Elizabeth H. Hopkinson is from West Yorkshire, home of the Bronte sisters and the Cottingley fairies. Her stories have appeared in EOTU, Fables and Strange Horizons, and she was the winner of this year's James White Award. She is currently working on a series of "medieval" romances based on the 12 Days of Christmas. Her main weaknesses are the cinema (especially dependant on who is in the film!) and the coffee shop inside the old Bradford Wool Exchange. You can read more on her website.

"It's true!" he cried, in his ordinary voice this time. And all the people crowding beside him on the Temple roof shouted, "It's really true!"

That's the second-to-last line of the story. I ought to know because I wrote it myself. Now you know it too; that's the benefit of hindsight. Everything would be much easier to believe in if we had more of that. And having started at the end, I could now go on and tell you the whole story backwards. It's not unfeasible; it's been done before. But, aside from the fact that it would probably make you seasick, it would also take away the suspense and ruin the whole story. I suppose that's where hindsight falls down.

So I will miss out the middle for now and tell the story forwards, from the beginning. And, since it's essentially a fairytale, it begins with a humble Youth, who is about to discover a mysterious City in the middle of Nowhere. It could have been a Knight. That would have been fun. But, between you and me, I've written a few too many stories featuring knights lately. Besides, if it had been a Knight, the tale would probably have had to begin with King Arthur sitting down at the High Feast of Pentecost, wondering if something wondrous would happen before Queen Guinevere noticed his stomach rumbling, and then a dwarf, or a maiden with a hart and a brachet, or Sir Beaumains would burst through the door and it would all kick off, presumably with adventurous consequences for the Knight. But, having decided to go forwards after all, I'd rather just get on with it, so a Youth it is and he's already done all the leaving home and kissing his mother goodbye and he's about to discover the City in five.four.three.two.one.

"Hello! Is anyone at home?" shouted the Youth, beating on the huge, iron gate with his fist.

It was actually one of twelve identical huge, iron gates, set into the towering walls of the City, round which the Youth had been walking for the past hour, wondering if anyone was at home. Well, to be honest, he had first been wondering what the City was doing there in the first place. He hadn't really come too far from home - he lived in a pleasant little village on the outskirts of Nowhere himself - and no one had ever mentioned the City to him, nor had it featured on any signposts he had passed on the way. It looked as if it had just been dropped in the middle of the fields by someone who had no other use for it. Since this was the first real adventure he had come across, he was feeling rather pleased with himself, so he knocked again and shouted.

"There's no need to shout. I heard you the first time," said a Porter, who had come to the gate and opened it while the Youth was busy knocking. He was quite a small man with grey hair and the dullest beige-brown clothes the Youth had ever seen. "Come in. You might as well."

The Youth followed the Porter into the City street. It was crowded with people, milling about aimlessly in beige-brown clothes with their faces to the ground. They didn't seem to be trading or working at their crafts or anything useful that the Youth could see. They just milled about without speaking and were, quite frankly, the most miserable lot he had ever encountered.

"This seems a cheerful place," said the Youth, sarcastically. "What's it called?"

"Elation," said the Porter.

"Lovely," said the Youth.

The Porter showed him round the twelve districts of the City, each as dismal as the next, and then asked him, not too hopefully, if he would like to spend the night. The Youth considered and said that he would. Apart from the fact that it was his first proper adventure, the recurrence of the number twelve was rather comforting to him. Not that he believed in omens or anything like that, but the village he had come from, while unremarkable in other aspects, happened to be unusual in possessing twelve bookshops, and he had brought a small book from each to remind him of home. Perhaps, he thought, he could read the people some stories from the books and cheer them up a little.

(By the way, if you're thinking that twelve bookshops in one village is a bit much, even for a fairytale, then you ought to know that in Sognefjord in Norway there is a village with twelve bookshops. It's at Fjaerland and is known as the Norwegian Book Town, and all they do all summer long is flog second-hand books out of old barns and boathouses. There is a kind of truth in everything. Remember that, even if you forget the plot).

So the Youth spent the night at the Porter's house and announced that he would pay for his board by entertaining the family with dramatic readings from his books, and since he had twelve books, he would be staying at least twelve nights. The first night he read them the story of the Flying Horse, the second the story of Odysseus and the Cyclops, the third the tale of Thor's stolen thunder, and so on. And, by the twelfth night, although the people still didn't seem to be doing any actual work, they did look a bit more cheerful and a touch less beige, and they seemed to have grown rather fond of him.

"Look here," said the Porter on the thirteenth day. "There's something you ought to know. The reason everyone is so sad and aimless here is that we have lost our king. He met with a tragic accident and left no heir, and the City has not been the same ever since. We're in desperate need of a king to bring us hope and purpose. I think I should take you to meet the Chief Minister."

So the Porter took the Youth up to the Palace, a magnificent black marble building standing upon twelve black marble steps. They went together into a silent hall with twelve black marble pillars and twenty-four gothic windows. A nd standing in the middle of the hall in two straight lines were twelve marble statues. They were kings. The Youth could tell this by the crowns on their heads and the sceptres in their hands. (He was a bright lad). What was more surprising to him was that each of the kings had a large pair of wings sprouting from his shoulders. In fact, it puzzled him so much that he almost didn't notice the Porter coming back into the hall with the Chief Minister.

"So you're the young chap who's brought hope and joy to the Twelfth Quarter of Elation?" said the Chief Minister, dully. He was another small, grey-haired man, dressed in a rather better quality of beige-brown.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," said the Youth.

