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The sanctum was dark as Tor stumbled inside. The crystals responded to his movement, pulsing weakly into a soft glow that struggled illuminate the multifaceted cavern. The crystals must have lain dormant for days to have gone so dim. The Oracle was not here. Frantic images beat against Tor’s eyelids, clamoring for attention. He cradled his right arm in his left, every step sending throbbing waves of agony through his shoulder. One of the guards must have held on a little too tightly, wrenching it out of joint as he was cast down.

Tor crossed the sanctum floor in uneven steps, searching for an entrance that he knew must lie hidden nearby. He made himself stop and stand in the center of the room. Deliberately, he loosened the mental fist he had clenched around the power that sang darkly in his blood. He felt whispers of premonition creeping into his mind again. He focused on them as he swept the room with his eyes, searching for patterns and probability concentrations in the ghostly images that paraded across his sight.

As his eyes swept across the entrance to the sanctum he saw flashes of three guards sweeping into the room with shardwands held at the ready. Dante followed them, blood streaming from his nose and murder in his eyes.

“How easily distracted your kind is.” Tor heard exasperation in the shadow’s tone, where before he had heard only mocking derision. Moments later, the ghostly images of Dante and his men evaporated like smoke in the wind. “Don’t get caught up in a single probability. Focus through them on the underlying pattern. Don’t make me regret my choice, little prophet.”

Tor didn’t know what that meant, but he did not like the sound of it. Calming himself, he allowed his peripheral vision to trace the edges of the probabilities he saw, following them like threads of intent. He began to see how the whispers flowed along these invisible pathways, swirling and converging toward a shadowy recess to his left.

Tor scrambled into the alcove, frantically pressing his good hand into cracks and crevices in the stone walls. He found the hidden control node in moments. The cluster of embedded crystal left a shimmering image in Tor’s eyes even from behind its concealing layers of stone. When his fingers touched the crystal, the image burst forth with an invisible glow that his shadow raced eagerly to meet. Again, Tor felt the shadow’s rapid manipulation of energies. Suddenly the rear wall of the alcove melted away in front of him, spilling him into an immense cavern of crystal formations, the Oracle’s Shadow Chamber. The stone wall fused shut behind him, sealing him away from the growing light of the inner Sanctum and leaving him in a darkness punctuated by the unearthly constellations of countless crystal nodes.

“At last, the hub.”

“What did you say?”

“The moment of your destiny approaches little prophet. Seize it, or be cast aside.”

“What do you mean, cast aside? Answer me demon!”

But the shadow had fallen silent within him. Calmly, Tor reached for the whispering voices of the crystal nodes that surrounded him. Again he wrapped their caress around his vision so he could find his way to the Oracle.

“Sands of the mother!” What his shadow vision revealed was breathtaking. This chamber was magnificent. The satellite facilities he had used in the past paled in comparison. Here was splendor beyond imagination, crystals humming with a living energy, brighter than the sun, more piercing than the wind, and more enduring than the sands. If he had walked in darkness before, now he had found paradise.

“Yes… he cast you out among the weak and wretched. You his chosen, his wandering prophets. But this jewel he kept for himself.”

There was a stain marring the perfection of the chamber, a dark blot that drew his attention away from its scintillating precision. As he drew closer, Tor felt a knot in his chest. He had seen this before. The central pillar of crystal was dark, where it should have glowed brightly with the otherworldly power of its resident shadow. And lying draped across the face of the crystal was an emaciated, shriveled figure. It took Tor a moment to recognize the figure as human. The knot settled into the pit of Tor’s stomach as he turned the slumped figure over. He felt something dry and brittle crack in his hands as the body slumped away from the crystal face, leaving two flaking handprints of dried blood behind. Tor stared through the blood smeared facet into the dark heart of the crystal. He saw only a swirling purple void. The crystal was empty.

Tor knelt in front of the body, turning the wizened face toward him. The Oracle’s skin had sagged and wrinkled, but Tor recognized him.

“You weak old fool. How could you let Dante do this to you?”

Tor leapt back in alarm as a wheezing breath rattled in the old tribesman’s skeletal chest.

“You still live?” Tor saw eyes steeped in shadow blink open. They bored into him, laying bare his soul. What did those eyes see? What didn’t they? The Oracle had always had this effect on him. Perhaps that was why he had stayed away from the Gathering so much of the time.

“Feared… would be you. He… warned of… your return.” The Oracle spoke in a rasping voice, his breath shallow.

“My return? You’re the one that let this happen!”

A wheeze rattled the Oracle’s throat and the focus of his penetrating gaze softened. “Ohh… Tor. It’s you… but… not alone.

“What are you talking about? How could you give Dante and the watchers such power?”

“Dante is… no threat.”

“He and his private militia would disagree! Who do you think did this?”

“Not… Dante.”

“Are you mad? A blind man could see his hand in this!”

“You… will see. The hand… rises.” Tor lurched as one bony hand clamped onto his wrist. He felt a small jolt of energy at the contact and then the Oracle’s eyes fell shut. Tor scrambled upright, scraping the clinging hand from his arm as he fought a rising tide of panic.

