Eclipse, p.1
Eclipse, page 1
ECLIPSE
Entanglement Book III
Phil Oddy
Copyright © Phil Oddy 2025
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, copied, distributed or adapted in any way, with the exception of certain activities permitted by applicable copyright laws, such as brief quotations in the context of a review or academic work. For permission to publish, distribute or otherwise reproduce this work, please contact the author at phil@philoddy.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Part One
CHAPTER 1
CANNON
THE MIDDLE SEA
ONCE UPON A TIME
Cannon spat on the deck. He hated the way the salt coated his tongue, the way it made it swell and stick to his cheek and the roof of his mouth. He hated the salt, and he hated the sea it was whipped from. He hated this boat.
Was it a boat? Or was it a ship? It didn’t matter to him. The boat, or the ship, didn’t care if he knew what it was or how to operate it.
Sail it?
He looked up at the vast sheets above him, flapping in the wind. Sails, the boat had sails. You probably sailed it.
You would, if it wasn’t perfectly capable of sailing itself.
Cannon spat again, gripped the spoked wheel and spun it. It ran freely. It shouldn’t do that, it should be attached to something. A mechanism, something connected, ultimately, to a rudder that could steer them across the sea.
It was just for show, a decorative flourish. Like the sails which, despite the way they rumbled and billowed and snapped in the wind, were not actually pushing the good ship Dukey Run towards the horizon.
That was helpful, in a sense, because the wind would often drop. It wasn’t a problem for them. They were never becalmed, never stuck. Perpetual motion, always moving, day after night after day...
But it didn’t make for an interesting voyage. Nothing needed doing, so nothing got done. Most of the crew - passengers, Cannon felt that a crew should be taking a more active role in proceedings - stayed below deck. It was only Cannon who seemed interested in the strange circumstances they found themselves in. It was only Cannon who seemed to care.
Cannon spat once more. Maybe they cared, just not enough to put up with the salt. Cannon thought that might be a smart position to take.
It didn’t make any difference, anyway, whether he cared or not, whether he knew the plan or not. It wasn’t his role, not his place, to understand. He was there for one job and one job only.
He was the Human Cannonball. He was there to perform. But chance would be a fine thing.
He had to wait. He couldn’t even practice on the ship, not if he didn’t want to get left behind. It was fine for Bonzo, or for Strongman, or for the Flying Squirrels. They could while away the interminable hours going through the motions, polishing their routines.
He supposed he could practise his landings. He looked up into the rigging. The Squirrels were up there now, meaning that he wasn’t as alone on deck as he thought he’d been. He watched as they swung and twirled and dropped, defying gravity high above the deck.
He hoped they hadn’t seen him lurking down here, hadn’t seen him spitting on the deck. That would not leave a good impression, and Cannon hoped to leave a good impression with at least one of the Spectacular Squirrel Sisters.
He looked back down at the sea, away from the glare of the sun in the bright blue sky, which was making his eyes water. The reflection on the water wasn’t a lot better. The dazzling light made him scrunch up his cheeks.
There was a shriek from the sky, and his head snapped upwards, expecting to see the tumbling form of a Squirrel, anguish on the face of the sister who failed to catch her. There were no nets. It was going to be a hard landing. Even that was better than landing in the water and being left behind.
But no one was falling, no one had been dropped. All three sisters were huddled together in the crow’s nest, staring ahead of the ship, and the swell beyond.
‘What is it?’ shouted Cannon. ‘Is there something wrong?’
Tabitha, the smallest Squirrel, pointed. Cannon ran to starboard and tried to follow the line of her arm to where she was pointing. There was nothing.
He looked again, eyes scanning the surface of the water, searching for something, although he didn’t know what. Something fallen from the ship? Or from another vessel?
He saw it. In slow motion, as the wave fell, and the ship rose on the next one, he watched as a head hovered into view, then was lost again.
Once more, the head reappeared and disappeared, but this time Cannon saw arms waving, flailing. Maybe drowning. Cannon started to shout, very loudly.
The bobbing person was in front of them, so they hadn’t come from the Dukey Run. He looked around frantically for another ship, but there was nothing. No ships, no land, nothing but the wild, wide expanse of the Middle Sea.
It was impossible that they were there. If they were there, it was impossible that they were alive. Yet they were there and they were alive. Cannon could see the evidence with his own eyes.
He didn’t have a moment to lose. They weren’t in control of the ship. They couldn’t slow it down, or bring it around, or manoeuvre close to the person in any way, even if such a thing was possible in a ship of this size without pushing them under the waves and finishing them off in a way that the ocean hadn’t managed.
They needed to be brought on board quickly, before it was too late. Cannon couldn’t do it on his own. He needed help.
His fellow passengers responded quickly to the alarm he raised. He was surprised and gratified by that. Ropes were thrown, and lifebelts, and despite Cannon’s worst fears, the owner of the head in the sea managed to cling on and let Strongman drag them closer to the ship.
