Part One:

The Past

They that worshipped when the world was theirs and thine, They whose words had power by thine own power to draw thee Down from heaven till earth seemed more than heaven divine. For the shades are about us that hover When darkness is half withdrawn And the skirts of the dead night cover The face of the live new dawn. For the past is not utterly past Though the word on its lips be the last, And the time be gone by with its creed When men were as beasts that bleed, As sheep or as swine that wallow, In the shambles of faith and of fear…

—A.C. Swinburne, The Last Oracle

I. Baptism of Blood

She remembers the pain.

Fire raging through her veins. Thirst racking her throat. The angel smiling down at her and cradling her face in both hands to muffle her screams.

The bittersweet taste of copper on her lips. Baptism of blood. The starless sky exploding with light. Suddenly being able to see —the universe gaping open, the heavens spreading wide, hell clawing at her feet.

The light burned. Trying to cover her eyes, sobbing as the world went black again.

The angel's hand on her shoulder. A voice gentler than a whisper, jarring her bones. Little one.

No, she sobbed. She told him her name. She had known it, once.

The angel gave her a radiant smile and touched her face with a slender pale fingertip. The name became meaningless, forgotten.

Mantaia, he said. Oracle, in your language...My oracle. Again the beatific smile, a pause. My Aia.