My mind was not eased with time nor distance from the ice tunnel and my encounter with the fish-knight. As my ice skimmer flew along the white landscape of the Great Ice Plain, I ran over our conversation again and again, trying to tease some further hint of his purpose and why a being such as Livyatan would be so interested on my behalf.

But no matter how long I pondered, no answers came to me. I was particularly disturbed that others were interested in my trek as well. Gereon’s apparent resurrection had been a strange portent, but now I carefully examined all my moments and days following my exile. How much had been mere coincidence, and how much had been other forces at play?

It is well known that we are not in control of our own fate, for the world is bigger than man. There are always powers, unguided or guided, that influence a man’s destiny. Though I think the distinction is redundant—as all powers are ultimately guided. We like to think they don’t exist or are controllable, so as to comfort ourselves to believe we are bigger than we really are. When in truth, we can only control our actions and our disposition.

I suppose there is some comfort in that. Livyatan or Narmer may be mighty beyond words, but they are no less subject to the same forces which rule the lives of men. Perhaps other hands have had a part to play in my exile, but even they too were ruled by a higher power.

This somewhat alleviated my paranoia.

I recall a moment from my childhood when Master Rigel had sent me down into the Undervaults of the Glass Alcazar—the name for which most people referred to our prestigious home. Of course, we Astronomers referred to it by another name. We called the great spire and its interstitial architecture the Observatory, or sometimes, the Gold Observatory. For in the Courtyard of a Thousand Mirrors, it is said all light in the universe finds its way to the center, upon which, is a sundial imperceptibly counting down the day of the cosmos.

I fondly recall many days playing in the lower pools and gardens of my home. Every seventh day under Zodiak’s new sun, an old man would sit in a rocking chair, watching the waterfowl glide along the lilies of the River Thalia. He wore the garb of a Master, though I did not know his name. He had a warm, grandfatherly face and he smoked a long pipe. He stroked his weathered beard as he played games of senet on the afternoon riverside. I’m told great scholars and men of wisdom challenged him, but none could defeat him.

Then, one day, a child no more than the age of ten asked him for a game. It was the child’s first game after learning the rules. The play lasted throughout the night and into the next morning. And when the first crack of dawn arrived, the child hollered out as he won victory.

The great scholars and men of wisdom all complained in unison, that such a young child was able to beat the master.

The old man responded to each of them in turn, “the point of the game is to enjoy more of the game. Had I beaten the child, he would’ve been disheartened and given up entirely.”

“But had you defeated him, he would’ve understood how far he has to learn,” the others cried out. “How is this fair!?”

“Why should it be fair?” The Master answered. “A man must think he has a chance to win if he is to play. Humility comes for all of us in time. Not so for courage.

I took heed of the lesson as I descended the translucent steps into the Undervaults. Instead of the ephemeral and sinister light of the ice tunnel, the glass halls of the Undervaults were simple and direct. The light contorted to show the way, and it obscured that which you should not or were not ready to see. Even as I peered into alcoves and passages, all I saw was darkness, and I knew if I should take those paths, I would stumble.

At that time, I wore a simple tunic and trousers, as was the custom for novitiates of the Astronomers. I had not yet sworn my First Vows nor ridden an Anemoi. I was a child, and I was nothing more than a child.

So I continued my course, set to retrieve an ancient star map for Master Rigel. It was my first descent into the chambers below even the lowest of the Gold Observatory. I had descended so far I began to worry I would succumb to the invisible poison, though the Undervaults are protected from the danger.

Still, I did not know that at the time.

The ribbed arches of the Undervaults took me to an intersection, where, bizarrely enough, the path deviated from the instructions Master Rigel had given me. Instead of turning left, all I saw was darkness. I stood befuddled at this development, waiting to see if the Undervaults would let me pass as I had expected.

But the darkness remained impenetrable, and I, not wishing to broach into where I should not be, took the path remaining to me. Down this corridor, the walls turned transparent, and it looked as though I was walking on a glass suspended invisibly in a twilight sky. On one end of this infinite ceiling, there was day and there hung a white sun, though I could detect no heat, nor was it blinding to the eye. On the other, there was a starry night and there hung a black sun, a dark abyss that was blacker than anything.

I came to a set of proud double doors. They were made of brass and decorated with a lion’s head. I tried to glance around, but I was prevented by the walls, which while transparent, were still there. Hesitantly, I looked back, but I saw only darkness. I had not wished to come to this place, and I feared tarrying for Master Rigel, but I saw no other way.

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Pushing open one door, I saw a large glass platform held up by a wide circle of marble pillars, and in the center, steps raising up to an altar. There was a man sitting on the steps. He wore the garb of a master, and his blue cloak was covered in many stars. On his face was a gold plated mask with one eye open and one eye closed. In his hands, he was sharpening a knife.

The man did not look up, nor did his lips move when he spoke. “Another child who has lost his way, tumbling down to where he is not ready. Come, the Undervaults would not let you fall into danger. Let us return you home.”

“I was led here,” I responded, confused at this room and this man.

The Master glanced up, surprised at my answer. He set the knife down and calmly walked over to me. Placing his thumb on my forehead and his fingers along my cheek, he was silent for a moment.

“You tell the truth,” The Master finally said, astonished. “Forgive my poor courtesy. I did not recognize you as treading in light.”

