Young Writers Society

Here's part two of the prologue to A Blank Page. I hope you all enjoy.

By the way, if you haven't noticed yet, I like to add a picture in each of my posts. I just think it makes it more interesting.

So far I've edited it according to the following reviewers: Ankhirke (although I may need to add a few extra things later pertaining to using more powerful words).

As a side note, if you want a summary of the previous parts, I'll have them written out in the link below.

http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/weblog.php?w=1169

A Blank Page: Part 2: The Book Room

Beyond the door was a small room. It was completely plain, just stone. There were two iron sconces on the wall, but only one held a lit torch, the other empty. Leading down into the ground was a staircase that extended into darkness. It was sloppily made, and the steps were simply dirt with uneven stones placed atop them. It clashed with the clean-cut stone walls of the room.

Abrams took a torch from one of the sconces and put it in William’s hand. “Take this and start down. I need to close the door.”

Realizing he was the one who should be opening and closing doors, William stepped forward and said, “Maybe you should go first? You’re needed, not I, and such a heavy door should be left for me to close. I am your escort after all.”

The old Adviser laughed. “I like your attitude, but I doubt you could do so. Besides, didn’t you see me open it before?”

William, realizing he hadn’t been paying attention, blushed and shook his head.

“Get going, then. Only one who commands Authorian forces can open and close this door.” He pulled the door shut and began to rewrite its story.

William, now in full realization of who he escorted, followed his orders and started down the stairs. His boots tapped and echoed on the stone steps as he descended into a dark tunnel. His torch was the only light.

The smell of rain-soaked earth filled his nostrils and brought about memories of his childhood, how he would play in the forests after a spring drizzle. It had a calming affect, and because of it he’d yet to notice that his hand was no longer at his sword. He felt safe.

William reached the bottom of the stairs a while after loosing sight of the room above. Without any stone flooring, the dirt ground was soft and moist beneath his leather boots, spongy almost. He waved the torch around and the light illuminated the moss-covered tunnel. The walls were earthen and uneven, as if they had been dug out by a simple shovel. Roots of plants sprouted from the walls, some stretching far out enough to brush against the young guard’s armor. The tunnel went on for such a great distance that darkness pooled within before too far.

“Quite an interesting sight, isn’t it?”

The young guard jumped at the voice and whipped around. Abrams was standing right behind him, looking around the tunnel. The old Adviser seemed to be breathing easier, but his sweaty brow glistened in the torch light.

“We’re under the garden, you see. Not many, but some of the roots reach down here and spread. I’m not sure why the Grand Design made them reach the tunnel, for it’s a pain to cut them. But then again, it does make it more interesting.”

William nodded. “Should we get going?”

“Yes,” the Adviser said, taking the torch from him. “But I will lead.”

They started walking down the tunnel. It was shockingly quiet compared to the Varin Monastery above. In those halls the crackle of flames and cries of battle and pain were ever present. There was no escaping the storm of sound, or so William had thought. Within the tunnel, it was a different world, a quiet one, a better one. In the distance, he thought he could hear the faint trickle of water.

As they walked William thought back to when the attack had started. He’d been asleep in his bed, dreaming about a woman he’d met weeks before. Her name was Erika, a trader’s daughter. Her father came to the Varin on regular visits, bringing with him an entire caravan of supplies and gifts. Since he was always on the road, he brought his family along. Erika was his only daughter, so it was risky business approaching her, but even so, he had. He’d left the encounter with two things. The first was a kiss, quite the experience. The other… Well, her father wasn’t quite as nice, but an experience nonetheless. Even so, it had been worth it.

He laughed about it now, remembering how red her father, Garren, had been in the face, and how he chased William with a swinging sword. He was quite large, so it had been an easy feat to avoid him. Anyhow, she was the one he’d dreamt of as the attack came. He dreamt of starting a family with her, taking her to his old home by the forest. They would have kids together, grow old together, and then die together. It was life’s cliché, but he couldn’t think of a happier way to live.

But then the call had come.

“We’re under attack! It’s the Mandred!”

“William get up!”