“You think I don’t know that? I’m the one that brought them!”

But the old shaman would speak no more. Tor thought he might be dead.

“No. He clings to life. Fear sustains him. You must end him.”

“What?”

“The Oracle is the all-seeing eye of the prophets. As the eye sees, so shall it be. If this one was warned, yet remained blind to his fate, who sees all things?”

“No…”

“The Oracle is the voice of the prophets. The voice speaks and the hand obeys. If this one lies mute, whom does the hand obey?

“It wasn’t Dante at all. You… you did this!”

“I merely hastened the watcher’s plan, brought it to fruition before he was ready. If I had not, you would already be dead.”

“You’re a monster!”

“Remember the mistress you claim to serve, little prophet. Does the desert reward the weak?”

“No…”

“The Oracle is the guide and guardian of the prophets. The guide leads and the watchers bear witness. If the watchers no longer hear this one, whom then shall they hear?”

“No…”

“The moment has arrived little prophet. Seize your destiny or be cast aside.”

All at once, the shadow tore aside a veil that had shielded Tor from a maelstrom of visions until this moment. He was overwhelmed by the overload, and fell to his knees. His eyes streamed with tears and his hands clenched in uncontrolled spasms. Scenes flashed before him like the grains in a sandstorm, present for an instant before being torn away. He saw all things. Stephen Silver-eye raised his silvered head in alarm in the grand hall. Ruben huddled in a barricaded sleeping alcove, a broken man, hugging his knees to his chest as he retched with fear and self-recrimination. Overhead, Dante and his guards methodically swept the inner sanctum, planting enough explosive shards to seal the chamber forever.

The future laid its beating heart before him, and he watched it convulse, dying. Only Tor could keep that faint pulse beating. Dante would guide the prophets to their doom. He was blind, but Tor saw everything now. Dante had been destiny’s tool, his sole purpose to prepare Tor for his ascendance. Tor saw all possible paths, but there was only one true way, and it was his.

The storm of visions subsided, but the stream of information would always be there. Tor knew that now. Quietly, he knelt before the fallen Oracle. He saw deep into the tribesman. He saw the hollowed out channels once filled by tendrils of shadow reaching greedily into his core. But the shadow had been savagely ripped out. The act had left behind ragged scars in a frail body maintained by little more than a faint spark of life. Now Tor saw where that spark belonged. He touched the fingertips of one hand to the empty crystal before him, feeling the chill as his own shadow rider energized the surface. With his other hand, he touched a finger to the dying Oracle’s forehead.

A spike of shadow shot into the emaciated body, gathering up the spark in its inky depths. Tor felt the spark travel through him as the shadow transferred it to the surface of the crystal. It sank slowly into the dark heart of swirling purple void, until it vanished into the depths.

His rider followed the spark down with a spiraling arm of shadow. Tor felt something latch into him viscerally when the probe finally connected with the heart of the crystal matrix.

“This was your goal all along wasn’t it? To take control of this chamber.”

“My goal? It is my destiny, little prophet. Yours too. You have no idea the power this hub commands.”

“Power? The power of the Oracle, you mean?”

“Your tribe’s Oracles have used little more than a fraction of this station’s potential. The caldera has many other uses…”

“What other uses?” Incomprehensible images flashed before Tor’s eyes, but they were meaningless to him.

“Such things far exceed your capacity for understanding, little prophet. For the time being, you must focus on consolidating your power.”

“My power…”

“The Oracle is no more, and without the Oracle, the prophets are lost. You have seen the signs…”

“The threads of intent… they were unraveling.”

“And the temptations of power…”

“Dante and his militia…”

“Even now they move to seal all entrances to the Oracle’s Inner Sanctum. You are running out of time.”

“But how can I stop them? If I return to the sanctum, Dante’s guards will cut me down!”

“I have warned you before. You fear that probability but it is only one of many. Your fear blinds you.”

Tor drew a deep breath to calm himself. He tapped into the flow if premonition just below the surface of his awareness, scanning for other probabilities that he could influence. It was like being thrust into the eyes of a sandstorm, as images swept toward him, engulfed his awareness for mere moments, and then were swept away before he could comprehend them.

Stunned, he pulled back from the torrent of images and voices to find himself sprawled on the cavern floor an armspan away from the central crystal. Dark laughter rang through the empty caverns of his mind.

“Fate has already shown you what you need to overcome this challenge. Do not ask her for more.”

Tor’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. As the eye sees, so shall it be. Tor was the shadow shrouded figure of his visions. He was the Oracle, backed by Stephen Silver-eye and his warriors, the Hand of the Prophets. Ruben was the watcher who would bear witness to his ascendance.

“How does it work? How do I commune with the faithful?”

“The eye sees, the voice speaks, and the guide leads, little prophet. You have done this before.”

In the shadow matrix, the visions he planted! Of course! Tor visualized Ruben as he had last seen the watcher, huddled in his sleeping alcove in abject despair. The image became more detailed the longer he concentrated. He felt the shadow’s power pulse in time with his heartbeat, feeding him strength from the heart of the crystal matrix.