A raft was dropped. A human chain, made primarily of Sensational Simian Brothers, who had just the right combination of core strength and flexibility, was extended. They brought him onboard, where he was wrapped in sacks and laid on the deck. At some point he’d lost consciousness, but they still found him to have breath and a pulse and they all felt pretty pleased with themselves for their heroic rescue.
It was rare, on this voyage, to have anything to do, let alone something that required them to pull together and work as a team. As a crew.
Alejandro, the Ringmaster, stepped forward at this point, as he was nominally their leader. He rummaged in the man’s pockets, pulling out a plastic card that, at the press of a small button, projected a holographic image that looked enough like the man, without the after-effects of prolonged exposure to freezing salt-water.
‘Estrel Beck,’ read the Ringmaster out loud.
At the sound of his name, the man’s eyes flicked open. He let out a faint gasp.
‘Estrel Beck,’ repeated the Ringmaster, bending close to the man to talk directly to him, making eye contact and flashing his winning smile. ‘Welcome, Mr Estrel Beck, to Alejandro’s Floating Circus.’
CHAPTER 2
LEK
THE CITADEL
THEN
Dawn was breaking. Applicant Lek was perched on the corner ledge where the outside wall of the keep met the courtyard perimeter. Somewhere, someone was ringing a bell.
Lek suspected that it was for him, so he had been attempting to ignore it. He wasn’t sure how long it had been ringing for now. Quite a while, he considered.
As an Applicant to the Trinity Brotherhood, Lek was supposed to pay attention to bells. He knew he should react, that his long-term prospects within the Brotherhood might be better served by doing what was expected of him.
He could hear the noise of the Acolytes gathering in the courtyard for morning routines, voices raising, sticks clacking against each other by way of warm-up sparring. Someone would probably spot him soon. He should get on.
Might as well answer that bell.
When he went and checked the board, it turned out to be Onu Castor’s bell, which actually made Lek feel a little guilty. Lek had no time for most of the monks in the Citadel, and certainly none for the Acolytes, who all thought they were so much better than they were. He made an exception for Onu Castor, who always had time for Lek, which was all Lek really asked.
The Brothers’ rooms were at the back of the castle, down several very long, dusty corridors - havens for spiders and slithery things that slipped back into the shadow when Lek swung his pocket torch at them. By the time Lek was banging on Onu Castor’s door, it was some twenty minutes later. He really did feel quite bad about it all now.
The door swung open without a sound. Inside was dark and filled with smoke. The familiar aroma of moss and butter snaked around him. Lek found that smell comforting. He thought that, one day, if he ever was accepted into the Brotherhood, he’d like to spend his days shrouded in darkness, smoking a pipe filled with butter.
He smiled to himself and stepped inside.
‘Onu?’ he called.
He stood still for a moment, on the threshold, to let his eyes adjust to the light. Eventually, he could make out a figure sat on the bench that ran along the far wall. He waited for it to notice him.
‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ said an ancient voice. ‘Come closer. I can’t see a thing at the best of times and I can’t be doing with you lurking in the dark!’
‘You called?’
Lek moved furth er into the room and closed the door behind him.
‘Hours ago,’ replied Onu Castor. ‘I’ve sobered up now. Can’t remember what I wanted. It was probably another drink, but I’m making do with the contents of this instead.’
He waved his pipe. It was long, at least as long as Lek’s arm. Thick smoke curled from the bowl.
‘So… should I go?’ asked Lek.
Whilst he was confident that Onu Castor liked him, Lek thought it best not to overstay his welcome with someone whose temper was legendary and who could have him cast out from the Citadel on a whim.
Onu Castor laughed with a body shaking intensity. The sound of it rumbled from him and Lek was sure he could feel the vibrations come up from the floor through his feet. From the stone floor.
He obviously couldn’t, but maybe this meant that he could relax. Somewhat. It was unlikely that he’d angered the old monk.
‘Is there anything else I can do?’ he checked. ‘For you?’
Onu Castor shook his head.
‘Sit down.’
He waved at the bench on which he perched. Lek sat down next to the old monk and tried to make himself comfortable. He was keen to know what the old man wanted. Usually, he helped by fetching intoxicating drinks or clearing used trays of crockery and glassware. This felt different. He’d never asked him to sit down before.
‘If I can…?’
‘You’ve been here some time, have you not, boy? You’re, what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?’
‘Twenty-nine years, Onu.’
It was getting late for him. He knew this. Plenty of Applicants submitted to the Trial younger than he was now. Some were Brothers by his age. He hadn’t got as far as making up his mind about whether this really was the path for him.
‘What are you doing here?’ Onu Castor asked.
It was a fair question, but Lek bristled at the suggestion that he might be wasting anyone’s time, least of all his own.
‘I am an Applicant. I am training to be an Acolyte in the Brotherhood. One day I hope to be accepted as a Brother such as…’
‘I don’t think you believe that any more than I do.’
Lek had nothing to say. He was right, though.
This was it, then? Was this the end of the road? This was the moment that it all came crashing down and he found himself cast onto the street with no home and no prospects?
