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SYNOPSIS: The ambitious monk Manheim and the callow novice Julian are unlikely traveling companions. Both would consider the circumstances surrounding their journey mere bad luck—yet, one way or another, they have been charged with a single, important mission: Find the Blackpage!
Twenty years after Manheim’s rival monk, Byron—now called The Blackpage—was exiled from the Order of Authors, this adventuring party will face dangers in the mysterious wilds of Daranna. Yet, all agree that nothing they could encounter is more dangerous than the man they hope to find…
INDEX | Chapter 1 | <Previous (Chapter 1) | Next (Chapter 3)>
Clash Of Claims
The orange sun of morning found Julian already awake. He hadn’t slept. Last night, when he got back to his room, he tried to explain events to his friend Henri. Henri hadn’t put him at ease— “He’s our superior, Julian. Surely there’s a reason for this, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt us. We have a duty of obedience, right?”
Julian had begrudgingly admitted these were valid points. And yet… “Can we at least agree that something about this wasn’t right?”
Henri had nodded emphatically, “Oh, yes, most definitely. But I think it is prudent to wait. You know how they are always telling you to bite your tongue—maybe this is an invitation to practice.”
Julian nodded, searched Henri’s face desperately for some sign of reassurance, and only found he was keeping Henri awake. He said goodnight and pretended to sleep, until he heard his friend’s breathing fall into a steady rhythm in the neighboring bed. After hours of sleeplessness, he decided to meditate by the window.
The light shining through the window warmed Julian’s face but didn’t penetrate into his spirit, which still felt tumultuous, like Brother Hagar’s turn in the kitchen, or the water of the quarry after a heavy rain. Turning, end over end, uneasy, cloudy.
Another novice, Darby, awoke loudly. “Another day!” he groaned loudly, stretching in his bed. “I could go for some breakfast. Hey, Julian! You’re back! How was bath-duty?”
Julian grimaced at the sudden and obnoxious disturbance of his meditation. “Fine,” he grumbled, and stood. Henri was stirring, and some of the other novices as well. “I’m going to breakfast,” he announced to no one in particular.
The main hall was the largest single room in the monastery, serving variously as mess hall, lecture hall, and study hall, depending on the day and time. Two long wooden tables flanked the stone pillars that ran up the center of the hall from the entryway to the dais at the front. Some brothers had already filtered in—some night watchmen ending their shift, some with morning duties just beginning. A few older novices had already arrived, Julian sat down at the usual section where the younger novices had taken to aggregating. The dais had a table running across it, perpendicular to the two wooden tables, where the leadership sat. There was a large chair in the center that had been empty during Abbot Targand’s illness. To the empty chair’s right, a chair where Brother Superior Manheim usually sat; to the left, the aged brother inquisitor was already hunched over his breakfast.
Julian collected his breakfast and sat down, and tried to let it all go, per Henri’s advice. He tried to not think about the dramatic passing of Abbot Targand, he tried not to think about the strange and threatening behavior of Manheim. He tried not to think about Henri’s advice. And yet—he found all these things swirling in his head, along with the abbot’s calling: Find the Blackpage!
Henri, Darby, and the other novices filtered in hurriedly, crowding around Julian. Henri whispered, “Were you awake all night?”
Julian nodded.
“You should have told me! Misery loves company.”
“Misery would have been doubled if both of us were tired today. We’ve got the lesson in runes later.”
“Ooooh,” Henri mumbled. “Do you think we’ll get to draw any? I’ve been practicing on my scratch paper and—”
“They won’t let us draw real runes until we’re fully initiated.”
“How are we supposed to learn if we can’t practice!” Henri lamented.
“Maybe this IS practice.”
“Well it’s a long wait.” Henri grumbled, shoveling a spoonful of grain meal into his mouth.
Brother Superior Manheim walked decisively into the hall, towards the dais while Henri grumbled into his meal. He sat at his seat without getting anything to eat, fidgeted a few moments, before standing.
He cleared his throat, before announcing to the hall, “Please, your attention please, brothers.”
The dull, mundane buzz of activity ceased, and the hall fell silent—all eyes turned to Manheim, who stared back for a moment. Someone coughed.
“Brothers, it is with deep regret that I must announce to you that Abbot Targand has passed. He died last night in the company of myself and Novice Julian.”
Julian felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Manheim continued, “Our beloved abbot passed peacefully, after relaying some last wisdom. He asked me to appeal to you all to carry on the tradition he loved so dearly, to work hard, and to bring honor to the Order through your labors.”
Julian stared into his meal, and without looking knew that Henri was staring at him. Henri whispered, “Did that—”
Julian quickly replied, “No.”
“Before the abbot passed, he named me as successor, a role which I humbly—”
“That’s a lie!” Someone shouted. The words echoed around the stone walls of the hall. Julian was shocked to discover he was standing, and that the words had come out of his mouth.
Manheim looked down, fidgeted with his hands, and then looked at Julian. “Be silent, novice. I understand your grief in this—”
“The abbot named no one. He said to find the Blackpage! He repented of his exile!”
Henri whispered next to him, “Shut up, Julian, what are you doing?”
Manheim’s eyes flashed with something Julian had not seen before.