When the image hung in shimmering air before him, Tor spoke.

“Watcher Ruben… arise.”

Ruben jerked upright as he heard Tor’s voice, his eyes wide. “Oracle? Have you returned? I feared…”

“You were right to fear, my faithful one. One of your brethren sought to silence the voice of destiny.”

“Dante…”

‘Yes. But where his treachery cast one Oracle into darkness, a new one has arisen.”

Ruben looked wildly around, a man lost for so long that he no longer dared to hope. “Tor? Is it you?”

“Once, but no longer. I have ascended, and you must bear witness.”

Tor concentrated, and let the merest glimpse of that torrent of premonition slip into the watcher’s awareness. Even that was enough to roll Ruben’s eyes back into his head until Tor saw the whites gleaming back at him. Ruben fell back, and a moan escaped his lips. When he sat up again, Tor sent the watcher an image of the magnificent crystal chamber as Tor saw it, with his shadow wrapped vision.

Ruben sighed gratefully, and bowed, touching his head reverently to the floor. “Oracle, eternal guide and protector of our people, I bear witness to your ascendance. What would you have me do?”

“Dante has violated the Inner Sanctum and seeks to trap me here. His treachery runs deep. He must not succeed.”

“But how can I stop him? His guards have shardwands! I’m no warrior!”

“I send three warriors to join you. Gather only those of your brethren that you trust with your life in the Hall of Watchers. Take the warriors into the sanctum. They will do what must be done.”

“What must be done?”

“Dante’s poison runs to the heart of the tribe my watcher. Remember… only those that you trust with your life…” Tor let Ruben’s image sink back into the subconscious stream of his premonitions as the watcher scrambled to do his bidding.

Next he fixed Silver-eye’s image in his mind. It came more easily this time, and within moments, the storm chaser stood wavering on the air before him. The silver-maned shaman’s eyes snapped to Tor’s as though he could see him, even before the prophet spoke

“Shaman of the Storm, you are needed.”

“Oracle, how may I serve?”

“You know?”

“I do now. It was your ascendance I felt earlier, Brother Tor. Now I see, and understand.”

“Then you know your role?”

“I am your instrument, now and always. How may I serve?”

“Get to the Hall of Watchers, but don’t leave the mages unguarded. The order is in revolt. Find watcher Rubin. Trust no one else. Dante, the instigator, aims to destroy the Inner Sanctum of the Oracle with me in it. Stop them.”

“At once Oracle.”

“Break Dante if you must, but leave him alive. I have no use for the others.”

“Understood.” Again, Tor let the image submerge back into his subconscious as the tall warrior called Meena and Drez to his side with a quick hand signal.

Now Tor waited, and watched. He watched the tense moment as Silver-eye and his warriors confronted Ruben and three other members of his order in the Hall of Watchers. He watched as Dante stormed around the sanctum slamming a shardwand blindly into the walls in frustrated rage while his guards planted crystal charges throughout the small cavern. He watched as Jorgen and Surya stood off a growing crowd of uneasy tribespeople near the restlessly twitching mages.

He watched as Ruben led the warriors down the winding corridor from the Hall toward the sanctum. Dante had evidently called in more of his guards. Two of the white uniformed men stepped out to block Ruben’s path. He tried to order them aside, but one of the guards drew his shardwand. He raised it to strike the watcher, an attack that would certainly cost Ruben his life. But Ruben was not alone this time.

The conflict was over almost before it began. Drez’s shardsling blurred as he swung it in two tight arcs, releasing a polished shard at the top of each swing. They streaked over the shrinking watcher’s shoulder with unmatchable precision. The first guard staggered backward, dropping his shardwand as he tried in vain to extract the deadly sliver of crystal that sprouted from his throat. Streaks of crimson burst through his fingers as the shard exploded. He crumpled to the ground, but not before the second shot found its mark.

The other guard turned much too slowly to avoid the glittering barb that pinned his uniform to his chest. When the second fragment detonated, it left behind a smoking, red-rimmed crater, the size of a man’s fist. The dead man remained standing for a moment, frozen in disbelief, before his legs finally folded beneath him.

Ruben surveyed he carnage, shock written large on his face. Silver-eye pushed all of the watchers behind his warriors, and then took the lead as they advanced toward the sanctum.

In the Shadow Chamber, probabilities coalesced before Tor’s eyes.

“Your warriors will be too late, prophet. You must stop the watcher.”

“How? His men have already set too many charges. They’ll destroy the Sanctum!”

“Only if you allow it. You must take the final step.”

Tor felt a sharp twist behind his eyes, and a stream of disjointed images leapt out of the chaos in front of him. They were strung along an improbable thread of intent, so faint the visions appeared as pendant jewels on a spider’s silk. They charted a path through the storm for Tor and the Prophets, but not without sacrifice.

“No… this can’t be the only way!”

“This is your path. You see all. You know this to be true.”

“No…” But Tor knew it was the only way. He was the Oracle.

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