Standing in the cold stone hallway of Castle Halgar, the High Priestess Assanda assessed Prince Cordus, her amber eyes finding him wanting. “Now that you have returned to court, you will need to do as I say should you wish to remain breathing,” she said. She was an imposing woman of generous frame and voluminous robe, white braided with gold, as was customary for the Church of the Sky. Around her neck hung the holy sigil, a polished stone black circle with a thin gold rim, and a point of silver in the middle. She wore no makeup of any kind, instead wearing her advanced age as a mark of pride. She was the head of the Church, and supposedly the mightiest wielder of the Potence in the land, though few had seen her wield it since her ascension to her current position.Cordus in contrast was nervous. He had been away from the capital since he was 14, hid away in the southern cities far from the capital. It had been explained to him that King Grintrag, the monarch and his uncle, had been ensuring his continued dominion by orchestrating the deaths of anyone who might succeed him. The clergyman who had been assigned to take care of him until recently had told him that it would not be long until he was the heir apparent, but that provided he never made it look like he wanted the throne, the King might just let him live. This had never bothered Cordus, as he did not in fact want the throne, instead preferring a life of indolence and laxity that he hoped would continue as long as possible.”If you don’t mind me asking again High Priestess,” moped the Prince, “why am I back at court? Today of all days seems inopportune for my arrival.” He was the reverse of the Priestess, tall, yes, but soft around the middle, unexceptional despite his height. His garments spoke of wealth, but ill-spent; made from beautiful fabrics but worn and ill fitting in places.The High Priestess did not answer, instead making a short disparaging humming noise through pressed lips. She turned away and swept down the corridor towards the great hall, where she would be presenting him back to the court.The doors to the hall swung open and the High Priestess strode confidently in, Cordus slouching reluctantly in her wake, though once inside he stood a little straighter. The immense reception hall spoke of the wealth of the kingdom; it was large, with massive windows down either side to let in light, a statement of confidence that the castle was impregnable to violence. Torches interleaved the windows, and two enormous golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, currently unlit as it was near midday. Despite the grandeur, the room was almost entirely empty, a strange contrast to how Cordus remembered it from when he was younger. Usually it would be buzzing with courtesans and favourites, trying to curry favour with the crown. As it was now, it felt more like a tomb than the core of an enduring and mighty realm.The only people there on this day were King Grintrag, sitting in his ancient and uncomfortable looking iron throne, and the King’s fool, a person of indeterminate gender dressed in bright yellow and red with bells on their heels and wrists. Grintrag wore grey velvet and silk, perfectly tailored, a long dagger hanging from his belt as a reminder of his bloody legacy. His face was as implacable as stone, his eyes as grey as his doublet, a neatly cut short beard matching in tone his thick silver mane of hair. The only colour on his person was his crown of polished gold, chosen to match the gold edging used throughout the Church, and symbolising Coros, one of the two great Gods of the land. He looked even more grim than the last time Cordus had seen him.”Ah, High Priestess, I am gladdened by your heeding my summons,” he intoned, “I have questions.””Yes, my King,” she replied, bowing deeply, “I am certain you do. But first, I would like to present your nephew, Prince Cordus, first in line and heir apparent, whom I have called back to court.”Cordus knew the appropriate etiquette and stepped forwards, bowing low as well, The King looked him up and down, his face impassive. “An odd choice to bring him on this day,” he said in gravelly tones, before turning his gaze back to the High Priestess. “What,” he continued, “is going on out there?”
The High Priestess cleared her throat. “As you know my King, the Gods bring Potence to the land, and we in the church channel the Potence to the great benefit of the Kingdom, and yourself.” The King looked irritable at this explanation, but he indulged the most senior member of the Church of the Sky and gestured for her to continue. “The Gods move above us, Coros from east to west — she brings us light and warmth each day. Salak wanders north to south casting his cool ambience as he chooses on the land, be it in the night or during the day. As each traverses from horizon to horizon, the Potence waxes and wanes, so that at their zenith the energies are at their most mighty, absent altogether when they fall from sight. What we see today is something rare indeed, both Coros and Salak are high in the sky, during the day, at the same time, and so their power multiplies. We believe an eclipse is nigh.”
“Perhaps an eclipse of even your own glorious brightness my Lord,” the fool’s sing-song lilted. Cordus had heard tell of the King’s fool, who alone was permitted to make mockery of his pride.
