse the Gathering at last. Tor heard sleep confused whispers as tribespeople collected in the Gathering hall in twos and threes.

“…going on?”

“…a migrating prophet…”

“…didn’t know one was due back…”

“Stay here. Surya, Meena, you have your orders. You! Take me to the watchers at once!” Tor grabbed the sentry by his ochre died collar, dragging him into the center of the hall.

“But… What about my post?”

“Look there!” Tor took the hapless sentry’s pale brown chin and forced his gaze toward Stephen Silver-eye and his storm chasers. They radiated fierceness, and violence was lying ready just below the surface of their eyes.

“I have five true warriors standing ready at your post. I’d say it’s better covered without you. Don’t you agree?”

“Of… of course Brother Tor.” The spineless sentry swallowed convulsively, making the tips of his elaborately trimmed beard tails twitch.

A roiling darkness was rising in Tor. Everywhere he looked he saw ghostly images of probability. The threads of intent were complex here in the Gathering. And they were writhing, changing as he watched. He saw lines fraying and unraveling, as though they had come unglued at one end and were casting about for a new mooring. What was happening here and why was the Oracle allowing it?

“Look at your so called prophets, casting about like blind things listening for echoes. Yet your sight is undimmed…”

Tor gritted his teeth, biting back a reply to the mocking voice in his mind. It wouldn’t do to give the sentry any more reason to bolt. He hauled the trembling young man into the hall with one hand under his elbow. As they approached the giant shattered monoliths that inspired the name of the place, Tor paused. As always, the enormous stones brought him a sense of quiet awe. What great hand had shaped these pillars? Even at they lay tumbled and broken, their intricate geometric precision hinted at an elusive purpose. Tor closed his eyes reverently, allowing the whispers of the broken stones to wash over him. As before, closing his eyes did nothing to shield from the fractured images that assaulted him. He saw flashes surrounding the fallen monuments, images of chaotic fighting mixed with scenes of the cursed Doormakers among the great stones themselves. A bitter taste rose in his throat at the thought.

He pushed the young tribesman ahead of him through the archway formed by two of the fallen pillars. Beyond the collapsed arch was a narrow, winding tunnel that had been reinforced and widened over the ‘turns. It was a sacred path, leading to the heart of the Gathering, where the Oracle and those that served him lived. As one of the lowest caste of his Tribe, the sentry was only allowed to the go as far as the Hall of Watchers. This smaller chamber was brightly lit by glowing crystal fixtures that grew from the walls and ceilings. It was not far before they were challenged.

“Sentry, why have you left the entrance hall?” The tall watcher glided serenely into the chamber from a recessed alcove. It seemed the watchers at least were not to be caught napping.

“I… I had no choice…”

“I relieved him of his duty when I found him asleep at his post.” Tor stepped out from behind the stammering young tribesman, but firmly maintained his hold on his arm.

“Brother Tor! What…” The shock on his ritually tattooed face spoke far more eloquently than he did at the moment.

“I’m beginning to feel a definite chill in the reception here Ruben.”

“Forgive me! The return of one of our migrating prophets is always cause for celebration. Welcome home, Brother.”

Ruben stepped forward hastily and clasped Tor’s palm to his chest with both hands.

“May destiny shape your words…” Tor offered the ritual benediction.

“…as fate guides your steps.” Ruben completed the invocation and Tor felt an unfamiliar tingle in his palm as they broke their clasp.

“Your return is shadowed by dark times, Brother Tor. We had no word of your coming.”

“No word? But none approach Ten Fallen Stones without the knowledge of the watchers.”

“None but the Oracle…”

“Yes, we hear the voice of the Oracle when anyone approaches the Island above.”

“The Oracle?”

“But his voice has…” Ruben turned away, wringing his hands.

“B-brother Tor… W-watcher R-Ruben… may I g-go?” The incompetent sentry had developed a terrified stutter. Tor released his arm in disgust.

“Leave us. Tell Stephen Silver-eye and his people to await my return.”

