It is the time of Caesar Augustus. Britaine has rebelled against the Roman Empire by
refusing to pay tribute. Bewitching the King, his new wife is resolved to make futile war with
the Romans as part of her scheme to usurp the throne. She has also imprisoned the
changeling Princess Emegen and banished the valiant knight Leonatus. All hope for
Britaine's survival is lost! Borrowing from Shakespeare’s epic Cymbeline, Emegen of the
Faerie combines the Bard’s history, romance, tragedy (plus a little added fantasy) to make a
provocative story of virtue in the face of overwhelming darkness--an allegory about love,
betrayal, resurrection and redemption.

Two worldviews collide: Jesus Messiah's apocalyptic
Judaism and the pagan world of Rome-the result being
Orthodoxy which to this day continues to exist in a
nether world of religion and half truth--deficient in
spirit and in power--operated by both men and
darkness for one purpose: to perpetuate the confusion
of the original Church Councils. This book is a one of
a kind polemic-- a colorful argument against what has
been handed to us as Christianity. To illustrate the
contentions, a history of pertinent events is presented
along with criticism of Orthodox premises, a review of
proto-orthodox literature, apocryphal writings and
three fictional allegories illustrating the Orthodox
church in its various stages; from the original Pauline
charismatic church to a projection of what the final
Orthodox church might look like using current trends
and the existing political climate.
This is the year 1492. I am eighty-two years of age. The things I am
going to tell you are things which I saw myself as a child and as a
youth.

In all the tales and songs and histories of Joan of Arc, which you and
the rest of the world read and sing and study in the books wrought in
the late invented art of printing, mention is made of me, the Sieur
Louis de Conte--I was her page and secretary, I was with her from
the beginning until the end.

I was reared in the same village with her. I played with her every
day, when we were little children together, just as you play with
your mates.

Now that we perceive how great she was, now that her name fills the
whole world, it seems strange that what I am saying is true; for it is
as if a perishable paltry candle should speak of the eternal sun riding
in the heavens and say, "He was gossip and housemate to me when
we were candles together." And yet it is true, just as I say. I was her
playmate, and I fought at her side in the wars; to this day I carry in
my mind, fine and clear, the picture of that dear little figure, with
breast bent to the flying horse's neck, charging at the head of the
armies of France, her hair streaming back, her silver mail plowing
steadily deeper and deeper into the thick of the battle, sometimes
nearly drowned from sight by tossing heads of horses, uplifted
sword-arms, wind-blow plumes, and intercepting shields. I was with
her to the end; and when that black day came whose accusing
shadow will lie always upon the memory of the mitered French
slaves of England who were her assassins, and upon France who
stood idle and essayed no rescue, my hand was the last she touched
in life.

As the years and the decades drifted by, and the spectacle of the
marvelous child's meteor flight across the war firmament of France
and its extinction in the smoke-clouds of the stake receded deeper
and deeper into the past and grew ever more strange, and wonderful,
and divine, and pathetic, I came to comprehend and recognize her at
last for what she was--the most noble life that was ever born into
this world save only One.
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