“Get your asses moving!”

“Damn it, there’s no time!”

William remembered being thrown out of bed and shaken awake by his captain. He didn’t recall much of what happened, but the next thing he knew, he was fully equipped in his Varin Guard armor, and his hand was at his sword, twitching nervously. He didn’t want to die. And he wasn’t going to.

His team was soon deployed.

They were running through the halls, away from the barracks. At that time, a catapult sent a flaming projectile through the wall. William had tripped over a book on the ground that shouldn’t have hindered him just before it happened. He was spared from death. But he had to watch his comrades burn.

Until now, when he was walking with Abrams through the tunnel, his adrenaline had kept him going, kept him firm. But now that he’d calmed down, he began feel the full sorrow of what had happened. His comrades were dead, the men he’d ate with, fought with, and been friends with had been taken away right before his eyes. He’d never see them again. The tears began to well within his eyes.

That was when Author Archeim had approached him. It was immediately after, actually, and when he thought about it, maybe he’d used his Authorian powers to save him. But why only him? Had it been too late for the others? Why? That question nearly pushed the tears past his clenched eyes as he thought about his dead friends’ burning corpses. The acrid stench of burning flesh and hair had mixed with that of smoke and pitch. He shuddered as he thought about it, thankful for the pleasant scent of the tunnel he now traversed.

Author Archeim had rushed to help him up. William still remembered his commands. “I need you to run! Run and find Adviser Abrams and bring him to the Book Room. Do you understand? Bring him to the Book Room. I promise you that if you bring him, you will have saved the Varin. Now go! There’s not much time.”

The words had been laced with power, and an impossible-to-deny urge flooded into William, tightening his hold on his sword and bringing strength to his wobbly legs.

With that, the Author had run off, his crimson and gold robes blending him in with the fire. Not a second later, William was bolting down the hallway in search of Adviser Abrams, somehow knowing exactly where to run. Everything was a blur of flames and cries of pain after that. It wasn’t until he met with Adviser Abrams that his senses returned.

As they came to a stop at the end of the tunnel, William finally realized he wasn’t holding his sword. His hand instinctively shot back to the hilt, but he soon let go. He was safe. For now.

Abrams was glad to finally reach the Book Room, for he wasn’t completely sure how much longer he’d have lasted. He dabbed the sweat from his forehead with his robes.

The door was a replica of the first, and it needed to be opened in the same way. Abrams placed the torch in a sconce on the wall next to another and then, after catching his breath, rewrote the door’s story. He pushed it open.

The Book Room was monstrous, with a black dome ceiling. Clusters of light dots and swirls of colors were splashed over it in a cosmic display of the skies. Abrams could name all the constellations the dots of light drew. Bellorus, the water bearer, poured her aquatic sustenance throughout the heavens just above William and Abrams. Beneath her, swimming within a pool of starry water was Elrechim, the giant fish. Across the sky, at the farthest end, was Dregnoth, the dragon, twisting his serpent-like form around an orb of red, Ares, a planet. These were but a few of the many celestial bodies that were scattered above in a cosmically-woven tapestry.

William, now standing just past the door on a white marble platform that circumnavigated the room, looked for a floor, but was surprised to find none. The cosmic dome continued in a downward arch, forming a full sphere. There were stars and planets like the above half, but this one had something of its own entirely; the sun, the room’s light source. It was a blazing orb of swirling flame and light from below that dominantly captured the gaze of all who entered the room. Unlike the other celestial objects depicted in the spherical room, this one actually bulged forth as a hemisphere as if it were half way in the room. It’s flaming tendrils stretched throughout the lower dome, rippling and licking at the planets and stars. Standing over this sun, floating level with the door, was the crimson-and-gold-robed Author Archeim, his back turned to them.

Abrams, after closing the door, took a step into the room. “W-wait, sir!” William cried, grabbing him by the robes.

The old Adviser looked at him as if he were an idiot. “What?”

William glanced down at the Abram’s feet. He was already in the room beyond the platform… floating. Just like Author Archeim.

