 
An Angelic Alphabet

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon – The Unicorndoll – Lesser Nefertiti – My Shrieking Skin – Stone in Love

Font of All Lies

Text copyright© 2019 Jon Jacks

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# Chapter 1

The angels facing each other hummed as they went about their business, their wings spread upward, overshadowing the chest on which they stood.

They were of gold, as one with the chest's cover, and its interior.

And the box was two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide, and a cubit and a half high.

And as the instructions had promised, it offered conversation with the heavens themselves.

*

'Esemiell; how are your notes coming along? Do the signs and symbols seem to be making any sense yet?'

'No Father,' Esemiell replied truthfully, as always, even though she hated to see the disappointment in her father's ageing face. 'It still makes no sense as far as I can see; perhaps you, with your greater understanding...'

'Do not belittle yourself, my dear,' her father scolded her. 'How many times do I have to tell you? You are a child worthy of marriage to the mightiest king; yes, even that arrogant upstart King Philip of Spain!'

Esemiell smiled, as she always did when her father made this outrageous claim.

The truth of it was, she knew, that not even the lowliest peasant in England would ever accept her as his wife.

She was the daughter of a wizard.

And so it was naturally believed that she had to be the spawn of a witch.

For how in the world could her unearthly beauty be explained otherwise?

And why did she never age, remaining forever, it seemed, at the age of sixteen?

*

# Chapter 2

Like everyone else she knew, Esemiell knew nothing of her mother.

Her father, of course, must know something about her; but he wasn't one for sharing knowledge. Least of all knowledge that he believed would do no one any good.

Esemiell had to accept, then, that she may well have been the unfortunate and unwanted result of nothing but a rushed fumble with some poorly betrayed maid.

It happened all the time in the darker corridors at court, where men refused to even contemplate resisting the urges they suffered deep down in their britches.

It may well have been, however, a more deliberately planned liaison on her father's part.

A way of producing an heir he could pass all his painstakingly acquired skills and learning on to.

For that, naturally, he would have been expecting and wanting a son.

So either way, Esemiell had to consider herself a disappointment to her father.

*

The signs Esemiell was writing down made no sense to her; but then, neither did they mean anything to her father, or his friend Edward Kelley, both of whom constantly assured her that everything would be eventually explained to them.

This was how the angels conducted their conversations with those on earth.

What other way could it be?

As with any conversation involving people from entirely different cultures, a common language had to be agreed upon. And so, at the moment, the angels were merely communicating their alphabet, which would later enable an enlightening dialogue that could only benefit the whole world.

They would be conversing in the original language of Eden, with which Adam named all things in existence.

And yet to Esemiell she seemed to be continually setting down nothing more than page after page of squares filled with symbols, with some varying only slightly from the previous one by little more than an extra stroke or an alternatively positioned line. Each time, too, it was a page of forty nine squares by forty nine.

There was no doubt at all, however, that the angels themselves were revealing these strange patterns to them. For as the golden cherubim sparked and flamed, they regularly tossed out between them the diagrams she was hurriedly copying onto the pages, each one accompanied with a hiss, shriek, or tinkling of reverberating bells.

It possessed a strange, sometimes almost musical rhythm, although Esemiell had grown to hate hearing it as it was so often interrupted by her father's groans of restrained agony as he fought to control the device he'd created.

When it was in operation, the Mercy Seat (as her father had ironically named it) could only be safely approached while wearing the Breastplate of Aaron. This was yet another angelic device revealed to her father in earlier, cruder attempts at holding conversations with the angels.

As described in the Bible, this was made of two thick layers of linen, with an array of chains tied to rings, all made of the same gold that had gone into constructing the Mercy Seat. But there had been another essential addition, a silk-shrouded metal plate hanging from the neck such that it covered the heart.

This plate was inscribed with earlier revealed characters, as was the amulet he also wore, the _Sigillum Dei_ , or Seal of God. He stood before a Holy Table of Practice, itself engraved with yet more revealed characters: and it was this that prevented Esemiell's father from jumping back and out of the way of the threads of flame that would now and again arch up from the Mercy Seat to strike him painfully upon his heart.

'It _must_ be done!' he would insist stoically whenever a session at last came to an end and Esemiell helped him weakly stumble towards the chair he used to rest and recover from his ordeal.

'She _must_ take the seat, Doctor!' Edward would invariably harshly hiss as he swiftly and expertly removed the now incredibly hot plate, taking care not to bring it too close to the already heavily weathered skin of the older man's face. 'It would be quicker and _safer_ for you!'

Edward Kelley had been her father's assistant for longer than Esemiell could remember. And he was, as far as Esemiell was concerned, probably the most disreputable man she had ever had the misfortune to come across.

It was well known that he was an accomplished necromancer, conversing with those illicitly disinterred from the grave as naturally as those more legally torn down from a gibbet. He expected his women to be compliant, it was increasingly whispered around court, and no doubt preferably dead.

Is _that_ why he wanted Esemiell to take the Mercy Seat?

For it was almost assured that she would die if she sat between the two angels.

Esemiell pondered this every time Edward demanded that it was her duty to alleviate her father's suffering.

She hid her scowl as she tended her father, mopping his brow with a cloth soaked in the iced water she'd prepared earlier in a bowl. Yet it was a scowl not only secretly directed at Edward, but also far more openly at herself too.

For, despite her loathing for Edward, she had to admit that in this respect at least he might be right; her father could not continue taking this punishment.

'The book is _finished_ ,' her father suddenly spluttered with a sigh of relief.

Half way through carefully removing the amulet and storing it safely within its box, Edward irately froze, his face a glowering mask.

'How can it be _finished_ ,' he growled disapprovingly, 'when we _still_ have no clear idea how everything works?'

'We've drawn up _countless_ symbols!' Esemiell furiously snapped, exasperated by Edward's insistence that the experiments must continue despite her father's failing health. 'Isn't it time we tried to make some sense of all we've already gratefully received?'

In truth, Esemiell was far from caring that they might make some sense of it all. It was of far greater concern to her that her father would bring an end to this foolish endeavour, which was so obviously drawing him closer and closer to complete exhaustion.

He couldn't take much more of this daily torture.

Her father smiled weakly in gratitude, clasping Esemiell's hand, yet failing to grip it as reassuringly as he'd hoped.

'No, no, my dear; Edward is right,' he feebly croaked. 'The _book_ is finished; but there are _more_ to come! _Six_ more, I would dare suggest!'

*

_Six_ more books!

Esemiell was distraught.

Her father wouldn't survive the setting down of _one_ more book, let alone _six_!

'I would lay my _life_ on it!'

_That_ is what her father would have more likely said when he declared there were six more books to complete.

Not, 'I would _dare_ suggest!'

Her father never spoke of _daring_ to suggest!

He was invariably _right_!

And yet, in this case, he hadn't _dared_ say he would lay his life upon it; not because he feared he might be wrong, of course, but because he was wholly aware that it _would_ be the death of him, for he was _unquestionably_ right!

Wondering how her father had arrived at the conclusion that there must be six more books to create, Esemiell had counted the number of tables making up the now completed first book.

Forty nine.

_Naturally_!

Forty nine pages of forty nine squares by forty nine squares.

Or, to look at it another way, that's the same as seven times seven, _six_ times over.

And so to make it _seven_ times that seven had been multiplied by itself, you would need _seven_ books in all.

Her father, Esemiell realised, wouldn't last the creation of even _one_ more book.

If her father wished to continue with this, she had no choice; she would _have_ to risk the Mercy Seat.

*

# Chapter 3

The ailing health of Esemiell's father was already the talk of the court.

No matter how much he garbed himself in voluminous gowns, he could hide neither the increasing gauntness of his face, nor his weak, often stumbling actions.

He was quite obviously being drained, the gossip had it, by witchcraft.

Which could only mean that a witch was manipulating the dark arts with even more zeal and expertise than even the great doctor himself could manage.

Who could it be, this witch?

Why, wasn't she always in plain view, frequently and contemptuously standing by the poor man's side?

How else could the fabulous, never ageing beauty of his daughter Esemiel be explained?

*

Esemiell was well aware of the growing strength of the rumours that, somehow, she had garnered a greater knowledge of magic than her father had ever mastered.

How could she fail to notice the fearful looks she received whenever she attended court alongside her father? Worse still, whenever her father had to briefly leave her, the people closest to her would consciously begin to shy away, or step aside if they were about to meet in a corridor.

They dreaded, she had gathered from the whispered grievances she overheard, that she would leech away their life force every bit as expertly as she had sucked it out of her father.

To marry her would be bliss, she'd heard them say; but for how long, and at what cost?

What she had not overheard and therefore remained completely unaware of – being unable to spot it for herself, as she was entirely innocent in such matters – was that she now had a sole yet totally infatuated admirer.

Edward Kelley.

The only man who might dare risk his soul.

*

# Chapter 4

Edward's arguments that Esemiell should take the Mercy Seat were becoming ever more forceful and persuasive.

It was her _duty_ to her father.

Did she want to be held responsible for his death?

'Think of the consequences of _that_ , Esemiell!' Edward hissed furiously. 'Whom would the court hold accountable for his death? And in this, wouldn't they be _right_?'

It was true.

It would be presumed by everyone, including the queen herself, that she had finally drained away the very last of his spirit, leaving him a wasted husk.

It wasn't as if the court's shunning of her – as if she were a carrier of a plague, or had an awful stench about her – was only a recent phenomenon.

On her first appearance at court, she had naturally made an impression on everyone who saw her, everyone who soon heard of her angelic beauty.

Where had she come from?

Why had we never heard before of the doctor's daughter?

Was he even married? Who had he dallied with, then, to produce such a gorgeous daughter?

How had he managed to keep such a beauty locked away for so long?

And _why_?

This last question was one that Queen Elizabeth – renowned for her preoccupation with all things relating to beauty – particularly sought an answer to.

She strode around Esemiell, observing her as closely as one might inspect a gift of a proud mare.

'If there's a magical secret to your daughter's beauty, Doctor Dee,' the queen declared half in jest, half in threat, as was her usual manner, 'then I pray you know me well enough not to deny me such precious knowledge.'

The doctor's response was also quite typical of him; a slight bowing of his head in subservience, combined with a sage-like lowering of his brow, while a small movement of his right hand suggested the wisest course involved a word in private.

They both stepped away a little from everyone else, whispering, glancing back every now and again, the queen's expressions changing from concerned to, perhaps, horrified.

Whatever had been said between them was never revealed to Esemiell.

Yet others at court must have heard _something_ of what had passed between her father and the queen.

For soon, she was being snubbed by almost everyone she came across, even the lowliest maids and servants; the look in their eyes quite often one of fear, not just disgust.

And this, of course, was long before it became common knowledge that her beauty appeared eternal and forever unblemished

Only the importance of her father's work – and, perhaps, the fear of any magical reprisal he might inflict – prevented her from being hounded out, imprisoned, or even executed.

If her father died, she would probably be immediately put to death – and quite horribly too.

Whereas if _she_ died; well, would it really matter _so_ much?

*

Esemiell had become a witness to the speech of angels on an almost daily basis.

The more she had seen, the more she had come to fear it.

Their conversation wasn't through words, but rather via feverishly coursing threads of fire, frenziedly hissing and spitting. Strings of flame leaping from one angel to the other, mingling where they touched, wrestling and fighting until they formed one more of the innumerable symbols she had been ordered to set down.

And when she sat upon the Mercy Seat, she would be sitting directly between the angels, her head at a level with theirs.

Where else, then, would the fiery angelic dialogue come together but deep within her skull?

*

# Chapter 5

Esemiell's father quite obviously recognised the risks inherent in taking the Mercy Seat.

Whenever Edward had insisted yet again that Esemiell must 'fulfil her role', her father had thankfully pointed out that no one could be sure 'that even she' could survive such an ordeal.

_Even_ Esemiell?

Esemiell had formed her own interpretation of this long running dispute; Edward assumed that her age-defying qualities could only have had been bestowed upon her by the angels themselves, in preparation for a preordained task.

'How _could_ she die?' he would persist angrily. 'Clearly, this is how it _must_ work!'

Not that Esemiell believed Edward cared if she survived or not.