The King sat back in his throne, brooding. Cordus was not surprised; Grintrag had a reputation for being shrewd, and on his way to the castle today Cordus had seen a great many odd things as the moon and sun progressed towards the centre of the sky. Where typically priests assisted in redirecting water to irrigate fields during the day, today such attempts had resulted in flooding. A young adept who had been practising cooking had set a whole carcass alight, barely even trying. On a road being repaired, another churchman had levelled both the road in question and a neighbouring house. The Potence was out of control, and it had been getting worse as the day had gone on. There was also no record of eclipses in the history books, and while King Grintrag was self-serving and proud, he was famously well read, having sat on the seat of supreme authority for over 50 years now.
“Multiplies you say,” the King mulled, “how long ago, exactly, was the last eclipse?”
“She doesn’t want to say,” cackled the fool, “but look to her neck! They know!”
The High Priestess ignored the fool. “It is hard to say my King, our records are unclear on this.”
The King stood abruptly, walking with steadiness that belied his age to one of the room’s windows. He opened it and looked outside onto the castle’s inner courtyard. Usually an active place where horses were mustered and soldiers practised, it was eerily quiet, the denizens of the castle having decided to stay inside rather than risk the strangeness that pervaded as the eclipse approached. He looked up to where the sun and moon were beginning to converge, before returning to his throne.
“It is odd, I think, that your records are so unclear on the last eclipse when they are so specific on the harvest of grain 140 years ago, or the great earthquake 30 years before that. It is strange, is it not?” probed the King.
“Indeed it is a mystery. One can only assume that some terrible accident must have befallen the writings. Paper is so fragile, and people so flawed,” smiled the High Priestess.
“I know when it was,” laughed the fool, “5 score and 10, when the Queen Sirka rode to the end of her reign.” They jingled back and forth before the King.
“What do you think, Prince Cordus?” asked the King, turning his granite stare on the now crown prince.
Cordus glanced around frantically, he had hoped to escape notice, and was still worried about why the High Priestess had sent for him so urgently. He liked doing things little and doing things that put him at risk even less. “Ahhh,” he vacillated, sensing that indecisiveness would be a curse in this moment, and wishing that Assanda had given him clearer guidance on what to do should the King talk to him. He knew he did not have long to dither, with all three pairs of eyes on him. The sensible option would be to stay inside, he thought, away from people and whatever was going on with the Potence. The King, however, would not want to be thought fearful, Cordus thought. “I think we should face the eclipse outside,” he said with false surety, “we should witness it ourselves.”
“The boy speaks with wisdom,” remarked the High Priestess with a warmth that had been lacking entirely from her voice when she he had been instructing him before, “we would be fools indeed to miss this chance to see Salak and Coros meet.”
The fool did a jig and bowed in supplication to Assanda and Cordus. “When the Gods meet we all must bow, and no walls will do them justice. It is a sign that none can ignore!”
The King leaned to one side, his brow furrowed in thought. It seemed to the Prince that the fool’s words were warnings. He wanted to know what the High Priestess knew, and what had happened to Queen Sirka, who in the history books had died suddenly and been succeeded by her eldest son who had then not spoken of her again. He looked surreptitiously at the High Priestess’s neck, as the fool had said, but all he saw was the icon of the Church.
“Come,” King Grintrag commanded suddenly, having reached a decision, “we go to the courtyard, where we shall observe the phenomenon. To not witness would be cowardly, and I am no coward.”
The four of them walked as a procession through the halls and staircases of the great castle, passing only torchlit stone and armour-clad guards with trained austerity of manners on their way to the great doors. As they reached the outside, the world held its breath as Coros and Salak began to meet, the moon beginning to move in front of the sun as noontime approached. The group stood still and the world began to dim.
“How long until…?” Prince Cordus quavered, wishing he was back inside. He was unashamed of his cowardice and thought that the great bricks of the castle wall would be some protection at least against whatever was going to happen, his instincts screaming that it would not be good, whatever it was.
“Soon,” murmured High Priestess Assanda to him. She pulled him a few steps away from the King and the fool, who both seemed transfixed, though they did not stare directly up, not yet at least, for fear of hurting their eyes. “When the eclipse begins, you must do exactly as I say, exactly when I say it. Do you understand? No hesitation if you wish to survive.”
“You do know what happened last time!” he whispered to her angrily.
She reached into her long robe, pulling from it a mean looking knife about as long as his forearm, and handed it to him with a purposeful glare. The blade was neither a kitchen knife nor one for combat. Instead it had a wave like undulation through it, and its hilt was etched with text that Cordus had no time to read. “No hesitation, you understand.” This time it was not a question. Prince Cordus held the knife helplessly, and then, glancing nervously at the King, put it behind his back, out of sight, not that the King was watching him.