Abrams pulled his arm free and said, “Come on,” before walking on without a second thought. With each step came a tapping sound, and when William looked closer at where there was supposed to be a floor, he realized there’d been one all along. It was a floor of glass that had been polished to such a degree of clarity that it was nearly invisible to the naked eye. He stepped onto it tenderly, testing its stability. He did weigh much more than Abrams after all, and his armor only added on to that. But it soon proved well-constructed so he strode after Abrams.

“Gregory!” the old Adviser called. “Why haven’t you evacuated with the Book yet?”

The young Author shrunk from his old Master. He was leaning on the Book’s white marble pedestal, shaking. He cradled his hands against his stomach, hoping the blood would blend with his Authorian robes.

“Answer me, boy! You should have… What in the blazes has happened to you?”

Archeim glanced down at the Book. It lay open, the ancient, yellowing parchment staring up at him. His black scrawl was shifty, as if each letter had a mind of its own and was trying to escape its papery confines. It was hard to read the words when they moved like that, but Archeim had needed to try. And he had. Which led to the drops of blood at the center of the open Book, where the two pages met in the binding.

Abrams grabbed the young Author by the shoulders and whipped him around. He looked him in the face and was startled to see his bloodshot eyes. They blinked rapidly, trying to bring about alleviation to the pain. No blood, though. Pushing back Archeim’s sleeves, the old Adviser examined his arms and hands.

“Good lord,” he whispered.

Both arms were a dark maroon and twitching madly. The muscles bulged white and pulsed with every movement of the hand. Blue-purple veins ran like protruding rivers over a hilly terrain of tissue so swollen that in some places it split and bled. The hands weren’t any better off, swollen and maroon. The tips of his fingers, which were little more than black scabbed stubs, appeared to have been seared off.

“W-what did you…”

“He tried to read from the Book,” came a voice. It was quiet, wispy, but somehow it filled the room, echoing off the walls.

William’s hand was immediately at his sword. With the blade half drawn, he searched for the voice, although, he was the only one who appeared afraid. Archeim cringed as if a kid caught doing something wrong, nothing more, but Abrams slowly turned up and to the right, where a black hole occupied a portion of the wall.

William, trusting the old Adviser’s gaze, watched the black hole. It was a swirling expanse of black upon the dome that seemed to draw everything towards it. With the black space around it, it was hard to notice, but before long, it began to slowly change, so slowly he could hardly tell anything was happening. The swirls began to join together, shrinking, darkening into one solid circle. By the time its diameter was seven feet its intense hue of black stood out like a star even on the dark backdrop.

A pale leg stepped out from the black hole and onto the Book Room’s circumnavigating platform.

William sucked in a breath of surprise.

Whatever it was began to sway from side to side. And then, suddenly, it jumped the rest of the way through.

Standing before them on the platform was a man draped in black and silver robes. He was leaning on a tall, gnarled staff, with his hood up, hiding his face. The robes, William noted, appeared to have once been of the same style as the Author and Adviser robes, just a different color. But now, after years of neglect, they were splotched with grime and were little more than strips hanging from his shoulders. William couldn’t help but wonder what this black Author was. The young guard knew of the Author and his Adviser, but was there another position too?

The dark-robed man drew himself up to a daunting height nearly too tall for the hole he’d just passed through. He stuck out a pale foot, and was about to step out onto the glass floor when he paused mid-air. He looked up at the group of three, his hood still not yielding a face. He sighed and brought his foot back, rubbing his eyes with his left hand and pointing his staff at William with the right. The wispy voice spoke again.

“Why is one without an Authorian or Adviseral status within the Book Room?”

Abrams turned to the black-robed man. “William is here under my command, Enoch, so leave him be.”

“Your command?” Enoch scoffed. “You no longer have command here, Adviser. You’re lucky your presence is even allowed. Heh… You’re command… How amusing.”

Abrams looked at him darkly but kept his anger in check. He wasn’t going to loose control and unleash his Authorian powers on him. Besides, although Enoch had no powers of his own, he was under the protection of the Book and the Grand Design. If he were to attack, he wouldn’t be able to kill him, nor would he get away without punishment. Even so, there wasn’t much Enoch could do given the current situation. Just to get under his skin, Abrams decided to exploit it.