Her demise would mean that, once again, he was the only one with her father's ear.

Besides, there were also all those persistent rumours that Edward preferred his women dead...

'What if you're _wrong_ , Edward?' her father would irritably snap back at his stubborn assistant. 'Then _everything_ would come to nothing, don't you see?'

Yet farther back, hadn't her father sometimes come close to agreeing that she _should_ take the Mercy Seat?

Esemiell couldn't be sure; perhaps she wasn't recalling _everything_ accurately.

There had been a time when, like Edward, he seemed more assured that Esemiell _had_ somehow been granted a divinely appointed role. Weren't the residues of this unsubstantiated belief still made manifest in the strange way he obstinately persevered with this idea that she should be capable of understanding the angelic symbols?

He was angry with her – furious even – when she pleaded ignorance, in his rage quite frequently close to accusing her of deliberately refusing to aid him in his endeavours.

He would turn away, fuming bitterly; she was a disappointment to him, as always.

_Why did they expect so much of her_?

Perhaps _they_ were the better times then, when her father, like Edward, truly believed she could take the Mercy Seat and freely translate everything being angelically conveyed to them.

For if he faithfully believed she were capable of such a thing, why, he would be wholly dependent upon her to achieve his goal; and there could be no reason to think of herself as a disappointment, could there?

Even so, as she approached him to make her offer, her head still frenziedly swam with burning fires of doubt.

She would have to blurt it out quickly, before she could change her mind, before she could turn back from the course she had set herself on.

'Father...'

He was overseeing another of his long-running but even more grotesque experiments.

The _Liber Vaccae_ , or _Book of the Cow_ , lay open upon the table. What appeared to be human skin was growing in an expensive glass jar, a blob of some unknown and yet-unformed life settling in its freshly made bed of white willow sap, green tutia, sulphur, magnetic filings, and a phosphorescent sunstone elixir.

As her father turned away from his table towards her, Esemiell paused.

When she began to speak once more, her determination had deserted her.

'Father...I think you are too ill to continue speaking with the angels!'

'I've been worse,' he pointed out with a wan smile, taking her hand in his.

It was true; Esemiell could recall many times when he'd appeared close to death after foolishly ingesting one of his own concoctions to test its effects.

'Even so, not for so _long_ , and with so little to see for–'

'So _little_ to see for it?' Her father was aghast by her pronouncement, but not angry. 'Have you already forgotten the original callings we were originally granted?'

Naturally, Esemiell hadn't forgotten setting down the very first poetic verses delivered to them by the angels.

Of course, there were forty nine of them. And, of course, they were each completely unintelligible. Indeed, she had merely assumed they possessed a poetic quality because of the measure of their lines.

In every other way, she had no idea what they might mean. And when she'd had to admit this to her father and Edward, they had been visibly distraught, as if they themselves were unable to comprehend why she could possibly find them so puzzling.

As if, maybe, she was responsible for the confusion because she had somehow set the recorded messages down incorrectly. Or, even as if they had been unfairly expecting her to interpret the messages even as they came through the ether.

They were frustrated, obviously, that now they had at last made contact with the heavens, they had been thwarted by a matter of language. And so the voices would remain indecipherable until a whole new system of conversing had been acquired and learnt by heart.

'We _have_ to find the means to translate them!' her father said determinedly. 'They are the _Gates_ of Understanding! We still need the Natural _Keys_ ; the nineteen keys we were _promised_ in our earliest contacts!'

Esemiell sighed resignedly; at least she had _tried_ to dissuade him from progressing with his experiments. But she had known all along, of course, that this would be his answer – the conducting and fulfilment of his experiments took precedence over his wellbeing.

Did they also come before _her_ safety, her _life_?

'Then I will take the seat – the Mercy Seat,' she almost blurted out, realising she was once again so close to turning back from making her proposal.

His grip on her hand abruptly tightened. His eyes filled with tears – yet whether they were tears of fear, tenderness, or gratitude, Esemiell couldn't be sure.

His expression was pained, but she had seen similar doubts wrack his face over concerns only for his experiment.

'I'm...I'm not sure...' he began uncertainly, 'but if...if _you_ think this is right...'

If he had expressed any real sense of anxiety for her, she would have taken it as an excuse, a reason, to refuse to go ahead with such a dangerous experiment. Yet the only hint of apprehensiveness she sensed within him was solely a fear that his investigations might well amount to nothing unless the trials continued.

'Yes,' she said firmly, holding back her own tears, 'this _is_ the right thing to do!'

*

# Chapter 6

What garment should she wear?

No one was sure.

Certainly, to merely approach the Mercy Seat when it was in operation required the wearing of the Breastplate and all its other accoutrements.

Did such precautions also apply when someone dared to sit upon the seat itself?

They had received no instructions in the matter.

They each hurriedly pored over the books and parchments amongst Doctor Dee's fabulous collection – taking in every valuable tract from Copernicus's _De revolutionibus orbium coelestium_ right back to the _Liber Juratus_ by Honorius, son of Euclid – that might offer some clue, some warning or hint of what the task entailed.

Unfortunately, there was no intimation of an answer to be found in anything they read.

Naturally, only the angels themselves would know the answer.

But to ask the angels now, while they were painstakingly conveying the alphabet of an age-old language, would only risk interrupting the whole procedure.

It was agreed, then, that they would have to go back to an earlier form of communication; the scrying stone, crystal ball, and black obsidian mirror.

It was through these relatively simple implements that Dee and Kelley had received their very first instructions on how to engender a firmer and more reliable form of contact. Directing prayers to God and the archangels for fifteen minutes to an hour, they had called upon the angels to manifest themselves. And as the scrying stone had begun to move, they had recorded everything they had seen and heard.

So now they prayed once again, all three of them, before the mirror, ball and stone.

They prayed for an hour.

For an hour and a half.

For two hours.

And still the scrying stone refused to move.

'Is it really worth our time and safety putting ourselves through all this again?' Edward growled miserably. 'Aren't we simply resorting to what we now recognise as being only primitive means, that could as well attract the dangerously demonic as the angelic?'

Dee nodded sagely in agreement.

'Yes, yes; why would the angels lower themselves to communicating in this way when they – as our _initial_ contacts – provided us with far, far better means?'

He sadly glanced Esemiell's way, his gaze sorrowful and a touch pleading; was he asking her, she wondered, to take the seat with no attempt at providing her with the necessary protection?

'The choice is _yours_ , my dear,' he said disingenuously.

*

Her father regarded her as nothing more than an ingredient in one of his experiments, Esemiell sadly realised.

Yes, perhaps it could be said that she was an _essential_ component in this particular case; but it was a small consolation.

When he had argued with Kelley about the wisdom of letting her take the Mercy Seat, it was only in the same manner that he feared wasting a rare element before he was sure how it could be safely handled.

She carefully packed the crystal ball away in its velvet-lined wooden box, the scrying stone in its soft leather pouch and copper casket. Her father and Kelley had, naturally, left her to tidy away and pack up the equipment they no longer required. They had moved on to preparing the accoutrements they needed for Esemiell's taking up of the Mercy Seat.

They would dress her in the Breastplate of Aaron, it had been decided. She would also wear the amulet, and wear the plate in front of her heart.

What more could they possibly provide to ensure her safety?

Naturally, Esemiell was worried that it wouldn't be enough.

As she lifted the obsidian mirror up off the table, she caught a glimpse of her anxious face in the darkly reflective surface.

She peered at herself curiously, surprised by how furious she looked.

Then her reflection turned away from her, quite obviously disgusted by what she saw.

*

# Chapter 7

Only the Queen's Champion, Archon, saw the shock that suddenly crossed the face revealed in the reflection.

Then the reflection faded, the conversation between the two angels coming to an end.

The veils fell back in front of the mirror.

'This isn't good, this isn't good at _all_ , Archon!'

Queen Illemese had scowled angrily as she'd turned away in disgust from the mirror, angrily pushing aside the thick curtains.

'I'd taken you at your word that you'd obtained Jachin's Mirror,' she irritability continued, 'and so did every knight who's turned up today for the tournament!'

Recognising that it wasn't wise to contradict his queen, Archon kept his thoughts to himself; the mirror had worked, it seemed to him. He had promised that the mirror would reveal the one you love, and Queen Illemese had seen her own visage reflected back in the mystically reflecting surface.

Archon's assistant Sulat helped him carefully remove the Breastplate of Judgement the queen had worn to approach the mirror and pull aside its many veiling shrouds.

Even the queen had uncharacteristically taken his advice and remained at a suitably safe distance from the mirror as she had curiously peered into it. She had also, as advised, kept her viewing to a minimum; although, Archon mused, that could be down to the disappointment she'd suffered on seeing only herself revealed within its spectral window.

'Didn't you _test_ it?' she now harshly scolded Archon, abruptly adding more accusingly, 'Did you allow _me_ to be the first to use it? Even though you had no idea of its powers?'

'Of course not, your majesty!' Archon protested. 'Others _have_ tried it; and _they_ saw their spiritual partners revealed.'

'This is true, your majesty,' Sulat agreed, 'as you will have been made aware by the recent increase in those seeking your permission to marry.'

Rather than greeting Sulat's illustrative comment as reassuring, the queen glowered back at him suspiciously.

'And you Sulat? Did you also presume to go before your queen and see whom the stars have aligned for you?

As usual, the queen had conveniently forgotten her original complaint that the mirror hadn't been adequately tested and had turned it around into one of her subjects disloyally taking precedence before her.

'I cannot approach it,' Sulat deferentially replied, abjectly waving a hand about his armoured form to remind her that he was constructed wholly of iron, 'without fearing I'm going to burst into flames long before anyone else does.'

Sulat only had to stand beyond the shrouds as they were opened for the mirror's threads of flames to abruptly flare and, snapping and crackling, whip out to envelope him like fiery serpents. Fortunately, the first (and last!) time it had happened to him, it had struck him with such a force that it had also thankfully flung him far back, perhaps unintentionally saving him in doing so.

He could only describe the effect as a vicious, violent tingling enveloping his whole body so completely and painfully that it had penetrated deep within his workings of clockwork and water pumps.

The fluids in his boilers and cisterns had hissed, erupting in clouds of steam as they were suddenly warmed to agonisingly high temperatures.

'Yet as queen, your majesty,' Archon pointed out, 'you must realise that you are _loved_ by your people; and as queen, you also _are_ your people.'

The queen wryly narrowed her eyes, patiently seeking out anything in Archon's pose or expression betraying any cynicism.

He appeared wholly innocent in his demeanour, she had to admit.

She nodded; yes, yes, she accepted his explanation.

'Then the prize for the tournament's victor stands,' she declared, imperiously sweeping from the room. 'Anyone he sees within the Mirror of Mercy shall be his!'

*

# Chapter 8

As Archon wasn't taking part in the tournament, there was very little mercy given that day.

It was a meeting far more in the mould of Sulat's manner of fighting, a swift administering of a severe and unforgiving judgment on those who failed to come up to the mark.

But then, the prize was something to be viciously fought over, for the queen had agreed that she herself could be awarded to the victor if Jachin's Mirror declared it must be so.

She wasn't only supremely powerful; she was also remarkably beautiful, with skin as white as snow, as smooth as wax.

As her champion, Archon had recused himself from taking part in what could potentially be a battle for her hand. Sulat also took a seat in the royal stand alongside his lord, for he could neither approach the mirror nor be seen as a prospective king.

Besides, who would want such a heartless opponent to be taking part in a tournament where mercy was already in such short supply? An opponent, too, whose very flesh was as hard and well contoured as a suit of the very finest armour?

The armour on display out on the field was generally of an even more expensive variety, the metal treated until it naturally shone a gem-like red, green or blue, with elaborately engraved flowerings of gold or silver running over most of the surfaces. Swords, maces and lances were equally artfully constructed and decorated, such that jewels of all sizes, along with finely wrought settings of gold, flew up everywhere about the fiercely tussling men, briefly sparkling in the air below falling to the well-trodden, blood-muddied ground.

Shields, lance pennants and a wild variety of fluttering banners were even more richly adorned, either enamelled, embroidered or woven with leaping deer, salmon, and leopards, or a rising sun, moon or stars. These wondrous creatures, these celestial objects, displayed in sparkling gold, purest white or ruby red, were similarly portrayed as brightly painted carvings on helms or standards.