He opened his mouth to speak when the brother inquisitor interjected—his voice deep and decisive, cutting through the tension. “The Order thanks Superior Manheim for reporting the tragic news of the loss of our beloved abbot. A time of mourning will commence with our services this afternoon, and preparations will be made for the abbot’s funeral. A formal address will be made at that time—for now, the inquisitor will speak with Superior Manheim and Novice Julian to prepare the official account in the Chronicle.” He stood carefully with the help of his cane, and looked at both Manheim and Julian before continuing. “Superior and novice, if you please? I wish to speak with you both right away.”
Sensing that the strange announcement was done, an energetic buzz of activity and conversation returned to the hall. Henri quickly muttered, “Mind your tongue, Julian!” and Julian stepped out and away, and walked towards the inquisitor who now waited by a door adjacent to the dais.
The brother inquisitor’s office was small, just enough to fit a desk stacked high with papers. It was illuminated by a narrow window in the stone wall which showed the green and gold of the morning light playing through the forest outside. A light breeze ruffled the papers without stirring them from their orderly piles.
The old inquisitor sat behind his desk, and stared intently through sharp grey eyes at Julian, before turning his gaze to Manheim. They were silent a few moments, waiting for the inquisitor to speak.
“The abbot’s death is unfalsifiable. You two were the only present for his passing. Your claim, Superior Manheim, is not out of the realm of possibility. Your claim, Novice Julian, is extraordinary. Novice, if your claim is true, it is severe, and stains the reputation of the superior who has served the order of Authors for many long years. Your claim, novice, if false, reveals you to be the lowest, most outrageous fool to ever set foot in our hallowed halls.” The inquisitor took a deep breath, and steepled his hands. “We can forget this unusual and absurd outburst if you will confess to it right here and right now. Would you like to withdraw your remarks?”
Julian’s face burned hot. “No.”
“Would you like to amend your remarks?”
“No.”
“Novice, I promise you—you stand to lose the most here if what you are saying is false. I will extend to you one last chance. Are you willing to swear an oath, on your soul and the divine gift that permits the art of Authoring—that what you have said is true?”
“I am prepared to swear this oath,” Julian said. He tried to ignore the sweat gathering on his palms.
“Very well. Superior Manheim—the novice insists and is prepared to swear that what he has said is true. Would you like to withdraw your remarks?”
Manheim was shocked: “What? Inquisitor Varus—absolutely not!”
“Would you like to amend your remarks?”
“Not the slightest bit—Inquis—”
“Are you prepared,” his grey eyes locked unblinking onto Manheim, interrupting him, “to swear the same oath, on your soul and the divine gift that permits the art of Authoring?”
“Absolutely.” Manheim said, leaning forward.
The inquisitor leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You are both making this extremely difficult. You are both either stubborn mules or outrageous fools, perhaps both. Manheim, you claim you were named abbot. Julian, you claim he was not named abbot, and instead recanted of the exile on Byron?”
Manheim nodded, and then Julian, each in their turn.
“I will give both of you one last chance. You may withdraw your testimony, you have not sworn the oath I suggested, you are both free to do as you please. I will make a final judgement on the matter, once the truth is known. Will either of you withdraw?”
Neither Manheim nor Julian breathed a word.
The inquisitor sighed again. “Blast you both. Blast you both, truly. Fine. I will give you both what you want. Novice Julian, if you are adamant that your testimony is true, you will get your wish—you will find the Blackpage. Manheim, if your testimony is true, you will be named abbot—after you have returned from seeking the Blackpage. Your punishment—both of you— for this foolishness is to follow it through to it’s bitter end.”
Manheim and Julian were both on their feet, shouting, pointing at each other.
The inquisitor held up his hand— “Silence, both of you.” He lowered his hand, and both Manheim and Julian returned to their seats. “To prevent the same trouble from occurring, I will go with you. Julian, you may name one traveling companion if you choose. We will stay the rites of succession until we have returned.”
“Varus, the Ordinances of Justice say—”
“Until a new abbot is named, I, as senior of the Order, have temporary authority to administer the Ordinances. Neither of you is censured, and truth has not been determined.”
“But—”
“I will accept no dispute on this. The claims are extraordinary—the deeds must be extraordinary. We leave tomorrow. Meet by the north gate at dawn. I excuse you both from your duties in order to make preparations. Now go.”
The inquisitor pointed to the door.
Julian didn’t know what to say. Never in his wildest dreams did he believe this would be the outcome—frankly he hadn’t thought it through. And now they were really going!
Henri is going to hate this, he thought.
To be continued…
Thank you very much for reading! This is Find The Blackpage, a fantasy adventure serial set in the world of Daranna. This will be a serial publishing every week, for a tentative total of twelve episodes. Please subscribe to be sure you don’t miss an installment sent directly to your inbox!
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God bless!
AJPM
I had a feeling there'd be a third one on the adventure, otherwise I could just see Manheim belting Julian over the head and then heading back to be abbot. "Shame about poor Julian, fell off a mountain, oh well, guess we'll never know." Clever way to solve that. The poor inquisitor's irritation resonated with me, man.
Thank goodness the inquisitor is going, because otherwise that'd be a truly awkward mission with just the two of them. It feels like the obvious choice for Julian's companion would be Henri, and yet...