The Pale Meridian
The feast in the great hall of the Abbey of St. Jude was a spectacle of gold and grease, a riot of noise that seemed to drown out the very concept of silence. We were all there, the senior monks and the junior novices, gathered around long oak tables that groaned under the weight of roasted swan, ale, and stale bread. The air was thick with the smell of tallow candles and unwashed wool, a...
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