It was all spectacularly glorious, every inch of this field of glittering gold and sharply bright rainbow colours straining to be worthy of Queen Illemese's majesty.

She watched over it all from the very highest point in the royal stand, as anxious as anyone when it came to its outcome.

Somewhere out there there might well be the man she was destined to make her king.

*

One knight stood out from all the rest.

His armour was of the poorest kind, and ancient too in its styling and practicality.

Nevertheless, he also stood out from the crowd because – so far at least – he had been ceaselessly victorious, such that now all eyes were on him, the whole tournament suddenly revolving around this unknown knight.

This was a particular worry to the queen.

It was one thing to promise that she would marry someone who had been proven in battle and approved by the magic of the mirror; quite another, of course, that the victor would be drawn from a poorer, less powerful strata of society.

This nameless, impoverished knight was hardly a wise or suitable match for her, even if he was supremely triumphant.

Surely, though, the mirror would recognise this?

He had no tent, no squire, no spares of armour or even lances.

Every enquiry into this man's past that she had hurriedly set in motion came back with no more information than she could garner for herself.

His emblem was that of an angel, one half of which was of blazing gold, the other of moonlit silver. One wing was outspread, one furled.

In one hand he held a flaming sword.

And in the other, when it gently alighted there, a dove.

*

# Chapter 9

Throughout the whole day, the triumphant blare of trumpets and elated roars of the eagerly watching crowd drowned out the thundering clash of colliding knights, the ring of swords on armour, the resigned moans of exhausted men, the last neighs of dying horses.

The once resplendent armour was now heavily dented, the emblems of lions, bears and castles now splattered in dark shades of crimson and scarlet. The busiest tents now were the plainer ones housing the surgeons, while heavily groaning carts were everywhere leaving for the markets trading in horse meat.

The final combats were more brutal than ever, for no one had the energy left to offer an opponent an opportunity for recovery. The richest armour, the most brightly emblazoned shields, now appeared no better in quality than that of the remarkably unscathed accoutrements of the poorest knight on the field.

His sword, at least, had been finely forged.

It had had not been tempered with mercy.

*

As was the custom of her realm, Queen Illemese and her most privileged courtiers filed out across the field to where the victor had played his final, triumphant stroke. Each of them knew they weren't to show any signs of squeamishness, even as blood from the ground soaked up through the trains of their dresses, the hems of their long silk gowns.

They slipped, even fell, but had to show fortitude, for how could they complain while Lord Archicebidae was being carried off in the opposite direction on a stretcher?

The knight of the angel lowered his sword, removed his helmet, and subserviently dropped to one knee as the queen approached.

The queen was surprised.

He was hardly more than a boy!

*

# Chapter 10

The young man seemed in some way familiar, the queen realised, even though she knew she had never seen him before.

Perhaps he carried some resemblance to higher-ranking family members she did know?

It wasn't unknown for the younger or poorer sections of an otherwise well-connected clan to determinedly rise up through the ranks by their own means.

He was handsome in a delicate, almost girlish way, his face yet to be hardened by life.

If the mirror chose him for her; well, she wouldn't be disappointed, for he surely had the resolve to better and enrich himself by the swiftest means available.

'I must admit, I thought I'd already be well acquainted with today's victor,' Queen Illemese confessed without a hint of humility. 'Your name is...?

'Egvalan, your majesty, 'the boy replied confidently, rising to his feet as the queen granted him permission to do so with an airy wave of a hand.

'What brought you here today, and made you fight so hard?' the queen asked curiously, adding, 'Or, perhaps, it isn't _what_ , but _who_? Whose love do you seek to win?'

'I fought for neither love nor lady, your majesty, for I have no interest in such matters.'

The queen noticed the knowing smiles being exchanged by those standing about her. The knight must have spotted them too and, realising they presumed he was too young to understand, hurriedly offered a more detailed explanation.

'I seek, though, a part of me that I sense is _missing_ , for I don't feel _whole_ – I feel curiously _empty_!'

Now it was the queen who smiled knowingly.

'Then I can assure you, Egvalan,' she said, 'that it is indeed love and a lady that you're seeking; for through her, you will become entirely whole!'

The smiles of her court had become wider still, combined now with chuckles and heads nodding in agreement.

'I know of no such lady I believe could fulfil such a role for me, your majesty, 'the knight stoically persisted.

'Though it may simply be that you haven't _met_ her yet,' Archon pointed out.

The young man nodded in acquiescence.

'Then why fight if you know of _no_ lady you might wish to win?' the queen asked him curiously.

'I heard of your beauty, your majesty,' the young man replied a touch ashamedly. 'I wished to see it for myself.'

Queen Illemese smiled warmly, obviously both flattered and pleased by the young man's innocence and honesty.

'Then we _must_ see whom the mirror has chosen for you.'

'I have no need of the mirror, your majesty. To win, to see you; that was all that drew me here today.'

'All the more reason,' the queen insisted, 'that you should see what the mirror ordains.'

*

Archon and Sulat helped Egvalan slip the Breastplate of Judgement across his armour.

As Egvalan approached the veil, drawing it aside, they cautiously stepped back, Sulat in particular withdrawing far enough away to ensure he wouldn't be struck once again by the mirror's crackling threads of flame.

Egvalan peered into the mirror.

And in its shifting surface, he quite clearly saw there the beautiful face of the queen, appearing every bit as shocked as he was.

*

# Chapter 11

Esemiell cried out in bewilderment.

Whom had she just glimpsed within the darkened reflection of the obsidian mirror?

As soon as the image of herself had curiously turned away, had simply vanished, as if disappearing into the mirror's darkness, it had been almost immediately replaced by this image of a young, handsome knight.

And across his chest, he was quite clearly wearing the Breastplate of Aaron!

Then, like her own reflection, this vision of the boy had simply dissolved into the darkness.

As if, indeed, she had simply imagined it all, nothing more.

Yet, surely, it _had_ to be a sign?

A sign that she must wear the breastplate when she took the Mercy Seat.

*

The Breastplate of Aaron was far heavier to wear than Esemiell had expected.

The metal plate, shrouded in silk, that she had to hang about her neck was heavier still.

Only the amulet was light and easy to wear. Labelled with the name of God and his angels, all set within two circles, a pentagram, and three heptagons, it had been given a new name by her father; _Sigillum Dei Aemeth_ , or Truth. 'For the angels had said of Aaron, the "pillar of supplication", that judgement also came from his sharp mind, for "the law of truth was in his mouth"!'

The amulet gave the initiated power over all creatures save Archangels, he had explained, perhaps hoping this would reassure her that she had made the right decision when she had promised to take the Mercy Seat.

The Mercy Seat itself, he explained, was the place where the cloud of the divine presence rested. God himself had established his seat here, dispensing mercy to man.

Even so, she saw that his face was deeply creased with concern as, having approached the seat, she spun around on her heels to sit down.

Kelley's face was also surprisingly apprehensive, but Esemiell could only assume that his own anxieties revolved around the veracity of the communications once she became such an important intermediary.

No matter the strength of their worries, it was as nothing compared to her own fears as she tentatively lowered herself towards the edge of the seat.

Her head was drawing closer towards the spot where, once she settled back, it would lie directly between the heads of the angels, the meeting point of their fiery conversation.

She tightly screwed up her eyes in anticipation of the agony she would be instantly subjected to.

And then the darkness of her mind opened; and it was filled with a music more beautiful than she had ever heard before.

For it was the Music of the Spheres.

*

It was far too brief an experience for Esemiell to fully enjoy.

Yet even in that remarkably short space of time, it seemed to her that she'd been allowed to listen into the gentle humming of the revolving of the planets, each one responsible for a different tone, tones she failed to recognise.

It was a musical scale like nothing on earth.

In fact, the Earth seemed to be a part of the scale, or at least acted like a finger placed upon the string of a musical instrument, altering the way the vibrations sounded.

Despite the disappointment of such a short-lived experience, Esemiell was nevertheless overjoyed that she had survived the Mercy Seat. Her father would be distraught that nothing useful had come of it, but at least it might be the beginnings of a means to dissuade him from continuing this experiment.

She opened her eyes as if waking from a deep sleep, rising up from the seat as one finishing bathing in a cool pool. She glanced about her, a touch surprised that her father wasn't still apprehensively watching over her, asking if she had suffered pain, or why she had only managed to sit there for such a short time.

Yet he wasn't here. Rather, he was over by one of the tables with Kelley, poring over pages of notes she couldn't remember seeing there previously.

And like Kelley, he sounded ecstatic.

*

# Chapter 12

Far from being a failure, Esemiell's conversation with the angels had been far more productive than anything they had attempted so far.

It had seemed to her to be only a brief moment in time, and yet to her father and Kelley it had been three days of the most intense work, taking page after page of notes, not even daring to eat for fear they might miss something of the greatest importance.

Esemiell had communicated to them a whole new book, and one completely devoid of the lettered squares too.

'But...I don't' understand,' Esemiell admitted in wailing astonishment.

Yes, there was so, so much she didn't understand.

Where could she begin when trying to explain to her father the reasons for her confusion?

If the experiment had worked as she had expected, then the book communicated through her would have been another book of symbolic squares.

The second of what would ultimately be seven in all.

Instead, the book her father and Kelley had set down was 'one of spiritual entities – angels, Seniors, even cacodaemons and heptarchical Kings and Princes, ruling the seven days of the week – their various seals and sigils, the nature of their offices, and supplications to _call_ on them too!'

'It's a Heptameron,' Kelley agreed with Esemiell's father no less excitedly, 'worthy – if not far, far superior – to that of Pietro d'Abano!'

Had she been wrong, Esemiell wondered, when she had assumed there would be seven books of the symbols and squares? This latest tract hardly fitted well – if at all – into such a scheme.

Her interpretation of the importance of the numbers had obviously been wholly wrong.

Unless...it was her interpretation of the latest _communications_ that were at fault.

And yet it was apparent from the elation of both her father and Kelley that this latest series of jottings made far more sense to them than the earlier one.

How could she have delivered a whole book that excited them so while she could remember nothing of it?

Why had it all seemed so brief to her, when whole days had unknowingly passed her by?

Why, she wasn't even hungry, or thirsty; not in the slightest.

She was simply tired – very, very tired.

*

Her sleep was troubled; her dreams even more so.

She was in a forest, yet one that seemed alive, with every branch, every creature of any size, reaching out to snatch at her fine, courtly dress until she was left in little more than rags.

Yet by a sparkling spring, she found cool, clear waters to assuage her thirst. Carefully watching the animals scurrying about her, she was led to trees and brambles bearing fruits that sustained her.

She tore at the remnants of her dress until it was little more than an essential covering, one far more practical and suitable for this new life.

Picking up the ways of the forest, accepting it rather than abhorring it, she soon adapted to her new life, until it all seemed perfectly natural to her.

She became so wholly attuned to this way of living that she experienced no real sense of fear until the day the darker areas of the forest were unexpectedly split by an unnatural brightness, the rays of sunlight dropping down through the tangled branches here and there abruptly erupting into a glittering sphere of light, as if portions of the sun itself were briefly falling to earth.

Was it an angel?

Esemiell had heard that only the angels could glow so wonderfully.

Whatever it was, it had no fear of the grasping woodland stems. Slowly, it drew closer and closer towards her, wholly unhindered by the sharp branches that had torn her own garb to shreds.

There was the clink now of metal, of bridles and other loose trappings. There was the odd snort, too, of a horse.

It was no angel then.

Nor no sudden burst of miniature suns.

It was a knight, his armour so brightly burnished it reflected all surrounding light as if he were suddenly rendered aflame. Even his face was afire, for the visor of his helmet was lowered, as if in preparation for combat rather than an easy trot through a wood.

And across his chest, the knight was wearing the Breastplate of Aaron.

*

# Chapter 13

Was it the boy?

The boy she'd seen in the dark glass, now appearing within her dreams?

It made sense.

She had found him...handsome.

Yes – very handsome indeed.

Why wouldn't he, then, appear in her dreams?