“You see, Enoch,” the old Adviser said coolly, “the problem is that I want young William here, so if you want him gone, you’ll have to come over and do it yourself.”

Enoch glared at him from beneath his hood, his gaze burning with hatred. The two of them had never gotten along, but then again, the dark-robed man rarely got along with any of the Authors.

He looked down at the glass flooring. Defeated, but still vehement, he whispered, “I am overjoyed your reign as Author is over. Now if only you would die…” He sighed. “Wishful thinking I suppose…”

William had expected Enoch to come striding out with his black robes and staff like the Grim Reaper. Seeing the murderous glint from his eyes had only solidified those beliefs. But he hadn’t. He just stood there, his hateful aura spreading thickly throughout the room as if to smother all life. The young guard turned away and whispered to Abrams.

“Why won’t he come?”

Abrams chuckled. “The thing is, when the Grand Design wanted a room built for the Book, it wanted it so that only three people could be within it at one time.”

“Three? Why three?”

“Because three people are all that’s needed. Any more is pointless and compromises the Book’s safety. The first two are the ones you already know of, the Author and his Adviser.”

“Then who’s the third?”

Abrams nodded at Enoch. “Him. The Book Keeper.”

William looked at the black Author, realizing why he had such robes. He could easily deduce the Book Keeper’s duties, which was the namesake, but why had he never heard of the position before? He never remembered any form of induction ceremony, which was done for the Author and Adviser. Why was the Book Keeper so different?

“What are you telling the boy?” Enoch hissed, folding his arms. “Is now really the time for you to be dawdling? The enemy, if you’ve forgotten, is approaching.”

Abrams nodded. “Yes I know. Now what was it that Gregory has done?” He glared at the young Author, who shied away.

“He read from the book,” Enoch said.

Abrams laughed. “But that’s impossible! The Book is too vast to search through. I once tried and stopped after realizing it took over ten lines to describe one color.”

“T-ten lines for a color?” William said. “But how do you get the time to write that much?”

“When an Author submits to the grand design, he goes into a trance of sorts,” Abrams explained. “When this happens, the Author acts as a medium for the Grand Design, and the words begin to… appear, I guess you could say, upon the Book’s pages. The words are written within the Book so fast that all that needs to be written about the world is done within hours, all down to the color at the tip of a mouse’s whisker. As you can imagine, with so much information it’s impossible to…”

“But it’s true,” Archeim said suddenly, speaking for the first time. “I… read from the Book.”

William was startled by how weak he sounded. When Archeim had given him the command to search for Adviser Abrams, the power he’d spoken with had been overwhelming. Where was that power now? Was this the same man who’d sent him sprinting through fire and death to fulfill his command? Now that he looked closer, he did seem younger than he originally thought, with a light beard and a well trimmed head of blonde hair. He was still his senior by five years, but with the arrival of such a pressing situation, he’d reverted to little more than an inexperienced novice. This wasn’t the Author, leader to the Varin, commander of fates.

The Book Room had fallen silent with the confession.

“What did you make him do,” Abrams growled at Enoch.

“I did nothing,” the Book Keeper sniffed. “I merely told him the best method to reading the Book.”

“What do you mean?”

Enoch smiled cruelly, his teeth glinting in the darkness of his hood. “I simply told him how much faster he would be able to read if he rewrote the stories of his hands and eyes. That way he could search much, much faster. Although it seems his fingers couldn’t put up with flipping the pages so quickly. Such a shame… It burned them right off.”

William looked at the young Author’s scorched fingers and couldn’t believe such a thing came about from flipping pages. Just what was this power the Author and Adviser commanded?

Abrams’ face reddened as his anger flustered. “Enoch, you…!”

“It’s not Enoch’s fault,” Archeim said. “I asked for his advice, and he gave it. It was my choice to follow it.”

“Yes,” Enoch said. “Listen to your Author.”

