he monk was enraptured. I had witnessed more strenuous wonders with the fairy of the lake and paid the angels little heed, though I was glad for my master’s joy. He taught me how the Savior sings in our blood, our hearts a psalm book if we would but turn back the cover of the mind. “Turn aside the mind, open the heart and sing praise of our Lord. Sing!” With the heavy iron cross rising and falling in my arms, I sang. Five years into my discipleship, when my master deemed me ready to wield a broadsword, he presented the blade to me hilt high, a cross of carnivorous death. It felt in my hands light as a flower -and holding it I felt alive to death. “Thou shall not commit murder,” I spoke aloud the Commandment as the blade spun in my hands whistling. “There is only one enemy you must slay,” the weapons master said, time and again, watching me obey the many intricate cutting patterns he revealed to me...

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