Directly above them, Coros and Salak reached alignment, and the sky darkened. Stars punched through, tiny perforations of light around the crown of fire that rimmed Salak’s edge. A strange rhythmic rushing noise became audible, quiet at first but gradually becoming louder. As the noise began, it became clear that Coros and Salak had stopped moving altogether. At totality, they were locked in place, but they were not unchanging. A point of silvery golden light, argent and sun-bright appeared in the middle of the eclipse, beating in time with the noise they could all hear, and slowly growing. Despite the shine from the fire in the middle of the eclipse, no light was cast on the land, and all remained dim.
“It comes!” cried the High Priestess falling to her knees and looking up at the strange sky, “as Coros and Salak meet the barriers fall and the Potence of the gods flows unshackled!” Her shout was raw, incongruous with her typical self-control. As she fell to the ground Cordus recognised in the eclipse the symbol of the Church — a golden rim around a black circle, a point of burning silver at its heart.
Cordus was awed, but also increasingly fearful about the long knife he was hiding, dropped to his knees beside her. He turned to the High Priestess, panicking inside. “What do I do?” he implored, now craving her instruction in the face of the strange sight above.
“It has been good serving you my King!” shouted the fool, who turned and ran back towards the castle, as the rushing noise and the fire in the eye of the eclipse intensified.
“What?” growled the King, turning his eyes from the fearsome sky, “what is going on now?”
The High Priestess gathered herself, and shot Cordus a glare. “Stab him,” she shouted, “at the conjunction of the gods, the ruler of men must die by the hand of their successor! Thus has it always been.”
“What?!” yelled Cordus standing and recoiling, as the King bellowed, “Not today!” and drew his own dagger. Grintrag, had no compunctions about killing another family member and lunged towards the Prince, while Cordus was saved only by the fact that he was already lurching away. The fire in the eclipse grew stronger again.
The High Priestess stood, gesturing with one hand and muttering something under her breath. Around the King the air seemed to thicken and congeal, rendering all attempts at movement lethargic and futile. He seemed to try to speak, but his jaw would not form words, pushing against some invisible force.
“You must kill him now!” urged the High Priestess, her implication clear.
Prince Cordus was not moral, and although he lacked skill, drive, and any intention of achieving highly, he had a strong self-preservation urge and no love at all for the man who had killed most of his relatives. Flicking his gaze for only a second to the horrifying sight in the sky, he stepped forwards, and plunged his knife into Grintrag’s neck, feeling no resistance from whatever held the King in place. Grintrag’s lifeblood flowed strangely from the wound, spreading as if it was impeded by whatever force the Assanda controlled with the Potence. The Prince stepped back in disgust at both what he had done and the ensuing strangeness.
From the beating flame in the middle of the eclipse, a filament of silver fire pierced the air and speared down through the heart of the King, as his life ebbed away. His body was pulled into the air, dangling for a moment. Then, as quickly as a stone sinks beneath the surface of a lake, he was gone, enveloped momentarily in white flame, leaving only ash and the knife behind, which fell to the ground with a clank. The rushing noise stopped, Coros and Salak began to separate, and the moment passed.
Turning to face the High Priestess, Prince Cordus wailed “what in the names of Coros and Salak was that?!”
The High Priestess relaxed and turned to him, a beneficent smile settling on her countenance. “That was the sacrifice we all must make whenever the gods converge. As it is written, when Salak occludes Coros, the gate to the land beyond is opened and the Potence will unmake the world, piece by piece. It can be sealed only with the blood of our ruler, and the writings are clear on who must do it. So you see, the King had to die, and you had to kill him.”
“But… where is it written? And, how do you know that that’s what you have to do?” Prince Cordus asked, the adrenaline leaving him feeling hollow. In his stomach a pit opened as the realisation dawned that he was perhaps now the King.
“It is written,” chirped the fool, who had appeared from somewhere, “it is just not written where you are allowed to see it. And as for how they know, how do they know anything? They are the Church, and the Gods must tell them. Be grateful that it will not happen to you, for you will surely die sooner than it happens again!”
The High Priestess nodded, “the fool is correct of course,” she continued, “we must ensure that this remains secret, or perhaps a monarch might choose to try to avoid it. You will support our efforts in this, and the Church in turn will ensure your long and happy reign. Fortunately for you the eclipse of Coros and Salak happens only once in all but the longest lives, and you will not live that long.”
She walked forward and took his uncertain, dithering hand, bowing to him. “The King is dead,” she said, “Long live the King!”
![What High School taught me about Diversity. Here we look at idea of "diversity" from the point of view of what it was like in my High School years. For my High School was fully and intentionally diverse. And at that time, there were two techniques of grouping people. These techniques were by [1] merit, and [2] by random association. Or in other words; "diversity". Thus we can compare diversity against merit as the criteria used in a selection process.](https://metallicman.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/11/1-23-1024x235.gif)
