Oracle Mar’ee’han rose out of her “milk bath” — named for the white coloration of the liquids and nothing to do with the liquids mammalians fed their young. Being the youngest Oracle in the records, everyone seemed determined to ensure she maintained her youthful appearance for as long as possible, including offering her salutations, which often translated into some form of, “may you never look older than you do now.” Such “well-wishes” were a vain attempt to ignore her prophecies, which the well-wishers did not like — “she’s too young to know what she says…”

Attendants wrapped towels around her and patted her skin dry and dressed her.

She looked up at the night sky—only possible in the tallest structure in Capital, the Hierophant’s Central Palace.

Out beyond the atmosphere of Senate Prime, the vibrations of the stars sang with messages which the Creators heard and obeyed—the voices of their goddesses.

“What do you hear?” the aged voice of the Hierophant Prime huffed.

She brought her gaze to the pale Aquari priest and bowed. “Your Eminence.”

“Rise. Of what do the goddesses’ voices speak?”

She drew herself to the tips of her walking tentacles and reached for the transparent, nine-sided dome overhead. “The stars cry that the Shadows are lengthening; the Lighthouses are faltering.” She smiled with her speaking mouth and blushed a deep purple. “And my husband rises.” She returned to her normal height and looked down at the floor.

“I thought we moved beyond such nonsense.”

“No, your Eminence,” her voice was warm with whatever secrets the voices had shared about her future mate. She looked up at the Hierophant Prime and frowned, “What is it, uncle?”

Instead of answering, he walked over to her sculpting table, where he picked up an amorphous blob into which she carved an uncountable number of eyes and mouths. “What is this?”

“The Consort of Ten Thousand Faces.”

Her uncle set the sculpture down and shuddered. “Why would you sculpt such a horrible creature?” He wiped off his eight tentacled hand on his robes of office.

“The key to His prison is exposed. He is the first to be freed.”

The Hierophant Prime turned to her with a glare. “Your predecessor declared a goddess would be first.”

She shook her head. “Something has changed—the dream has changed. Now…” Mar’ee’han concentrated on something only she can see. “There are three daggers in the back of Capital. Senate Prime dies as a goddess steps free of her prison. The Shadow of Death cloaks the Tenth Creator.”

The Hierophant laughed, crossed his tentacle arms, and frowned with his speaking mouth. “You are not taking your responsibilities seriously. Everyone knows there are only nine Creators, and we know precisely when they died. Unlike the goddesses, the shadows are metaphorical forces.” He shook his head. “Since you aren’t even trying to keep this stuff straight… we should return you to the creches.”

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First, her skin turned ashen, then flushed red. “And how did the Senate Leviathans fare against the Orbs of Shadows in the ARG-1165-YL star system? How many of the gas giants were consumed by the Sands of the Demons?”

He issued a coughing sound. “Seven of the eight Leviathans still live.”

“But?”

He ground his speaking lips together. “The priests aboard were poisoned with annihilation radiation.”

“And?”

“One of the gas giants is being consumed by a massive cloud of jump sands, but the quantity isn’t believed to be sufficient to consume the whole planet.”

Mar’ee’han rose herself onto the tips of her walking tentacles and glared into the Hierophant Prime’s eyes. “As. I. Foresaw. You might seek to dismiss me as your niece. Do. Not. Dismiss. My. Abilities. Not only am I the youngest Oracle recorded, but I am also the strongest. For the first time since the Creators vanished, someone or something is trying to change the course of the future. And they have the power to do so.”

The Hierophant Prime worried the corner of his speaking mouth. “Who. What has that kind of power? Do you have that power?”

Mar’ee’han settled back down on her walking tentacles—dropping her height to full head beneath the height of the Hierophant Prime. With a sigh, she walked to the edge of the floor and looked out over the sun-drenched Capital. “No. Only those touched by the Hope-Devouring/Hope-Delivering Madness can alter the rivers of time.”

“What nonsense is that?”

She shook her head. “Why do you still doubt my ability to feel the vibrations left by the goddesses?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“Your predecessors called them Voices.”

“There are those too. Nine voices. Yes, even the Shadows have voices. But, all the voices are more like whispers from their dreams. Hopes. Fears. Memories. In between the voices are other vibrations—the vibrations over which they fight. Even imprisoned, they struggle against each other. One Shadow gained an advantage. I don’t know how. To those questions, I only see insanity and madness. Death. Hopelessness. Torment. Torture. Hope restored.”

“How many of the Senate Leviathans will escape the system?”

She splayed her tentacled hand on the crystal wall. “I warned you about the importance of ARG-1165-YL. Yet, you and the Triumvirate ignored that warning—sending those crews to their doom. Now the key to freeing the Consort of Ten Thousand Faces is exposed. As with any of the Consorts, he will either fight for the Shadows or for the Goddesses. The choice is not His—all depends on who finds him first.”

“Surely the Creators would not be so careless with the keys.”

“Regardless of your feelings about my competencies, I do study history, and according to our history, we were but infants when the Creators fell. How could they trust us with the means to direct a Consort?”

“We, the Aquari, were the best and brightest of the Uplifted. Did we not pass every test the Creators set before us?”

Instead of answering, Mar’ee’han saw the future the voices painted. “The Shadow attack at ARG-1165-YL is one more flame in the coming fires of war, death, and plague. But, their victory about that star is not yet assured. The gibbering mass of mouths and eyes known as the Consort of Ten Thousand Faces will devour all He is set upon. Any chance for the survivors to escape—” she shook off the vision and turned to face him “—for all our sakes, believe me, this time. Send the hunter of beings and secrets and treasures before it is too late.”

Her uncle stared at her and frowned; his beak quarters, hidden by his feeding tentacles, ground against each other. “Fine. We’ll seek these treasure hunters, scoundrels, thieves. Don’t expect them to be successful where the Services failed,” the Hierophant Prime said. He turned and marched to the ramp leading down and out of the Oracle’s chambers. “Politically, all of this…nonsense…is a non-starter. No senator believes in that Consort. What kind of being could He be? Nightmare or delusion or hallucination, they’ll claim. We will gain no additional military effort. And you, my beloved niece, will not marry. No Oracle has ever married. You will not besmirch that tradition. Not on my watch.”

The ramp closed behind him.

“What is he like?” one of her attendants asked.

“Who?”

“Your future husband?”

Mar’ee’han flashed a mischievous yet worn smile and lied. “He is just a fiction to annoy my uncle.”