He bowed to me and then waved his arm, gesturing for me to walk with him. “I am the Haruspex.”

I bristled uncomfortably at that title. Even at that young age, I knew of the Astronomers who fabricated tales from their knowledge of the stars, pretending to be oracles and diviners. It was often a smear others threw upon the School, that we were prone to such abuses because we were the less practical of the great fields of inquiry.

The Haruspex chuckled. “Do not fear. There is no sorcery here—real or otherwise. Would you call the priests of a temple a coven of warlocks, even though they both burn incense?”

“What is the difference, then?” I asked warily as I followed him.

“Perhaps it is better to answer with a question. Do you believe the stars guide the future, that upon their gaze they cast the fates of men?”

“Of course not,” I said, repeating a basic tenet of the School.

“And yet, it was upon the guidance of a star that Three Emperors came to anoint the arrival of the Eternal Sovran. How would you explain that?”

I remained silent, for I had no answer.

“Perhaps another question will illuminate. Which do you believe are older, the stars or the stories they tell?”

“The stars,” I answered.

The Haruspex shook his head. “No, it is the stories that are older. You mistake the parchment for the author. Such is the folly of those we call astrologers, thinking upon the sky is writ all wisdom. No, it is the author who deserves their praise, the one who endowed the stars with their purpose from the beginning. And it is because they reflect a little of the Potentate that men foolishly seek hidden knowledge that is not there.”

I glanced up at the twilight sky overhead, wondering of my future. At the time, I had dreamt of heroism and adventure, believing my life would be a glorious one. As I reflected upon the ice skimmer, and now when I write these words to paper, I cannot help but think of the strange ironies and contrivances that befall the destinies of men. Let it never be known that the Potentate does not have a sense of humor.

“But enough of idle conversation. You have been led here,” The Haruspex said. “And it is your choice what to do next.”

I realized we had circled around the room and ended where we had begun. I saw the large brass doors open, but now the way ahead was clear.

“You have been summoned, but you need not answer the call. You may leave this room and continue on the long path to become an Astronomer. Or perhaps you may leave the School entirely.”

“Would I be the lesser for it?” I asked, sensing something underneath the Haruspex’s words.

The Haruspex shrugged. “Is a man lesser because he refuses the sword and chooses the path of the healer? No, not unless he forgo the sword out of cowardice and not love for healing. Make your choice, Sirius. But do not make it an excuse.”

“And what is this call? What does it require?” I asked, glancing at the altar.

“I cannot tell you that. All I can tell you is that those who are led here have all been called to wear a crown of kingship.” The way the Haruspex spoke made it seem terrible. His words alone made me shrink back. “Know this, Sirius, my purpose here is not to predict your future. My purpose is to bring forth what has already been ordained.”

I considered the Haruspex’s offer, but I did not know what the correct answer was. In truth, this was all too much.

“Perhaps I may alleviate your indecision,” The Haruspex said, after seeing my fearful face. “Do you love the School of Astronomers? Would you lay your life down for this place and its people?”

“I would,” I said without hesitation.

“If you do.” The implication sank into my bones. “Then take the leap of faith. If you do not, then you may leave without fear of the choice.”

I stepped forward.

The Haruspex smiled. Of course, I could not know that behind his mask, but I knew anyway. Reflecting upon it afterwards, I would not have been led to that place had I been capable of making any other choice. Or rather, it was because I would not make any other choice that I had been led there.

The Master picked up his knife and led me up the steps of the altar. I saw at the top there had been an empty basin carved into the marble slab. In between the day and the night, the ceremony was performed. Of course, it was only later I learned that there was no such thing as night, only an absence of day. But it is in absence, a man can learn of the deeper of the day than he would otherwise.

Holding the knife, the Haruspex cut through the air itself. I saw a gash open, and out came pouring blood and water. It spilled into the basin, filling it up.

“Where does it come from?” I asked the Haruspex.

“It is from where the last oblation shall be offered,” The Master responded, as if that answered the question.

The Haruspex dipped his hands into the mixture and poured it over my head. I felt the blood run down my face and onto my tunic. I blinked several times, wiping the red liquid from my eyes.

“Is it done?” I asked.

The Master took a cloth and wiped his hands of the blood. “It is done,” he said. “Go to Master Rigel and tell him you are worthy of the Astronomer’s mantle. Tell him you are ready to take First Vows."

“But I am still three years away from elevation.”

“This was your elevation. Go and tell him. You are already worthy in all respects.”

I took my leave of that room and of the Haruspex. I never saw either again, and to tell the truth, the memory did not settle well. Often days, it felt like a dream half-remembered. All I had for its proof was my mantle, and then that too was taken from me.

I ask you do not take my words as truth as we Astronomers like to understand it. I offer you my recounting, but allow me my indulgences as a man who takes quill to parchment. I have not placed this information carelessly in this account. In fact, I have deliberately hidden it until I could deny it no further.

When the fish-knight spoke of a crown, I knew of what he spoke, though I had never imagined it would come to this. When I was exiled, I did not think the Haruspex’s words were untrue. I thought they had been made no longer true. On the ice skimmer, I still thought it was mostly untrue. And as I pen these words, I still do not fully understand the final purpose of everything that has occurred. .

All I ever wanted was to die for my School, and in that, I was not disappointed.