His armour was dazzling beautiful, spectacularly burnished to reflect the surrounding colours as if they were its own. It burgeoned, too, with delicately flowing engravings of gold and silver, with embossed flowers of bright enamels and glittering jewels.

As if seeing her, the knight began to ride closer towards her, his visor still curiously lowered.

'Why are you out here hunting rather than attending court?' he asked, his voice vibrating hollowly from behind the visor.

He knew her? But why wouldn't he, in her dream?

In this dream, he had known her at court.

Had she run away?

If she had, then why?

She couldn't remember.

But then, wasn't that the nature of dreams? That many things were left unexplained, or even made no sense at all?

'You know me, sir,' Esemiell answered, briefly wondering if she should curtsy, 'But I don't know you.'

Drawing up his mount, the knight easily and expertly slipped down from the saddle.

'Of course you know me,' the knight exclaimed as if slightly shocked, or even wounded, by Esemiell's words. 'I'm your champion.'

'Do I _need_ a champion?' Esemiell asked unsurely. 'I've found I can provide well enough for myself out here.'

'But this isn't _your_ world: your world is the court. To rule alongside me.'

'Does a _champion_ rule?' Esemiell scoffed sceptically. 'Surely only a _king_ rules alongside a queen.'

'You must choose _someone_ ,' the knight adamantly declared, drawing still closer, his visor still in place. 'And who fulfils the role better than the most supreme knight in your realm?'

'You think highly of yourself,' Esemiell scornfully retorted, finding herself easily returning to using courtly language.

'Perhaps it's you who thinks too highly of _yourself_?'

They were uncomfortably close now, Esemiell realised, yet she refused to show any signs of submission or fear by stepping back even a little.

It was a mistake.

The knight was taller, heavier built, and wearing armour; and suddenly, he reached out, curling an arm about her waist and pulling her towards him in a powerful grip.

Esemiell tried to resist, to wriggle free, but now it was too late.

At last, the knight raised his visor, but only as he drew his face closer towards hers with the intention of forcing a kiss upon her.

But it wasn't the boy's face Esemiell saw there.

It was Kelley's.

*

# Chapter 14

Egvalan was shocked by the mirror's brief yet startling vision of Archon embracing the queen.

It made perfect sense, of course, that Queen Illemese had begun a relationship with her champion, the most powerful and respected lord in her realm.

Yet it also made sense to him now that the mirror's initial declaration that the queen was his love was clearly wrong.

He glanced over his shoulder, looking back through the parted veil towards where the court was still excitedly discussing the mirror's first reveal of the queen; obviously, they had missed its further revelation that the queen's love was not for him after all.

Why would he wish to marry someone who clearly didn't love him, even if she were a queen?

Besides, how would Archon react if any marriage went ahead? Egvalan hadn't faced the queen's champion in the lists. Added to this, Egvalan had no lands, no supporters, while Archon's power was legendary.

Archon could nullify the marriage on the slightest whim, and doubtlessly gain the support of most of the lords of the realm.

In light of the mirror's merciful revelation of the queen's true nature, Egvalan had no choice but to reject the mirror's initial judgement.

Turning around, he walked back towards the other courtiers, pulling the veil back into place behind him as he passed through it. The faces surrounding him were expectant; yet what was it that they were expecting?

Was he really supposed to simply declare that the queen was his, for the mirror had ordained it?

Queen Illemese smiled warmly as he looked her way, as if pleased by the mirror's choice.

Archon's face was more sternly set, his smile hard and forced, as if had prepared for this moment and had surprisingly decide that he would stoically accept the mirror's decision.

'I'm not worthy of the queen; there _must_ be some mistake,' Egvalan declared as boldly as he could manage.

Egvalan had not prepared himself for the shock his words engendered.

Queen Illemese briefly appeared disappointed, her sadness rapidly transforming into annoyance as it dawned on her that Egvalan had effectively humiliated her by refusing her hand.

Most startling off all, however, was Archon's reaction. He appeared mortified, even furious.

'The mirror's decree can't be simply overturned!' he stormed. 'It doesn't make _mistakes_!'

'The mirror has made its choice!' the queen sternly agreed. 'Who are _you_ to refuse its verdict?'

Naturally, it was the _insult_ of the rebuff that lay behind the queen's fury. Egvalan wisely refused to flatter himself that she was in any other way disheartened by his choice.

'What a fool to turn down a chance to marry our beautiful queen!' one of the appalled courtiers cried out in apparent distress.

'It's a slur of the worst kind!' agreed another even more aghast, even more irate man.

'The mirror itself has acknowledged that our queen should be the tournament's prize,' growled an older knight sourly. 'If this had been the case, I would have gladly and proudly fought for her hand!'

'And I'd've fought harder, and _bolder_ , had I known!' yelled a younger knight who had fallen early in the lists.

'Please, I _must_ leave,' Egvalan insisted as he tried to gently push past the glowering people moving to block his way. 'It was a mistake coming here I realise now; I apologise for any trouble I've caused.'

'Apologise?' His way was suddenly blocked by Sulat, who refused to stand aside. 'If you believe yourself superior to the mirror's judgement, then perhaps you will be more humbled by trial by combat?'

Archon was now also standing close by his side.

'If as a visitor to our realm you must insist on insulting our queen,' Archon growled ominously, 'then such an issue can only be resolved in _one_ way.'

'The queen _must_ be avenged!' sternly agreed the older knight.

'Yes, yes,' the cry went up. 'The Queen's Champion _must_ take to the field!'

'It will be the final – and _fitting_ – end to the tournament,' the queen gleefully announced.

*

# Chapter 15

Archon, dressed in all his finery, his expensive and wonderfully complex armour, made the poorly garbed Egvalan appear an obvious loser before the fight had even begun.

Taking their places at opposing ends of the lists, they appeared worlds apart, and any clash could only end one way; the demolishing of the quite obviously weaker opponent by the superior, more substantial one.

This was the belief of the hastily and excitedly regathered crowd despite witnessing Egvalan's earlier conquests, for the Queen's Champion had never been defeated.

Egvalan was almost as pessimistic about his chances as the baying people.

Naturally, he had been stripped of the Breastplate of Judgement, and its removal had strangely left him feeling more empty, more purposeless than, ever.

He felt that he was destined to lose this match.

And there was little he could do about it.

*

Egvalan's spurring of his horse may have been half-hearted, but her response was full-blooded; she charged down the side of the parting wall as if eager for and actively welcoming the oncoming clash.

Obviously, Egvalan's mount didn't suffer the doubts he did.

It would be a betrayal of her enthusiasm and loyalty if he failed to commit himself fully to the imminent combat; worse, it could lead to her injury, even death, if he didn't throw himself more whole-heartedly into attacking Archon.

Lowering his lance into place at an angle across her back, hoisting his shield up into a firmly defensive position, he at last set himself more determinedly into besting the swiftly oncoming champion.

As they neared, Egvalan swung his lance a little at the very last moment, avoiding the deflecting curves of the shield that would have transformed his strike into a glancing blow, shorn of most of its power. Instead, he struck Archon full and hard upon his upper right shoulder, a tactic renowned for sending an opponent spinning out of even the highest and most firmly embedding saddle.

In this case, Archon remained unmoved.

As Archon's own strike shudderingly ripped alongside Egvalan's shield, the younger man's lance shattered as if hitting an unmovable wall. The force of the flow was turned back upon Egvalan himself, knocking him hard and off to one side, sending him spilling from his seat.

Tumbling uncontrollably, he fell to earth with a crash that agonisingly jarred every bone.

The crown erupted into cries of joy.

The Queen's Champion had already unhorsed the arrogant newcomer; and an abuse of the queen's hospitality could only be requited through the offender's death.

*

It was more than a regular joust, this tournament.

It was combat in the raw, save that it was all taking place in front of a crowd, and honourable gentlemen were expected to be mercifully given quarter.

Other than these civilising differences, the combatants were expected to take full advantage of whatever martial means they could employ to emerge triumphant.

Besides, the poorly dressed young knight was obviously far from being a gentleman. And he had proved himself less then honourable in front of the queen herself.

His life, therefore, was forfeit.

So no one amongst the watching crowds, or seated in the royal stand, thought any less of Archon when, having reached the end of the list, he simply turned his charger about, urged her into a sudden spurt, a hard gallop – and thundered down upon the still dazed, still almost lifelessly prone Egvalan.

*

# Chapter 16

Although still delirious from the force of the brutal fall, Egvalan couldn't fail to notice that the ground he was lying upon was rumbling, the trembling of the earth penetrating even his thick and well-padded armour.

Glancing through the thin slits of his visor, he saw that Archon was riding down hard upon him, the horse's pounding hooves throwing up dirt and clods of grass. The champion's lance was fully lowered to his right, obviously with the intention of splitting Egvalan even as he lay dazed upon the ground.

Instinctively, Egvalan forced his whole body into a quick roll across the ground, not simply to move out of the way of the oncoming knight but also to grant himself the momentum required to rise to his feet. He grabbed at the heavily dented shield he found lying by him. He unsheathed his sword even as he stood up straighter in preparation to face Archon.

Archon hadn't been taken by surprise by Egvalan's moves. He'd seen many unhorsed knights quickly react in this way. It required only a slight adjustment of his mount's course to ensure he was once again heading directly towards Egvalan, the fact that the young knight was now standing in a semi-crouch merely making him an easier target to strike.

Egvalan was dependent upon his shield for protection and, as he was naturally holding it on his left, this placed him directly in the oncoming Archon's path, with any sidestep he made being instantly mirrored by the experienced rider. He faced being ridden down as much by accident as purpose, even if he could deflect the blow from the lance.

Besides, he hadn't had time to strap his shield securely to his arm. The lightest of strikes would simply strip it away from him.

When Archon was almost upon him, Egvalan lunged forward, curving off a little to his right as he flung the shield towards the eyes of the oncoming horse. The horse was startled but, being well trained, simply slowed for a moment rather than rearing in fright.

It was Archon who, with a sharp tug on the reins, swung his mount aside just enough to ensure the flying shield struck the horse along her armoured neck as opposed to hitting her around the eyes.

Archon and, indeed, the whole crowd had expected Egvalan to use this distraction to leap completely away from the still charging knight. Egvalan held his ground, however, standing close by Archon's side as he hurtled past.

Egvalan swung hard with his sword at the passing champion; but the strike so entirely missed Archon that it curved in below his foot, deeply carving instead into nothing but the flowing robes draped about the horse.

The crowd rose up as one to jeer this pathetic attempt at fooling Archon; they had witnessed many similar ploys like this before, only for the rider to wheel his mount about and eventually ride the unhorsed knight down as he became ever more exhausted.

True to the crowd's expectations, Archon quickly reined his charger in, slowing her down, forcing her into a tight turn.

So deftly restraining and adjusting the momentum of a heavily armoured horse wasn't quite as easy to manage as the less experienced amongst the crowd presumed – a jousting lance, saddle and helmet being longer, higher, and more gaily decorated than those used in battle, cumbersome loads that had to be fought to be brought under control – yet Archon had performed similar manoeuvres countless times, using his own considerable weight as a counteracting force to bend his mount to his will.

It all placed the most incredible strain on the leather straps hidden beneath the steel plates and flowing silks. For a brief moment, Archon appeared to lean over a little too far in his saddle, as if, perhaps, adjusting his hold on a momentarily unwieldy lance.

He straightened up, yet now the high-backed saddle appeared strangely askew.

Suddenly, though, he was once again leaning over much too far.

And with the angry snap of leather straps, shredding under the extra, unbalanced load they were being asked to carry, the still-seated Archon toppled from his horse, crashing to the floor with a thunderous clatter.

*

As Archon hit the ground, Egvalan was already upon him, placing his sword tip at the fallen knight's throat.

For even as Archon had made his turn, Egvalan had begun his sprint towards the wheeling knight. Far from missing his intended target with the stroke of his blade, Egvalan had cleanly sliced the girth strap running beneath the belly of Archon's mount. As this fastening took most of the load of saddle and knight, once it was severed the lesser bands snapped under the increased strain imposed upon them.

Archon was helpless, trapped within his considerable saddle and given no time by Egvalan to unsheathe his sword. He would have no choice but to yield to the younger knight.