“But why did you read from it?” Abrams yelled. He couldn’t understand what good could come of it. “You wouldn’t be able to find anything. You should have just evacuated with the Book!”

“That’s what I was going to do!” the young Author cried. “But as I walked to the passage, I felt something was wrong. A feeling of dread came over me. It was like I knew what would happen.” He turned to William, as if he was someone he could relate to. “It was like a dream I’d forgotten.”

A cold, apprehensive feeling crept into Abrams. He had a feeling where this was leading. “An Author’s Intuition,” he said calmly. Enoch nodded.

“Precisely.”

“What’s an Author’s Intuition?” William asked.

“When an Author enters the trance and writes within the Book,” Abrams explained, “he doesn’t remember what’s written. However, sometimes we Authors get ‘feelings’, as Gregory puts it, that are reminiscent of what’s to come. You could call it a premonition. Whether to act upon these feelings or not has never been decided by the Authors, for the future, which is known because of the their powers, may not be incorporated in the Grand Design’s calculations. Then again, since the Author gets these feelings, some theorize that the Grand Design meant for them to know, so they have to act. But even further, some believe whatever the Author chooses is the right choice, claiming that their decision was predetermined. Ah! How complex it all is. But it seems Gregory has chosen to act upon it. I understand not evacuating, in that case, but did you really get anything out of reading the Book? Was it worth your fingers!?”

To Abrams’ surprise, Archeim nodded. “Yes. It was.”

“Are you serious?”

He nodded again, but he didn’t smile in triumph, or anything of the sort. Instead, he looked worse off, saddened by knowing what fate was to come.

Abrams grabbed the young Author by the shoulders. “Gregory, what did you see?”

Archeim clenched his fist in anger, the black stubs that had been his fingers’ tips burning ferociously. “It’s Nicholas. He’s led them here.”

“Nicholas? No… He wouldn’t do that. I may have passed on him becoming my successor, but to betray we Varin, the ones who raised him…”

“Wait, who’s Nicholas ?” William asked.

“Ah, you probably know him as Madrok,” Abrams said. “Only Gregory and I call him by his first name. He was one of the prime choices as my successor. He was quite promising; his Authorian powers showed more potential than even mine. But he wanted power. His instinct was to grab at it, and that is not a trait meant for Authors. So I instead chose Gregory, who was far more controlled.

“But even so,” he continued. “Nicholas wouldn’t betray us. We raised him. He was like a brother to you Gregory, despite the age difference. I even recall him shaking your hand when I told you two my decision.”

“But it’s true!” Archeim yelled. “The Book itself told me! He’s betrayed us! He’s betrayed you! He’s betrayed me! Don’t you get it? Nicholas knows where the passage lets out. Everyone who’s evacuating through it is being slaughtered at this very moment!” Tears streamed down the young Author’s face. “I’ve been Author for what, a month now? And this happens… I’m not meant to be the Author. Here, take the robes back.” He began taking off his crimson Authorian robes, but Abrams stopped him.

“What are you doing, stripping like that? You’re the Author now, not me.”

“But I’m not right for it! You should have chosen Nicholas!”

“Do not say that!” Abrams bellowed. The room echoed long after. He continued, softer now, but with equal power. “Do you realize what could have happened had I chosen Nicholas? As things are now, you were the perfect choice. Knowing that you would give up such a position of power already shows the humility you have. But you can’t give up. You’re the Author. You need to make the best of this situation, not I. No matter what happens. Even if… Even if Nicholas has betrayed us.”

Dread overcame Archeim, halting his tears. He’d been holding onto the hope that Abrams, the man who’d always been there for him, could stride in and save the day. He would be considered a failure as an Author, but it wouldn’t matter. As long as things got better he could be happy. But now everything was up to him. He had to save the day, and he didn’t know if he could.

“Wait,” William said. Everyone turned to him, and Enoch glared as if he had no right to speak. “Did you say that Madrok can use the same powers you use?”

Abrams nodded. “Of course.”

“Then can’t he open the door?”

“Right you are, boy,” came a smooth voice.

//////

Only one part left of the prologue! Then chapter one will be coming along eventually.