The priestess and a dozen companions had left their native country on a mission to preserve these priceless relics before it was too late. They intended to hide them separately, a great distance apart, each one engraved with a cryptic message to lead to the next. Their journey had taken them across untold miles by sea and on land. Sometimes they rode, sometimes they walked. They had spent far too many nights sleeping on hard ground when no other shelter was to be had. They had bartered for food and survived on scraps from those who had little to give. They had dodged bandits and stray war parties. Finally, they had arrived here—the resting place of the final relic. Some of them had arrived, anyway. Most had succumbed to disease or mishap during their arduous trek to the farthest edge of the earth.
Only three of the original band still remained alive: the priestess, a metalworker, and a stonemason who happened to be his cousin. She had known both men from their youth when they’d been pledged to the service of the temple. They had since grown into master craftsmen with sinewy forearms and sanguine dispositions. In spite of the hardships of the road, the two somehow retained enough jauntiness to play pranks on one another. The skills of both had been critical at each stage of the trip but never more so than here at its ultimate destination.
One of them poked his head out of the cave and addressed her. “All is in readiness, lady.”
Wordlessly, she turned and followed him back into the dark interior which was illuminated only by a pair of torches. The two men had labored ceaselessly for weeks to fashion a clever hiding place for the invaluable object she carried. Her clairvoyance had shown her this cave and unerringly guided them to its location. She glanced down briefly at the cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. Despite every manner of disaster along the way, she had never wavered in her conviction that they would ultimately succeed in finding this precise spot. And so they had.
The little band had come to rely on her intuition as a mariner might rely on the constellations to steer his ship. She had led them through many strange lands, always knowing the exact place where each of the Bones of the Mother must be hidden. She knew the wording which must be inscribed on every object—its coded message pointing to the next artifact long before any of them had laid eyes on the destination described in the clue. The stonemason and metalworker followed her instructions implicitly. Her second-sight had proven too accurate for them to doubt it anymore.
She emerged from her reverie to contemplate the cavern wall and the craftsmen’s handiwork which had transformed it into something far more complex than a flat sheet of rock.
The two men looked at her expectantly.
“Well,” the stonemason ventured. “What do you think?”
She surveyed the results and smiled. “You have both done exceedingly well.”
“All the calculations and measurements are precise,” the metalworker assured her. “Every condition must be met to open the lock. If not...” He trailed off.
The priestess nodded. “If not, our greatest treasure will remain buried for all time.”
“Better that than letting it fall into the hands of cutthroats,” the stonemason growled.
“I fear before this age is past, the whole world will fall into their hands,” she remarked sadly.
The two men stepped aside as the priestess knelt on the ground. After unwrapping the object, she held it between her hands and studied it intently. It was an oblong slab of rock, flat as a loaf of unleavened bread. As treasures went, it appeared utterly unremarkable. According to legend, it had fallen in flames from the sky at the beginning of time. Some called it the Voice of Heaven because it could speak to those sensitive enough to hear it. The wisdom of the Oracle Stone had guided her people for millennia until the barbarian hordes cast the whole world into darkness. Then the voice fell silent and guided them no more.
“Anything?” the metalworker asked.
She sighed regretfully. “It has long since stopped speaking to me. The earth is now ruled by madmen who spurn the Mother of All and shun her gifts of good counsel. Perhaps when the times have changed once more, the stone will regain its voice.” She deposited the baetyl reverently into the hiding place prepared for it. Then she rose to her feet and allowed the men to finish their work.
Once they were done, the metalworker held out a stone cylinder. “What should we do about this?”
The priestess took the object. It was a solid piece of granite, about a foot long and five-sided. Each of the five surfaces was intricately carved with symbols—the translation key to the clues inscribed on the Bones of the Mother.
“The granite key,” she murmured. “I’d completely forgotten.” She slipped it inside the folds of her sleeve. “I will find a trustworthy guardian who can keep it safe until the world grows sane again.”
The three fell silent as they studied the cave wall which now concealed the Voice of Heaven, each remembering the heartbreaking sacrifices required to bring them to this moment.
“Do you think the grey-eyed seer will find this place?” The stonemason peered at the priestess hopefully in the flickering torchlight.
“Only someone guided by unseen forces would have the power to unearth what we have hidden so well from the unworthy,” she equivocated. “And that is as it should be.” The priestess paused as a troubling vision of the future formed in her mind. “I see the grey-eyed one standing in this very cave, but she is not alone. There is also an aged man. In spirit, he is much like the brutes who robbed us