He supposed it couldn’t have lasted forever. Maybe if he’d tried, just that bit harder, to believe. In anything.
Maybe he could work in the kitchens. For money. There weren’t many paid positions down there. Applicants like him did most of the work, but maybe there was something he could do? He had a good relationship with Chef. He was always complaining about how useless the new Applicants were.
‘And yet you are still here. You should submit to the Trial.’
Lek leaned back in surprise. This was not what he had expected the old man to say. What was this? A show of faith where he himself had none? A validation of…
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ continued the monk, cutting off Lek’s train of thought for the second time. ‘You would be a terrible, ill-disciplined Acolyte, and an unpious, troublesome Brother…’
He paused, placed his pipe between his back teeth, and grinned.
‘…but you wouldn’t be the only one.’
This seemed to be a joke, rather than an admonishment, so Lek laughed. He still wasn’t sure what he was being told to do. Onu Castor didn’t seem to have a lot of faith in him, but he had definitely said that he should submit to the Trial.
‘Thank you,’ Lek said.
It seemed the safest thing to say.
‘Right, now go away.’
Lek was taken aback. He had expected more. Instructions, guidance, some kind of plan of action. This was quite an abrupt stop.
‘Is that it?’
‘For now,’ confirmed Onu Castor. ‘I would like you to come back, however. Tomorrow, as the sun sets, if you please. And next time, I don’t want to have to ring a bell until it sends me deaf before I get your attention. Now, begone!’
He snapped his fingers on this last utterance. Lek could have sworn he saw blue sparks fly from his fingertips. He hurriedly got up from the bench and bolted for the door.
CHAPTER 3
HAEZLE
THE LIBRARY
THIRTY YEARS LATER
The Citadel Library was a vast building filled, as one might expect, with towering bookcases which created dusty aisles where the Brotherhood’s Readers could lurk. Here they spent their long, candlelit days teasing meaning from the pages of the cryptic texts of the Library’s books.
Each book in the Library was the result of an Applicant’s Trial. Their return, with the pages that they collected in the course of their quest, marked the point at which they became Acolytes to the Brotherhood. The contents of their finds - which usually took the form of abstract marks, diagrams and arcane symbols - were meticulously copied at thirty-two times the size of the original, then illustrated, decorated and bound in ancient leather.
They never talked about where the pages came from, or what it took to collect them. Some said the paper was made of what remained of the Tree itself, but that wasn’t a widely held belief anymore.
Regardless of how they were collected, once a book was transcribed and accepted into the Library - a process that typically took more than ten years - its compiler would attain the rank of Brother and become a fully fledged monk. From that point, it was the Reader’s job to make sense of what had been found, while the monk was allowed to retreat into contemplation, meditation and feasting.
Haezle Muñoz was a Reader. She had been a Reader since her late teens and now, on the cusp of her thirtieth birthday, she had finally been allocated her own book from which she was expected to add to the total wealth of knowledge possessed by the Order of the Brotherhood.
The Citadel, and its Library, was an important part of Trinity’s heritage, and Haezle was proud to uphold its traditions. It was interesting work, even if she was sceptical of the more mystical aspects of the belief that surrounded her. She worked hard, took her task seriously, and was never happier than when she had a puzzle to solve.
It wasn’t, however, her book that she lifted from the shelf now and dropped onto the table. It landed with a thump that gave away the lack of control she’d had over the heavy tome. She glanced around nervously. She got enough grief from the mostly male Readers about her perceived deficiencies without dropping books on the desk.
No one was looking. She’d got away with that one. She tucked her chestnut hair back behind her ears, smoothed down her robe and, thus composed, turned back to the young Authority Cadet who remained standing patiently by her table. He’d asked very nicely if he could see one of the books and she didn’t want to disappoint him.
Unlike most of the books in the Library, this one wasn’t dusty. Isaak had been working through it only that morning. If he hadn’t been, they’d still be coughing their way through the cloud it would have kicked up.
‘So,’ she said, lifting the thick cover and folding it over. ‘This is the Book of Moors. It was compiled by Onu Walsam over sixty years ago. We’re still learning from it, even today.’
The Cadet nodded, peering at the page that Haezle had revealed.
‘I don’t recognise the script.’
‘That’s what we’re here for, the Readers. We try to interpret the writing. The symbols, the markings, the words, hopefully, only emerge after lengthy study.’
‘And what does this one say?’
‘Ah…’
Haezle felt embarrassed. She wasn’t sure why, she wouldn’t be expected to understand the Book of Moors. She’d never studied it. She wasn’t convinced that Isaak understood as much of it as he claimed. But this stranger expected her to understand it and she felt regret that she didn’t.
That’s just professional pride. Pull yourself together, Haezle. He’s not here to arrest you.
Haezle had learned to be wary of Authority. It was a matter of survival for people like her. Her job gave her a layer of respectability, a layer of belonging, but underneath she was a Commons girl and that never went away.
This Cadet seemed different, though. He seemed genuinely interested, without an agenda.