The crowd groaned in disappointment, some even raising furious cries, accusing Egvalan of taking advantage of Archon's apparent misfortune.

As Archon continued to refuse to respond to Egvalan's demands that he concede defeat, the victorious knight irately wrenched back the champion's visor.

But it wasn't the face of Archon he saw there.

It was that of Sulat's.

*

# Chapter 17

'Is this why the champion has remained undefeated for so long; because you do his fighting for him?'

Egvalan could immediately see the advantages of such an arrangement. A man of metal wasn't only a formidable opponent, but could also be repaired relatively easily.

And where was Archon? No doubt he had donned armour similar to Sault's, taking his place as Sulat had taken his.

'Only to ensure our queen's security, naturally,' Sulat replied coolly; perhaps, if he'd been human, he'd have accompanied his comment with a wry grin. 'Would you deny us that?'

Seeing that a number of squires surrounding a small cart were rushing out onto the field to aid the fallen and trapped knight, Egvalan swiftly closed the helmet's visor.

'He's not injured,' he yelled out to the onrushing squires, knowing they would struggle to part the strangely heavy champion from the wreckage of the saddle and begin to suspect something was amiss. 'I don't think he'd appreciate being carted off towards the surgeons' tent.'

The squires, of course, assumed Egvalan was referring to Archon's wounded pride. But It would cause a great deal of consternation if the champion's subterfuge was revealed, and Egvalan didn't want to suffer any further delay to his departure.

As was customary, the queen had risen from her seat to once again receive and announce the tournament's victor. But Egvalan contemptuously ignored her, expertly and quickly hacking at the crumpled wood and leather saddle with his sword in the hope he could free Sulat before the squires discovered Archon's trickery.

But of course, Sulat had been a willing accomplice to the artifice. And like Archon, he had always feared that one day someone would uncover their deceit.

As he was partly freed, releasing the heavy pressure of his own weight upon his sword arm, he deftly reached for and unsheathed his own sword as Egvalan busied himself slashing at the tangled saddle.

It was a quick, upward stoke that a recumbent man would have found hard to place any real force behind; but Sulat was far from being a man, while Egvalan's inner thigh was only weakly and partially protected by his armour.

Instinctively, Egvalan lithely turned about his waist, bringing his sword down hard and furiously upon Sulat's breast. Against a man of iron, even such a powerful blow might normally have caused little harm.

But to Egvalan's surprise, as his blade contacted the area around what might have been Sulat's heart, it hissed and spat threads of fiery flame.

And life left Sulat with a shriek of screaming metals.

*

# Chapter 18

In his monstrously heavy armour, Kelley was far too great a load for Esemiell to gain any control over.

He was bearing down upon her and, frustratingly, despite using all her strength to push back against him, he was quickly forcing her towards the ground.

There was flash in her mind of the boy's face, his expression one of agony and hurt. Then, abruptly, his scowl became one of determination.

In an instant, Esemiell was seeing the armoured Kelley as if through the boy's eyes rather than hers. For she realised she was wielding a sword, which she brought crashing down hard across the beast's heart.

Yet it was only a momentary respite, for she was immediately propelled back into the other reality, where Kelley was still remorselessly pressing himself down upon her.

Then he shook, bucked wildly, as silken threads of flame licked everywhere about him without, thankfully, causing any harm to her.

Still he pushed down upon her, however, his bulk if anything greater than ever, now apparently making himself so limp that he was an irresistible dead weight.

She collapsed to the floor beneath him, the air entirely forced from her body as Kelley landed with a sickening crunch on top of her.

Then he lay there like this, laid fully across her, no longer moving in the slightest.

In fact he was perfectly, leadenly still.

Esemiell gasped in relief.

Had he somehow been knocked unconscious as they'd fallen?

Or, in his excitement, the strain of his endeavours, had he suffered some problem with his heart?

Regaining her breath, Esemiell wondered if she could slide out from beneath him while pushing, or perhaps rolling, him over towards the other side.

It was far more of a struggle than she'd expected. But at last, by coordinating her efforts, she managed to slip from underneath him as, with a sharp jab, she sent him rolling off to her other side.

Gratefully pushing herself up off the floor and rising to her feet, Esemiell anxiously glanced about her room, taking in the still closed and bolted door.

How had Kelley got into her room?

She'd noticed the way he sometimes looked at her oddly, such that she feared him, and always bolted her door as an extra precaution at night. Yet despite this, despite the fact that it was still closed and bolt– wait!

What was she thinking?

Hadn't this all been a dream?

She wasn't in bed. It was close by her however. Tentatively, unsure of what she might feel, what this might mean, she reached out to touch it.

It certainly _felt_ real enough.

A nearby chair was also firmly solid to her touch.

Naturally, certain dreams could fool you even when it came to things like this...and yet, it no longer _seemed_ like a dream.

It _seemed_ real.

She now looked back towards the dead figure lying upon the floor.

If all this wasn't a dream, then Kelley was dead.

Worst of all, she was responsible for his death.

*

Why was Kelley wearing that ridiculous armour?

How had he managed to pass through a still closed and bolted door`?

And how had he made so much of what had happened seem like a dream to her?

Like her father, Kelley delved in magic; perhaps all this was easily achievable for him.

As she had heaved him off her, his body had rolled onto its back, the helmet's visor partially closing once more.

Esemiell knelt down beside Kelley, cautiously raising the visor, wondering if she had made a mistake after all, that maybe he was still alive and had simply been knocked unconscious.

She gasped in horror.

It wasn't Kelley.

It wasn't even the face of a man.

It was dark, partially beast-like.

Even demonic.

*

# Chapter 19

Esemiell didn't tell her father that she had originally mistaken her demonic attacker for Kelley.

She told herself that it wasn't relevant; that either she had imagined it in her fear, or it was all down to the dream-like quality of her experience, where everything could become something altogether different in an instant.

By the time Esemiell had alerted her father and they had rushed back to her room, the fallen demon had somehow vanished.

'He...he can't have been dead, as I'd thought,' a confused Esemiell said uncertainly.

Could it _all_ have been nothing more than a frightening dream?

With no proof at all of her unnerving experience, Esemiell feared that her father would dismiss it all as being the result of her overactive imagination.

Instead, bending as low as he could manage, her father peered intently – and even cautiously touched – the area where Esemiell told him the demon had lain upon the floor, apparently dead, after she had dragged herself from beneath him.

'It sounds like you suffered a visitation from a nature sprite,' her father said assuredly, the only hint of a tone in his voice been one of regret that the demon was no longer around for him to observe more closely. 'They can be utilised to merge and confuse the realms of dreams and reality.'

'But who'd send such a thing?' Esemiell asked, wondering if it was time to mention seeing Kelley's face.

Her father shrugged.

'We are conversing with the angelic world,' he reminded her. 'There may be those amongst them who'd prefer we don't succeed.'

Esemiell remembered the boy she had seen within her entangling of dream and reality; a boy who slew a demon that was, for a while at least, as real as she was.

Did that mean that he also really existed? That he could also appear in this world?

That, too, he wanted the angelic conversation to succeed – for hadn't he attacked and possibly killed the demon sent to confuse her?

'Then all the more reason why we _must_ continue, Father!' Esemiell adamantly declared.

*

As she once again seated herself upon the Mercy Seat, Esemiell determined that, this time, she would try and remain aware of what was happening to her.

She didn't know if this would be possible, of course; but she sensed it might be achievable through means similar to those used to merge the realms of dreams and reality.

The answer revolved around the boy; this whole conversation was connected in some way with the boy, she was sure. Perhaps, just as sorcerers used their demonic sprites, she could use the goodness – for yes, she was also wholly certain that he must be a force for all that was good in the world – of the boy.

If she thought of the boy, and only of the boy – and this was nowhere near as difficult as she might have supposed – as she sat between the angels, would it grant her the connection between the two realms that she craved?

She had only seen him twice, of course, once in the obsidian mirror, the other time in her dream; yet it was more than enough for her to begin to let him accurately take form in her mind.

Then she remembered; in the dream, he had briefly appeared hurt, and badly so, going by the agony she had seen briefly etched upon his face.

His thigh – his _inner_ thigh. It had been struck by–

How could she possibly know _that_?

Because, now she thought about it, she was also in pain.

She glanced down towards her own thigh; and was stunned to see that she was bleeding there, her dress already messily stained.

No, she wasn't just stunned; she was in a daze, increasingly delirious.

Her mind was swimming, uncontrollably.

The she was pitching forward from her seat as, somewhere, in another realm, her father worriedly cried, 'Esemiell; what's wrong?'

*

# Chapter 20

When Esemiell was once again more fully aware of the things going on around her, she found that she was lying in her bed.

Where and when had her dream ended?

Where and when had it begun?

She couldn't be at all sure anymore.

She was still feverishly hot, still partially delirious.

Sensing that the bed sheets weren't moving with her as smoothly as usual, she looked down across her bedspread. It was littered with heavy books, most offhandedly and apparently haphazardly left open, careless of any damage that might occur to their many dry and ancient pages.

Books were left lying everywhere about her room in a similarly uncaring state, a chaotic trail leading her to look towards a corner of the room where her father was studiously poring over yet another massive tome.

'Father?' Esemiell half whispered, half croaked.

On hearing his daughter's pained voice, Doctor Dee elatedly spun around in his chair.

'You're awake!' he exclaimed in surprise.

Leaping up from his chair without any care of the books he sent spilling to the floor everywhere about him, he rushed over to her side, eagerly grasping her hand as he almost gratefully dropped to his knees.

'You've recovered–'

He paused as, now he was closer to her, he more thoughtfully took in her appearance.

'No, no – not _recovered_ ,' he said, correcting himself, anxiety flooding his eyes, 'not _yet_ anyway! But at least you're awake, and that's something I'd...something I could've only hoped for a few days ago!'

'A few _days_?' Esemiell repeated curiously. 'How long have I been sleep? What's been wrong with me? Was it the Mercy Seat? Did it...'

'No, no – _not_ the Mercy Seat!' her father reassured her. 'I think it _must_ be something to do with your dream–'

'You know of my dream?'

'Why yes, of course! Can't you recall telling me? Of the demon – the demon who'd vanished once his work was complete?'

Esemiell nodded; yes, of course she remembered. And so that part, at least, hadn't been a part of her dream.

A dream that, somehow, had been real enough to confine her to bed in a delirium, perhaps even a highly feverish state.

Her father grasped her hand tightly.

'I believe that demon might have had some purpose other than to simply cloud your dreams, Esemiell!' he said apprehensively. 'He seems to have administered a form of poisonous substrate–'

'Poison? But how? It wasn't even as if there was any point in my dream where he appeared to be giving me _anything_!'

The doctor shook his head in recognition of his own bewilderment, casting a disappointed eye over his scattered books. It was a priceless collection, yet every text he had referred to while seeking answers had had nothing to say on this particular matter of Esemiell's frustratingly untreatable ailment.

'I've come to the painful conclusion, Esemiell, that it can only be your _spiritual body_ that has in some way been affected!'

'Then what do I need to do, Father?' Esemiell hopefully asked.

If anyone knew, it would be her father.

Once again, Doctor Dee shook his head miserably.

'It can only be down to _me_ , Esemiell, to do something about this!'

His voice was suddenly full of a resolve that had been lacking only moments earlier, as if voicing his concerns had forced him at last into accepting that there was now only one option open to him.

He rose sharply to his feet.

'Forgive me for leaving you,' he pleaded, raising her hand to his lips for a brief kiss, 'but I now believe I know what I _have_ to do!'

Before Esemiell could object, he'd spun around on his feet and was heading for the door.

*

# Chapter 21

The court was empty.

Even so, Esemiell was joyously playing a modern harpsichord, or maybe an older clavicembalum.

She couldn't recognise the piece she was playing.

She couldn't even recognise the style of music; it was quite odd, the tones, the musical scale, being entirely different to what she was far more used to playing.

Even so the music was quite gorgeous in its flow, its delicacy.

She never realised she could play so beautifully, so perfectly.

She'd never heard anything like it befor–

_No_.

She _had_ heard music like this!

But only when she was seated in the Mercy Seat!