"Look, you know the situation," said the Chief Minister. "We need help. This City would be going Nowhere if it weren't for the fact that we're already here. You're the most positive person we've seen in these parts since our last king.well, since we lost him. To put it bluntly, will you be our thirteenth king?"

The Youth thought about this for a moment. It was an adventure and he didn't exactly have much planned for the next few years. But it did seem to him that there was a flaw in the proposition.

"Would it be stating the obvious," he said, "to point out that all your previous twelve kings seem to have been born with wings and I.I haven't?"

The Chief Minister shrugged. "You seem like a bright lad. I'm sure you'll think of something."

And so the Youth from the edge of Nowhere became the Thirteenth King of Elation. The first thing he had to do was get a pair of wings. He did seem to remember from one of his books that a man named Daedalus had made himself and his son a fine pair of wings out of wax and birds' feathers, so he thought he would try the same. It worked quite well. They fitted him comfortably, he didn't turn out to be allergic to feathers or anything, and once he had his clothes on you really couldn't tell. Of course, he wasn't foolish enough to actually try flying with them; he remembered from the book that that side of things hadn't gone too well for Daedalus. But he devised a mechanism that flapped them a little as he walked, which looked quite impressive for state occasions. The second thing to do was to dig out some more colourful robes from the Palace wardrobes, because all that beige-brown was really starting to get on his nerves. And the third thing was to begin his reign.

That was a bit more problematic. The village he had come from was very big on bookshops but not too hot on anything else. Still, he figured that what they really needed was a boost in morale, so he decided to begin with an arts festival, complete with a carnival parade, lots of dramatic readings, and a creative writing competition to be judged by him. On the festival's opening day, he appeared on the black marble steps, flapping his new wings, and announced that he would, "really get this City off the ground," which seemed to go down remarkably well. No one seemed in the least bit troubled that the new king had suddenly sprung from Nowhere, and nobody asked him to fly. It was very gratifying.

In fact, it seemed that the Youth (I suppose I should call him the King from now on) could do no wrong. The people loved their new monarch. They loved the carnival. They loved the readings. Bookshops sprang up in every corner of the City. An artistic revolution took place, and within a short time, the brightly clad citizens of Elation (they had long since dropped the beige-brown) could be seen busily writing their poetry, carving their sculptures and composing their songs wherever you looked. It was not long before they were trading their creations for food from the surrounding fields, cloth from the outlying towns, and a whole host of exotic goods from the far-flung regions of the continent. The economy was booming and the King couldn't have been more pleased. It was all going so well.

Until the Ceremony. On the anniversary of his accession, the King was informed by the Chief Minister that it was now time for him to perform the Ceremony. It was just a little matter, for such a great King as he obviously was. (They all seemed to have forgotten that just twelve months previously he had been nothing but a humble Youth with twelve books in his back pocket). All he had to do was ascend to the roof of the Temple, read the traditional Liturgy, and perform the miracle of Flight.

It was as simple as that, said the Chief Minister, and without much further ado, he escorted the King, dressed in ceremonial robes, to the Temple, a magnificent white marble building standing upon twelve white marble steps, and indicated to him the specially erected scaffolding by which he was to climb to the roof. A very large crowd had gathered, all resplendent in their very brightest clothes and cheerfully clutching their sculptures and their manuscripts in support of their beloved King.

The King stood on the Temple roof and cleared his throat. And, in a special voice he had just invented for state occasions, he began to read the Liturgy.

"I, your King, am come to you. Elation is the wind beneath my wings."

He paused and swallowed hard. The ground seemed a long way down and it was windy. And it suddenly occurred to him that there was indeed a fatal flaw in his reign. He didn't believe in himself. Oh, yes, to the people he was the great monarch, the Thirteenth King; he could fly (he had the wings, didn't he?) It was true to them but that didn't actually make it true. It also occurred to him that, although he didn't believe in this either, the number thirteen is regarded as very unlucky by a lot of people. Although, now that he came to think of it, the Twelfth King hadn't exactly been lucky either. He began to wonder just how his predecessor had met his death; perhaps none of the Winged Kings had been genuine. The ground really did look a long way down. The paper shook in his hand as he read.

"The moment has come. Behold, I take to the skies!"

He was very near the edge of the roof now. He shut his eyes.

"Behold, I take to the skies!"

He was about to die, and all he could think was that his people would be so disappointed.

"Behold, I take to the skies!" he said again, in a voice that shook a lot more than he intended it to.

"Oh, no you don't!" cried all the people. (Yes, really; just like that).

The King opened his eyes. "Yes, I do!" he exclaimed in total surprise. "No, really," he said. "Come up here and see for yourselves."

It wasn't part of the Ceremony but their King had spoken, and that was all the people of Elation needed. Young lads and adventurous lovers showing off to their girlfriends came first, but soon the sculptors and the Porter and even the Chief Minister were scrambling up the scaffolding to see what their King saw.

There is a kind of truth in everything, even fairytales. In fact, especially in fairytales. In the bookshop where I'm sitting now, there are twelve Winged Kings carved into the ceiling, but that's not the kind of truth I mean. The King understood it as he looked out from the roof of the Temple and saw the clouds flying past and the green fields far beneath him. He knew that some things are real whether you believe in them or not, and he knew in that moment that he was the Thirteenth King.

"It's true!" he cried, in his ordinary voice this time. And all the people crowding beside him on the Temple roof shouted, "It's really true!"

The City was flying.