“S-s-silver-eye?” The sniveling young man actually cringed as Tor rounded on him.

“Sweet sands of the mother! The tallest of the storm chasers! Now go!” Tor fumed as the young man nearly tripped over himself in his hasty retreat. The whispering voices in his ear were coalescing. Someone was coming. Tor lost the thread of the premonition as Ruben clutched at his sleeve.

“Did you say storm chasers? Here?”

“In the entrance hall, awaiting my orders.”

“It’s even worse than I feared… we had no warning at all…” The skin behind his long-time friend’s tattoos paled. He would not or could not look Tor in the eye.

“Ruben what’s been going on here?” The whispers became more insistent. Tor pleaded silently with his rider and the rising discordance stopped immediately. The message became horrifyingly clear.

“It’s the Oracle… we’ve lost contact with…”

The visions he had seen earlier came into sharp focus: a withered body draped across a darkened shadow crystal. A strangled curse escaped his lips and he tensed as he felt the approach of an unwelcome presence. “No…”

“I see the prodigal son has returned.”

“Dante. Still a watcher then?”

“Now and always Brother Tor, as destiny guides.”

“Dante, Dante… with such devotion I would have expected you to rise into the migrating prophets long ago.”

Dante’s polished skull gleamed in the soft glow of crystal light as he graced Tor with a feral snarl barely concealed behind a simpering smile. “Some are called to carry the quest to the enemy, Brother Tor. While others must stay to guide those left behind, lest they be led astray by wayward thoughts.”

His words struck a chill deep in Tor’s gut. “There can only be one guide for the people of the Tribe, Dante.”

“Of course. The Oracle sees all. Through his most faithful servants, the humble brotherhood of watchers, his wisdom guides our people to glory.”

“Through the watchers? What are you talking about Dante?”

Dante met Tor’s question with silence, but malice glittered in his eyes.

“Ruben, what is he talking about?”

“Things have changed, Tor…” Ruben shook his head, his eyes wide and pleading.

“What have you done Dante? Never mind, I’ll get my answers from the Oracle!”

“Oh I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Dante stepped smoothly in front of him, his fine cream colored robes whispering almost silently in the still air of the cavern.

“What?”

“In these troubling times, access to the Oracle has been restricted, for security reasons.”

“Restricted? You dare to command a migrating prophet, watcher? By whose authority?”

“By the Oracle’s own decree. He is sequestered in his Shadow Chamber, with explicit instructions not to be disturbed. In his absence the day-to-day operation of the Gathering falls to brotherhood of watchers.”

“Day to day… Ruben how long has the Oracle been sequestered?”

“I fail to see how that matters…”

“When I want to hear from you Dante I will ask. Ruben, how long?”

“Tor… it’s not that simple…”

“How long!”

“More than a quint, maybe seven or eight days…”

“Eight days? He’s been gone eight days! How long since he fell silent?”

“Really Brother Tor, the details of watcher Ruben’s communion with the Oracle are none of your concern!”

“I have asked for your silence once already, Dante. Interrupt me again, and I will compel it.”

“Even if you dared, you don’t have the power!”

“Try me.” Dante stared hard at Tor. Something he saw in the prophet’s eyes made him quail. Tor watched as the color drained from his face, in stark contrast with his watcher tattoos.

“Ruben. How long?”

“Four days.” Ruben’s face fell but not before Tor saw the shadows that haunted his eyes. Tor had delivered his report to the Oracle four days ago. He realized with a shock that he may have been the last person to communicate with the old man.

“I will see the Oracle now.” Tor stepped forward onto the path that led to the Oracle’s inner sanctum.

“I can’t allow that.” Dante again positioned himself in front of Tor.

“Heed this well, prophet. If you do not embrace your destiny, others like this one will be tempted to step beyond their station.”

The pervasive tones of the shadow’s voice rolled through his mind, triggering an unexpected realization. Dante was stalling. Simultaneously Tor began to hear the dark whispers return, as the shadow began to let them filter into his conscious thoughts again. They were not alone.