*

Is that where she was now? In the Mercy Seat?

Esemiell couldn't remember taking up her position there.

The last thing she could remember was waking up in bed, finding her father treating her for some kind of infection that had left her delirious.

He'd left her, seeking some other cure – leaving by the door that the sleep sprite had managed to pass through even while it was bolted.

Was this just another dream?

Almost certainly – why else would she playing a harpsichord in front of an empty court.

But was it a natural dream?

One engendered by her dazed state?

Or another demonic mix of dream state and reality?

*

The instrument she was playing, Esemiell realised, wasn't a harpsichord after all.

No wonder its music was so odd, so completely different to everything else she had heard played on earth.

Its whole architecture, its construction, was entirely distinctive.

It had two keyboards, but here were extra keys, extra strings. Each black key was divided into two parts, allowing a distinction to be made between a sharp or flat note, the boards themselves providing extra pitches rather than a timbral difference. There were tones there, _micro_ tones, unavailable on a normal keyboard.

Tones used in the earliest attempts by man to contact the angels by utilising musical instruments.

But how would she know that?

She couldn't be sure.

Perhaps she had picked up more things from the Mercy Seat than she could _consciously_ recall.

Yes, that must be it; otherwise, how would she know this was the music she had heard the angels speak as she had sat between them? There was an older, lower, more original and almost totally separate part of the brain, one dealing with language, labyrinths, balance, pleasure – fear.

The _archicerebellum_ ; and this instrument was an _archicembalo_.

It had nineteen keys per octave. And four octaves, plus one extra C, gave seventy seven keys in all.

_Nineteen keys_!

Wasn't that the promise of the angels? That they would reveal the _nineteen_ keys?

And seventy-seven – seven seven!

_That's_ why forty-nine had occurred again and again! _Seven seven_.

The tingling of excitement surging through her strangely made feel as one with the music, just as a glass, discovering its own natural frequency, vibrates in concert with an accomplished singer, singing along with her, realising and making manifest the previously hidden qualities they share.

And so now the music hidden in the surrounding architecture – the soaring columns, the flowing arches, the decorative architraves – all began to shiver, to quiver, to hum: to _sing_.

*

# Chapter 22

Far, far above even the highest points of the court's soaring columns, other, greater bodies were responding to the heavenly music being played down on earth.

For even the planets themselves are, ultimately, constructed purely of music, of interacting waves acting in concert. And they are positioned in relation to each other, too, as fingers move across an instrument's strings to create the necessary notes.

To an angel in eternity, time is of no consequence as she plays this truly remarkable instrument. Through the Music of the Spheres, the angels can converse with man, each word taking an eon in its composition.

So as a man's life passes in the blink of an angel's eye, he may falsely believe he can never truly appreciate this glorious music's full beauty. And yet what is eternity, but a timeless realm?

When angels speak, lives change.

*

The ground moves, trembling as in fear.

As sand flows when mixed with water, or even as it vibrates and shifts to the beat of nearby drums, as if granted life, the earth takes on the consistency of liquefied pitch.

It moves, then, taking with it the things that had made it their home.

The grasses.

The flowers.

The bushes; even the great trees.

And of course, the creatures living within this wood travel along with it too.

In this way, the wood walks.

It is the Wandering Wood.

*

# Chapter 23

Esemiell woke up in a world far darker than her dream.

She wasn't in a bed – though she was lying on a bed of dried leaves.

There was no surrounding room either – yet the trunks of the trees formed what might be taken for columns, reaching up to a canopy of leaves.

While she had slept, an entire wood had somehow completely enveloped her.

It could only be the continuation of her dream, couldn't it?

How else could such a thing be possible?

Rising a little dazedly and clumsily to her feet, submerging the fear flowing through her, Esemiell realised she had no choice – dream or not – but to try and find her way out of this labyrinthine wood.

Fortunately, she didn't have at all far to go before she came across a surprisingly pleasant looking cottage, comfortably nestling amongst the trees as if it had been here as long as the forest itself.

Smoke rose lazily from its chimney, promising the reassuring comforts of a warm fire, while candlelight shone invitingly in its window. Its split, stable-like door was also similarly welcoming, lying wide open rather than closed.

Esemiell saw no reason to fear that the cottage's occupant might cause her harm. Surely the creatures of the forest would be more of a threat?

She tapped lightly on the open door then, receiving no answer, stepped inside, preparing to cry out, 'Hello? Is anybody here?'

Unfortunately, she was lost for words.

*

The young boy Esemiell had seen in the mirror, in her dreams, was now seated right before her in an ancient chair.

Seeing Esemiell enter, he was every bit as startled as she was, if not more so.

'Your majesty!' he blurted out in complete surprise, easily rising to his feet, as if Esemiell had been entirely wrong about him receiving any injuries.

But then she saw that his thigh was heavily bandaged. He _had_ been wounded then, but had received treatment, such that his injuries were obviously no longer troubling him.

'Majesty?' Esemiell chuckled in pleasant surprise. 'No, no; I'm no _queen_ ; nor even a princess!'

As the boy was wearing robes, rather than his more encumbering armour, Esemiell clearly saw his face light up with the dawn of understanding.

'Yes, yes – I see!' he exclaimed elatedly. 'The girl in the mirror; you're the girl I saw in the Mirror of Mercy!'

'But – I saw you, too, in a mirror; one used for scrying!'

They were standing so close to each other now that they could have been meticulously observing their own image in a large mirror. They each wanted to draw closer still but, unaware that their thinking was so alike, they nervously stayed apart.

'I saw you were injured,' Esemiell said, glancing down at his bandaged thigh.

'Fortunately I came across a hermit living here; a wizard, more like – called Archimago.'

Even as he said this, they each heard the steady crunch of approaching footsteps, coming from not far beyond the still wide open door.

The wizard entered, carrying wild herbs and slivers of bark he had been gathering.

Esemiell instantly recognised him.

'Father!' she gasped.

*

# Chapter 24

'You shouldn't be here!' Archimago snorted furiously.

Carelessly tossing aside his studiously gathered flora, he grabbed the startled girl by her arm, dragging her towards him even as he stepped back through the door.

Egvalan dashed out after them; he couldn't understand why the previously kindly Archimago – whom he owed so much to, as he'd been ailing badly when he'd first chanced upon this cottage – was behaving so appallingly to the young girl.

A young girl who'd called him 'Father' too!

He had no choice but to demand an explanation of Archimago's uncharacteristically dreadful behaviour.

But when he stepped out beyond the door, he found that he was once again all alone in this darkly labyrinthine wood.

For father and daughter had both mysteriously vanished.

*

# Chapter 25

Naturally, Egvalan searched the surrounding woodland in the hope that he could find the beautiful girl.

A girl who had gone from being nothing but an image he'd seen in a mirror to a girl of warm flesh and blood.

A girl he'd almost drawn close enough to to hold in his arms.

But then again, it had been no regular mirror he had seen her in; it had been the Mirror of Mercy that had revealed her existence to him.

Is that why, when she'd entered the room, he'd suddenly felt so incredibly well once more?

In fact, he'd abruptly felt better than he'd ever felt.

Like he was....yes, _entirely_ whole.

Whole as opposed to forever feeling somehow empty, and devoid of any purpose in life.

When his search proved fruitless, he stayed at the cottage awhile, presuming that Archimago at least must return to his home. And when Archimago returned, Egvalan could ask him if he might marry his daughter.

But eventually Egvalan had to recognise that neither Archimago nor his wonderful daughter seemed to have any intention of returning to the wood's cottage.

Besides, now that he'd been separated from the girl, he sensed he was gradually weakening once more.

Archimago's considerable skills with treatments appropriated from the forest had managed to take away the worst of the injury's affects, if not as yet completely cure him.

The complete cure, it seemed, lay within his daughter's power, rather than Archimago's.

He would have to set off in search of her, and quickly too, before he became too ill to have any hope of achieving his goal.

But – where should he look?

Where on earth could she be?

He had no idea of even the direction he must take.

No; that wasn't true.

He must head back towards the queen's realm. And, if needs be, beg the queen for her help.

For she owned the Mirror of Mercy.

It was only by once again looking in the mirror, he realised, that he might find where the girl was hiding.

*

The cottage, Egvalan soon realised, had been built in an area of relatively lightly spaced trees and sparse undergrowth.

Elsewhere the woodland encroached upon the traveller like a supremely confident gang of brigands, its many branching hands forever picking at loose straps or open pockets, its thicker stems clubs that might unhorse the unwary.

The path he followed was the only path, albeit a winding one, dictating the course to be taken much as a river ultimately directs the fate of a boat cast upon it. It had to be the trail he'd taken to arrive at the cottage, not that he could recall much of it; he'd been mostly quite delirious, for Sulat's wound to his thigh must have become dangerously infected.

Far ahead of him now, there was movement amongst the trees, an unexpectedly unusual rustling that, serpentine in its steady flow, was drawing ever closer. It wasn't that the innumerable leaves and branches were being disturbed, as if by an invisible beast, so much as they appeared to be pulling aside of their own accord like complexly woven curtains.

The darkness enveloping the path opened up.

There was a burst of the most intensely bright colours, of flowers glittering like jewels, of leaves and stems sparkling like gold and silver.

A mounted knight, wearing the unmistakable armour of the Queen's Champion.

Sulat?

Or was it Archon?

Whoever it was, he was deftly hoisting his lance up out of its support, in preparation for an attack.

*

# Chapter 26

'I've either already defeated you once,' Egvalan cried out to the knight still casually trotting towards him, 'or I defeated the one you'd chosen to act in your place.'

Naturally, Egvalan refused to be intimidated by the glorious majesty of the champion's glitteringly complex armour. And yet it was undisputedly eerie, the way the wood itself was either recoiling in horror from the knight's presence, or was subserviently paying homage by laying itself open to his passage.

'I think you don't know as much about this world as you think you do.'

Egvalan recognised Archon's voice.

'You let your friend fight for you,' Egvalan replied in disgust, 'so why take me on now, here in the woods?'

'In the list, I could never really be myself,' Archon laughed ominously. 'Besides, my heart wouldn't have been in it – for the ridiculous thing is, I recognised that the queen was made for you. And so I'm here to force you to come back; she is your intended, and you cannot deny your fate. '

'If you wish me to come back, then there's no need for us to fight,' Egvalan declared. 'But the queen _isn't_ my intended; she wasn't the girl in the mirror, as we'd presumed. I've _met_ the girl who appeared there!'

'You've _met_ her?' Archon sounded suspicious, even confused 'But...that's _not_ possible!'

'Why shouldn't it be possible?' Egvalan chuckled curiously. 'She's of flesh and blood, like you or me.'

Archon laughed dismissively.

'You can only have met her in your most hopeful – or should that be _hopeless_? – dreams. Now the queen, _she_ could be so _easily_ mine; but for the good of this realm, I must _insist_ you return to her!'

'And I say again; I _will_ return with you – but _not_ to marry the queen!'

"Then we're left with no choice but that I must _persuade_ you,' Archon sneered contemptuously, lowering his visor, lowering his lance.

With sharp jabs of his heels, he urged his mount into a charge.

*

Archon's positioning of his lance was odd, Egvalan noticed, almost as if he wasn't used to wielding one, especially in actual combat rather than fighting in the lists.

Maybe it was a ruse, to catch him off guard.

Although wary of any tricks about to be played by Archon, Egvalan made sure that the aiming of his own lance was accurate and true. Or, at least, he targeted Archon's breastplate, fully aware that he would have to correct his aim at the last moment as the champion responded with a defensive adjustment of his shield, or a slight leaning to one side.

Yet Archon unexpectedly made neither move. He failed, too, to alter the aim of his own lance as Egvalan expertly lifted his shield up to deflect its force.

The tip of Egvalan's lance struck home directly in the centre of Archon's breast.

Then it sank deeply into the brightly sparkling armour, like it was penetrating nothing but a beautiful array of flowers, or a sun burst of light.

Taken by surprise, and having prepared himself to absorb the solid forces of their collision, Egvalan found himself ungainly pitching forward in his saddle. His lance was also torn from his grip, the shaft rushing through a body that now appeared to be entirely fluid, a watery form that naturally moved aside rather than suffering damage.

