The Watcher laid down his pen, pushed back his unfinished gospel, and walked to the mouth of the cave.
Sunlight called him forth and he followed it, drawing a long silver flute from the folds of his robe.
Holding it to his mouth and placing fingers just so, he forced air into it and called the kin-raven to himself as he’d called so many other birds before.
He waited for the dark messenger, and when it landed heavily upon a boulder, it regarded him. This one had much life yet in it, and it gladdened the Watcher to know it.
“Bear a message home,” he told the kin-raven, and waited while the bird cocked its head and opened its beak to receive his words.
“The Last Son is in exile-spared to fulfill the scriptures-and the kin-healing of Frederico’s line is complete. The Child of Promise has his forty years, and the Great Mother has indebted herself to your grace. The secret faith is now preached in the open, and the Machtvolk arise from their sorrow to take back their given home.”
The Watcher paused. “Time is of the essence,” he finally said. “The Age of the Crimson Empress is at hand.”
He raised the flute to his lips and blew again, this time softly. Spreading its great wings, the kin-raven lifted and sped south.
The Watcher watched it as it flew, and when it was nothing but a speck upon the horizon, he turned and went back to his cave. He would finish this gospel, and perhaps when he did, he would walk through the forest near the Machtvolk shrine and listen for the hymns they sang there.
Clanking and clacking, the ancient mechoservitor slipped back into the shadows and took up his waiting pen.