“I tire of your impertinence Dante. Stand aside or be put aside.”

“Oh I don’t think so. I had not expected this quite so soon, but no matter. Brother Tor of the order of Migrating Prophets, you have brought outsiders into the Gathering without authorization. You stand in defiance of the Oracle’s command. Guards of the Watch, seize him!”

Two burly men stepped out of hidden stations on the path, dressed in uniforms that mimicked the watchers’ cream colored robes. They carried shardwands, miniature versions of the explosive tipped shardspears that Meena and Surya employed. In close quarters like this they would be deadly. Tor turned to see two more guards converging on the hall of watchers from behind him. He was trapped.

“I’m sorry, forgive me.” Tor looked to Ruben only to see his long time friend turn and flee down the side corridor toward the watcher’s sleeping alcoves. A door slammed shut behind him, sealing Tor off in the Hall of Watchers with Dante and his guards.

“Built your own militia, have you Dante? I’m sure that won’t go over well with the Oracle.” Tor kept his eyes on Dante and the two guards in front, even as the two men behind him advanced slowly.

“That old fool won’t be a problem. He went into his ‘seclusion’ a bit sooner than I planned, but your unanticipated return has solved that little problem for me.”

“Oh? What happens now?” Tor winced as twin shards of crystal pressed into his back. The rear guard had arrived. Something warm and wet trickled down his back where the sharp edged wand tips pierced his robes just enough to knick the skin.

“Oh it’s a pity. Your failed attack on the Oracle proves that the enemies of the tribe will stop at nothing to bring about our destruction. But such acts just emphasize the importance of our security measures. Your misguided attempt would have succeeded, if it weren’t for the heroic foresight of the recently elevated Grand Marshal of the Watch, leader of the Brotherhood of Watchers. Henceforth all further communication with the Oracle must be channeled through Grand Marshal Dante, for security purposes of course. Tragically, you resisted arrest while being detained and did not survive to be questioned.”

“And what about the other migrating prophets?”

Dante waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “I’ll deal with them as they return. Some will adapt to the situation. Others will not.”

Images flickered through Tor’s mind, threads of intent unraveling and re-routing even as he watched. “I suppose you’ll have your guards do the heavy lifting. You always were too weak to get your own hands dirty.”

“I am not weak. Destiny moves my hand. My destiny.”

Tor saw flashing probabilities, most ending in darkness. Others however led him to a different path. “Oh, I’ve seen your destiny Dante. You wouldn’t like it.”

A snarl curled Dante’s lip as he rolled up the sleeves of his immaculate robes. “Hold him. I’ve waited for this for a long time.”

The cutting shards were withdrawn from Tor’s back. Guards on either side of him pinned his arms against his back to give the self appointed Grand Marshal a steady target.

Dante drew back his arm and Tor felt the shadow rise up within him. As Dante’s clenched fist descended toward his face, Tor felt time slow. He felt power stretching out from his core, reaching up to the point where Dante’s fist would contact his face. The moment that approached was pivotal, timeless. He saw the cruel gleam of hatred in Dante’s eye, wrapped like a smothering blanket around an insidious kernel of fear. He saw cold indifference in the stance of the two guards at Dante’s side, so unlike the zealous fervor his storm chasers had shown in the attack at Edgeways. He saw their dismissal of him as a threat as they turned away. He saw their lapse create an opening into the Oracle’s inner sanctum, blocked only by Dante and his rage. He saw the threads of Dante’s intent inexplicably turned aside, shriveled and severed from their target.

He expected the moment of contact to be an explosion of blinding pain. Instead it was a cloud of dark billowing shadow, accented by a shock that jolted Tor to the marrow of his bones. Tendrils of invisible power lanced into Dante, binding him temporarily in place as Tor’s head absorbed and reflected the impact. The two guards that held him were blasted backward into the walls by a pulse of raw energy. The same power flung Dante aside like a sand fly driven by the desert wind. Tor tumbled forward between the only two guards left standing. They were too startled to stop him as he rushed headlong into the Oracle’s inner sanctum.

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