Archon's poorly targeted blow, however, seemed to contain all the solidity and mass that had vanished from the rest of him, all the weight and momentum concentrated here in one single point.

Egvalan's shield shattered under the colossal force of the impact.

His armour buckled, cracked.

And suddenly, Egvalan was unhorsed, spilling uncontrollably towards the ground.

*

# Chapter 27

Rapidly slowing his mount, Archon wheeled her about, following Sulat's remarkably similar actions at the tournament.

Quickly rising to his feet, unsheathing his sword as part of the same flowing movement, Egvalan firmly set his feet apart in readiness to defend against being ridden down.

But rather than immediately urging his horse into another charge, Archon steadied her, contemptuously throwing his lance aside. Slipping down from his saddle, he drew his own sword as he confidently strode back towards Egvalan.

Obviously, Egvalan thought, his boldness is based on this strangely watery form he can take on at will. How can such a body be injured, when it flows aside to allow any blow to smoothly pass through it?

Or, maybe, his mount would have put him at a small disadvantage; for, surely, _she_ remained flesh and blood, leaving her vulnerable to the steel of Egvalan's sword?

Archon raised his visor. He was already grinning triumphantly.

'The queen is our most wonderful creation, created _especially_ for you!' Archon bluntly stated. 'Once you're enjoined, you'll have no need of this dream girl! _She's_ required elsewhere, as our contact with the angels.'

Archon had every reason to be so assured of victory, Egvalan realised.

How can water be damaged?

How can it be given substance?

_Mud_?

With enough earth added, water becomes mud.

Although he recognised it would be nowhere near the quantities of soil required, Egvalan bent low towards the ground, digging his gauntleted fingers as deeply as possible into the earth. Wrenching free a large sod of crumbling soil and gravel, he threw it towards the nonchalantly approaching champion; but naturally, Egvalan's strange actions only raised a pitying laugh from Archon.

The already loosely held together clod broke up as it struck Archon's watery surface. The soil and gravel, losing their force – unlike Egvalan's earlier thrust of the lance, which had far more weight behind it – rippled slowly, even quite beautifully, through the flowing waters, each forming swirling whirlpools.

Egvalan rushed forwards, clanging his blade hard against a small boulder as he neared Archon, letting it ring metallically – letting it _sing_.

As before, Archon made no serious attempt to defend himself.

Why should he, when was quite invulnerable?

Egvalan abruptly slowed the curve of his sword as he cleaved the watery substance.

He let its trembling voice send out ripple after ripple.

He let its song disturb the solidity of the whirlpools caused by the languidly traveling gravel.

He let it set in motion a disruptive commotion that broke everything down, shattering every rhythm, ever wave.

*

# Chapter 28

Kelley suddenly pitched forward, clutching his heart.

Instinctively, Esemiell concernedly rushed towards him, catching and supporting him as he continued to painfully stumble.

'Can't you breathe?' she asked worriedly. 'Is it your heart?'

Kelley chuckled bitterly in reply.

'It skipped a few beats; that's all.'

'Really? Are you sure it's not some vexation of the _soul_?' her father asked him scornfully, glaring suspiciously at his assistant.

Doctor Dee and Kelley had been preparing Esemiell to once again undergo the trials of the Mercy Seat. She was already garbed in the breastplate, and adorned with the amulet of truth.

As Dee glared at Kelley, he saw the guilt in the younger man's eyes.

'We'd made an agreement, with our initial contacts!' Dee scowled irately. 'The other realm had to remain _pure_ if it was to work–'

'But it's _not_ working!' Kelley retorted miserably, still clutching his obviously sorely pained chest. 'We've lost _control_ of our creation–'

'Oh, there _was_ a problem, admittedly,' Dee replied dismissively. 'The required, er, _amalgamation_ was unexpectedly _briefly_ jeopardised; but these things have been set to rights.'

Esemiell had become inured to the way both Kelley and her father would emphasise certain words as a means of excluding her from a conversation.

Kelley glowered back at Dee.

'So I take it that means you're guilty of the _very_ thing you accuse _me_ of?'

'There was _little_ choice....'

'The wedding's _not_ going to take place, Dee!'

As he spat out his warning, he switched his accusatory glare towards Esemiell.

Esemiell couldn't think why Kelley was observing her so hatefully; and yet her father ashamedly followed his gaze, looking over towards her with a look of sheer disappointment.

'I...I don't know _how_ it happened...' Dee stammered apologetically to Kelley.

'Then you _knew_ she...'

Kelley slyly glanced Esemiell's way, his latest accusation deliberately left unfinished,

He hadn't wanted her to hear what he was about to say, Esemiell realised.

So, what _was_ it that he'd almost mistakenly blurted out?

What had she done that her father knew of, and Kelley had managed to surmise? Something to do with another realm, and a wedding?

The world of dreams?

Yet that was hardly a creation of Kelley and her father, despite their undoubted powers!

But what _else_ could it be?

Her father had told her how the world of dreams could be manipulated. Why, he'd even appeared in one of her own dreams, seeking – as he'd informed her when she'd awoken from the longest, most curiously confusing and realistic dream she'd ever experienced – to cure her of her feverish imaginings; the boy merely symbolised an illness that was only ever in her mind, yet he had to be seen to be cured to elicit her own recovery.

Yet if the boy was cured...then why did Kelley claim her appearance in her own dream had prevented this wedding – this _amalgamation_ – from taking place?

'Your dreams, we have to admit,' her father began awkwardly, having seen the thinking taking place behind her brightly alert eyes, 'have been woefully affected by your angelic conversion, rendering you unable to differentiate the _imagined_ from _reality_!'

'But the _sprite_ , Father...'

'Well, as I explained _later_ , Esemiell, if you _recall_ , I didn't _see_ him! I'd simply wished to calm and console you at the time by saying it was _possible_ that such a thing had occurred. Besides, a sprite is something entirely different to a boy!'

'He _seemed_ so _real_ –'

Aware of her sadness, Dee uncharacteristically drew closer to her, taking her in his arms.

'I know you'd like to hear otherwise, my dear; I see you've unfortunately formed some form of attachment with this boy! But I must warn you once more; he _doesn't_ exist, except in your _dreams_!'

*

Egvalan was only a few minutes away from the palace when the Queen's Champion once again appeared before him.

But who could it be _this_ time? Egvalan wondered.

Had Sulat recovered after all?

Surely it couldn't be Archon, whom he'd seen dissolve before him: the knight's body and encasing armour as one rapidly fading away until there was little left but a wisp of smoke that could have been a spirit or sprite – whatever the difference may be!

'Sulat?' Egvalan cried out to the oncoming knight.

There was no answer. The knight's visor was already down, hiding his face, adding to the mystery.

If not Sulat, then this had to be a false champion, not a true one. Otherwise, why wouldn't he proudly announce himself and his intentions?

Yet unlike the curiously inept Archon, this knight lowered his lance down his side rather than angling it across his mount as if in the lists.

Nevertheless, his preparations appeared odd, for he held his lance in his left arm, his shield in his right.

It could be a mirror image Egvalan was facing, if it wasn't for the richness of his opponent's armour.

This put Egvalan at a distinct disadvantage for, unlike his foe, he wasn't used to fighting in this manner.

In chess, you could instantly unnerve a foe by make an opening he'd never encountered before, for suddenly every well-practised tactic was rendered useless.

His opponent today, however, wasn't finished with his own brand of disturbingly unexpected moves.

He threw aside his shield.

He raised his free hand up towards his helmet, as if about to at last lift his visor; but the helmet must have been deliberately loosened earlier, for he pulled it entirely clear of his head.

Or rather, not _his_ head, but _her_ head.

It was the girl Egvalan had seen earlier in the cottage.

*

# Chapter 29

As Esemiell stepped towards the Mercy Seat, she was abruptly, violently swung around on her heels, as if brutally struck upon her chest by an invisible blow.

'Esemiell!'

As Esemiell herself had done earlier when Kelley had also been mysteriously struck down, her father concernedly dashed towards her. He caught her as she fell into his arms, gasping for breath and fruitlessly clutching at her agonisingly painful chest.

'What's wrong?' Dee asked her anxiously.

'The boy; the boy's been injured _badly_ once more!'

'What? How do you know?' Kelley demanded suspiciously.

Dee glanced back towards Kelley.

'Obviously she feels–'

'No, no, Father; I _saw_ it too. And _I_ was the one who struck him!'

*

It was the very briefest of visions.

Esemiell had been completely startled when she had suddenly viewed herself as a knight, fully armoured bar a missing helmet.

Stranger still, this armoured vision of herself was rushing towards her, lance lowered, as if she were facing a mirrored image.

And yet, she realised, she was seeing all this through the eyes of the boy. A boy who couldn't bring himself to strike out, or to even defend himself.

He had taken the lance blow brutally hard upon his chest; for Esemiell's mirror image suffered no qualms at all.

*

# Chapter 30

Esemiell's pain was so intense she failed to notice her father's exchange of a wary, anxious glance with Kelley.

'How could _you_ strike him?' Kelley asked her distrustfully.

'I...I don't know,' Esemiell unsurely confessed. 'I didn't think I was _really_ there, in my dreams, like last time. I could see _myself_ ; whereas before, I was...well... _me_.'

Kelley and Dee once again swapped nervous, knowing glances.

This time, Esemiell couldn't fail to notice, especially as the pain in her chest had begun to ease.

At last, Dee sighed resignedly.

'It _isn't_ you,' he said, waving away the beginning of Kelley's protest. 'Well, not the _real_ you, obviously. She's how you _appear_ in the world of dreams.'

'My dreams?' Esemiell repeated doubtfully. 'Why would I want to harm the boy? Even in my dreams?'

'She believes he has _deserted_ her,' Dee explained.

'Why shouldn't she?' Kelly responded scornfully. 'It had been announced they were destined to marry. Yet he foolishly refused her.'

'But how can it be so important that this boy marries this dream twin of mine?' an increasingly bewildered Esemiell demanded. 'And how do you both know so much about my dreams anyway?'

Dee looked towards Kelley, his expression that of someone who realises the truth has to be told at last, yet seeking permission to do so from a fellow accomplice.

Kelley sourly nodded in agreement.

'It is more than a _dream_ world; more than _your_ dream world, my dear,' Dee said ashamedly. 'It's a realm lying between our world and that of the angels; one we were helped to construct by our first contacts, to enable our conversation to take place.'

Hearing this, Esemiell recognised that it would explain how her father came to be in what she had presumed was her dream. It would explain too, of course, why she had suffered an injury to her thigh through an event taking place in this dream realm

'When you accidentally appeared in them as yourself, it caused problems,' Kelley said bitterly. 'Having seen you, the boy sensed a reality in you lacking in the queen.'

'When he saw me, the boy thought I was the queen,' Esemiell recalled.

She reflected, too, that her father may have lied to her when he'd told her she'd only imagined visiting the boy.

Yet, of course, she still couldn't fully understand how this realm worked. It could well be the case that she only believed she had visited it, as if in a dream.

Besides, her father may have simply wanted to protect her from the strange worlds he was increasingly dabbling in.

Despite the agony she was still suffering, she hung her head ashamedly.

She had unwittingly caused a problem; she had disturbed the harmony and brought about confusion in this angelically created world.

'How do I set things right?' she asked, raising her head determinedly. 'How can I help the boy recover and marry his queen?'

*

The boy had seemed so real to her.

And in a way, _wasn't_ he real anyway?

When he suffered, so did she.

A confusion, a colliding, of worlds, brought about by the Mercy Seat, by this aim to converse with the angels.

Yet if I'm queen, Esemiell wondered, then why do I feel hurt when the _boy_ suffers?

Because, naturally, if boy and queen are to be married, then they are simply different sides of the same coin, yes?

As her father had explained, the boy was her own internal suffering and doubts made manifest in this semi-angelic world.

Therefore she must use her powers as queen to make sure he's cured; and through her painstaking care, once again win his love.

*

# Chapter 31

Naturally, Esemiell's proposed solution wouldn't be quite so easy to put into practice.

How do you _control_ a dream?

How do you even ensure you're dreaming the particular one you want?

When she'd appeared to step inside her own dream, she was delirious, feverish.

She was injured once again, of course, but not by any means in the same way.

She was still suffering badly from the wound the queen had administered, and yet, like Kelley, she had gradually begun to recover to a point where she could go about her business once again, if still finding it hard to breath, still experiencing pangs of agony.

Until she worked out a way to bring her royal twin under her control, she would continue helping her father with his experiments.

She had been laboriously prepared to take the Mercy Seat.

And so, once again, she settled between the conversing angels.

*

The music she heard, like before, was like no music she had heard played on earth.

Even so, there was something remotely recognisable about it.

It had a celebratory quality; a sense of unification, of bringing things together.

A wedding.

A _royal_ wedding.

The queen was about to be married.

*

The boy, like Esemiell, was garbed in the Breastplate of Aaron.

It had been granted to him by the queen as a reminder that the Mirror of Mercy had ordained that they had each been created to completely fulfil the other.

It was an angelic decree.

The queen and her best surgeons had laboriously worked to cured Egvalan of his wound, received in battle against the Queen's Champion.

Archon was dead, of course, brought low out in the lists by Egvalan.

Yet as he had died, the champion had landed a blow to the young knight's thigh that had left him completely delirious and feverish for weeks.

Egvalan only suffered a little now, and that was more from the injury he had received to his chest, around the heart, when Archon had first struck him with blow of the lance.

Wearing the Breastplate of Judgment, strangely, usually went some way to easing this pain in his heart.

Today, though, and at this moment especially, it seemed more pained than ever.

*

# Chapter 32

Esemiell wanted to cry out that this was all a mistake; that the boy was – Egvalan, yes, he was called Egvalan, she somehow realised – had always been _her_ intended, not the queen's.

Yet she knew this wasn't true; she had simply become confused by the unnatural reality of this realm of dreams.

He had to marry the queen. This was the only way she could be really cured of her heartache.

She bit her lip, stopping herself from crying out.

No matter how hard she tried, however, she couldn't stop the weeping of her heart.

*

Don't cry Esemiell.

_Esemiell_?

Yes, yes; _that_ was her name!

Esemiell!

She was _real_ ; he felt it for sure now, deep down in his very heart.

And she was _here_ too, at his wedding to the queen.

To a false, contrived Esemiell.

Anxiously, he glanced back towards the vast surrounding crowd, wondering how he could ever hope to find her amongst so many.

But there was a connection, forged long ago, surging between them.

His eyes immediately fell upon her.

Locked in a gaze with her.

Standing close by him, the queen couldn't fail to notice that he'd been distracted, and at the most important part of the ceremony too.

Following his gaze, she saw the object of his desire.

A girl who bizarrely looked just like her.

Who looked just like the innocent child revealed to Egvalan by the Mirror of Mercy.

'Seize that girl!' she abruptly bellowed to her guards, pointing out Esemiell from amongst the crowds. 'She's an imposter!'

*

# Chapter 33

Irately pushing her way through the crowd, Queen Illemese stormed towards a surrounded Esemiell.

'This explains _everything_!' the queen snapped. 'A sprite; taking on _my_ beauty for herself!'

'You told me I'd _dreamt_ of her!' Egvalan complained, following up in the queen's wake.

'Sprites appear in dreams as easily as they can appear as you'd wish them to look!' the queen retorted, drawing up in front of a petrified Esemiell.

'Tell him the truth, girl,' she demanded of Esemiell; 'that you're _not_ of this world!'

If she answered truthfully, Esemiell realised, it would be tantamount to confirming the queen's accusation that she was a wicked sprite.

Yet she couldn't lie; not to Egvalan especially.

'Yes, I _am_ from another world,' she declared assuredly, a confession leading to a widening ripple of gasps of astonishment and fear that quickly spread throughout the crowded hall. 'But not the spirit word – the _real_ world!'

Even as she blurted this out in her defence, Esemiell wondered if it had been altogether wise.

Wouldn't these people feel assured that _their_ world was the real one?

The queen glowered back at her. She believed, naturally, that she was the one who was real, that Esemiell had to be the one who was the copy, the replacement. Otherwise, how could they be so unnaturally alike in every way?

What damage had Esemiell unfortunately set in motion by intruding here once again, and stupidly informing them that their world was a false one?

'The _real_ world?' the queen scoffed, angrily pulling at the long dress Esemiell wore beneath the breastplate. 'Would a _queen_ be really so _poorly_ dressed in the real world? A _queen_ is appointed by _God_ to rule; whereas a simple maid is appointed her own tasks by any number of people!'

'Yet _she_ wears the amulet of truth,' Egvalan pointed out, indicating the Seal of God that Esemiell wore upon her wrist.

'It's nothing but an _amulet_!' the queen protested. 'How can you believe it forces people – let alone a cunning _sprite_ – to tell the truth?'

'She also wears a breastplate, and we know of _its_ remarkable powers–'

'A mere _copy_ ; like _she_ is! And this amulet is probably a poor facsimile too, made of wax and what have you!'

'Well,' Egvalan replied thoughtfully, 'would you be prepared to wear it, Illemese? Provided, naturally, that Esem – this girl is prepared to be briefly separated from it?

Happily nodding in agreement to Egvalan, Esemiell began to eagerly slip the amulet form her wrist.

The queen blanched.

'Wear the...?' she began doubtfully.

Then, suddenly she brightened.

'Why yes; what a good idea, Egvalan!' she declared joyously, taking the amulet and gleefully slipping it onto her own wrist.

She admired the amulet, taking in its detailing, it powerful use of symbols and divine names.

'For if it is indeed real,' she chuckled triumphantly, glowering at an innocently bewildered Esemiell, 'then it gives me power over _all_ creatures!'

*

# Chapter 34

'Just go back to your own world please!' the queen ordered Esemiell with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Esemiell remained where she was. She felt no compunction to return to her father's laboratory.

Was the amulet an entirely powerless device after all?

'I _said_ , you _have_ to _return_ to your _own_ world!' the queen repeated furiously.

Esemiell still made no move to leave the dream world.

The queen contemptuously glared at the amulet.

'A copy, see? _Everything_ about this girl is _false_ , not _true_!'

She imperiously turned to the captain of her guards.

'I can't allow _anything_ false to taint this realm!'

The closest of the guards surrounding Esemiell firmly grabbed her by the arms; but then, like everyone else in the great hall, they glanced up in astonishment as a loud burst of the most gorgeous music made everything about them worryingly tremble – the floor, the columns, the whole of the building itself.

But where could the music be coming from?

It was only as the hall's enveloping walls began to fearfully vibrate that it at last dawned upon everyone there where the choral-like tones originated

It was the building; the building itself was singing!

*

# Chapter 35

As the walls and columns sang, they reverberated ever more violently to their own rhythmic tones.

And as every constituent part of the structure, right down to its very smallest building block, joined in with the harmonic composition, they began to shiver, to throb wildly – and, eventually, in the case of one whole wall, to dissolve.

The very ground itself had suddenly been rendered fluid in its constituency, flowing about the feet of the courtiers as freely as water. Its gloriously patterned tiles flowed, merged, with the darker earth of the woodland stretching out beyond the wall that had now entirely vanished.

And as that ground trembled and shook, it began to set in motion the most fearful moving of the great forest itself, such that it was now rapidly marching towards the palace as if it were some invading, besieging army.

It swept unopposed through the palace's dissolved outer walls, through the now non-existent walls of the hall itself. Here its inexorable advance at last came to a halt, the woodland taking up residence now where there had been only moments before gilded statues and gold embroidered tapestries.

Where the soaring columns had been, there were now the most incredibly thick trunks, reaching up to a canopy of leaves. And along with the towering trees, the woodland had brought along with it the bushes, the flowers, even the grasses, replacing the furniture, the decorative flourishes, the luxurious carpets.

Amongst all this darkness of the invading, labyrinthine woods, there was only the very slightest glimmer of a welcoming light.

It came from a candle, set in the window of a cottage nestling amongst the trees as if it had been here as long as the forest itself.

*

# Chapter 36

No one was more shocked and angered by this unbelievable intrusion than the queen.

She felt entirely powerless.

How could she order her soldiers to resist an invasion of the woods themselves?

Lost for words, she glowered at the amulet she wore, as if suddenly aware that, somehow, it was responsible for this.

But then, fortunately she was suddenly presented with a possible target of her guards after all.

As the door of the cottage opened with a well-worn creak, an old man began to unhurriedly walk towards her.

'Take him!' she commanded.

Unfortunately for the guards who responded to her call, they were immediately grabbed by the thinner stems of the trees as they attempted to draw close to the approaching man.

It was Archimago, Egvalan realised.

'Father!' Esemiell cried out in surprise.

*

'Stop, wizard, or whoever you are!' Queen Illemese resolutely demanded, recognising that she could make use of Esemiell's revealing cry. 'We have your _daughter_!' she added with a triumphant smirk, indicating the guards still tightly holding Esemiell by the arms.

Archimago, Esemiell's father, glanced sadly, even apologetically, towards the firmly held Esemiell.

'I'm afraid you're mistaken,' he sighed miserably, 'for although I now wish it were otherwise, I have to confess; Esemiell _isn't_ my daughter.'

*

# Chapter 37

'Hah!' the queen chortled. 'So she's even a false _daughter_!'

Esemiell was distraught.

'Father! How can you say such a dreadful thing?'

'Because it's true, I'm afraid my dear,' Dee admitted ashamedly. 'The _Sigillum Dei Aemeth_ demands that the truth is at last told; and the truth is, we could only converse with the angels if we could, er, _persuade_ an _archangel_ to stay with us and help us.'

The queen whirled upon Esemiell.

_'That's_ why the amulet had no power over you!'

Naturally, Esemiell couldn't believe – didn't _want_ to believe – that what her father – _Dee_ – was saying was true.

How could she possibly be an _archangel_?

It was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

And yet the amulet – despite its now obvious powers – hadn't compelled her to return to her own world as ordered.

It commands all creatures; save the _archangels_.

In which case, which was _her_ world anyway?

'How was I _persuaded_?' she demanded suspiciously. 'I can't recall even being _asked_ ; I can't recollect that I was ever an _angel_!'

'While with us, you were only ever _partially_ an angel,' Dee admitted, his glance momentarily falling upon Egvalan.

Despite it being only a fleeting glance, Esemiell noticed it, recognised that it contained its own truths.

She reached out for Egvalan, finding to her and everyone else's surprise that the startled guard's supposedly tight grip on her arm was weak and ineffectual after all.

And as her and Egvalan's hands touched, it was like the conversation of angels.

*

Egvalan immediately felt whole once more.

And Esemiell, too, was suddenly complete; even though she had never really been aware that there was something lacking in her makeup, of course.

They were one, one who had been split, female and male, one in one world, one in another, false realm.

And to ensure it would be a permanent separation, a false Esemiell had been created for Egvalan to be matched with.

As both Esemiell and Egvalan recognised the truth of all this, then so did Queen Illemese, for she was still wearing the amulet.

'W...what?' she stammered, aghast. ' _I'm_ the false one? A false _archangel_?'

There was a new song, as glorious as ever, but now originating from a different source.

It came from the _Sigillum Dei Aemeth_.

As its very smallest parts sang in harmonious joy, it lost its earthly substance, becoming spirit and slipping from the queen's wrist.

Then the trees, as if alive, grabbed all that was false.

Then they moved once more, rushing back to where they had originally come from.

They took with them all that they had brought with them, and left the hall as it had been before.

Save the false archangel.

*

Picking up the fallen amulet, Esemiell slipped it back onto her own wrist.

Taking Egvalan's hand once more, they both looked out over the thronging courtiers.

In return, the courtiers looked back at their new rulers expectantly.

It was a false world.

A world created to entrap an archangel on earth.

It had no right to continue to exist.

And yet...in its way, this new world had its own beauty.

Surely it had developed its right to exist after all?

Esemiell and Egvalan turned to face each other.

Their wings spread upward and out, humming as if formed purely of the most wonderful music.

When angels talk, worlds are created.

When they kiss, becoming one once more; why, then a whole new universe can suddenly come into being.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon – The Unicorndoll – Lesser Nefertiti – My Shrieking Skin – Stone in Love

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