Antiphon by Ken Scholes Page A

spoke. Winters stretched for her name.
Tamrys.
“We are grateful for your hospitality, Lord Rudolfo.”
    Winters watched him nod slightly, watched his eyes slide to Aedric and then glance up toward her. “I am grateful for your cooperation,” he said. “These are curious times.”
    “These are the times foretold,” Tamrys assured him, and Winters heard the faith in her voice. It gave her pause.
    How long had this resurgence cooked slowly among her people? How blind had she and the Council of Twelve been? Thinking of the council, she looked across the room and saw Seamus sitting quietly. When their eyes met briefly, she saw sadness in them, and she tried to find a similar sorrow within herself.
    Tamrys continued. “We know that these are but the labor of a difficult birth. With the Child of Promise delivered, the road is made straight for the Age of the Crimson Empress.”
    All morning, as Rudolfo gently probed them with questions, Winters had listened to fragments of gospel and references to prophecy she had not heard before. And with each spoken word, she’d heard the belief in these women’s voices and felt something stirring in her that heated her face and forced her hands into white-knuckled fists.
    She forced her attention back to the conversation.
    “Yes,” Rudolfo said. “You have shared that with us. And I’m certain that you believe this to be so—I can see why one might. But it remains that bringing this”—he paused, and his brow furrowed as he looked for the best word—“
faith
into the Ninefold Forest is unacceptable.”
    Winters watched both of the women blink in surprise, then recover with knowing smiles and sly glances to one another. “It just hasn’t been revealed to you yet, Lord Rudolfo.” She heard love and conviction in their voices. “When it has, you’ll understand your great part in this gospel and the tremendous grace visited upon your son and your line.”
    Rudolfo looked to her again, and Winters saw cunningness in his dark eyes. His hands moved, and she read the words quickly.
Do you wish to speak to them?
He’d asked during the morning, too, but she’d declined. Once more, she shook her head, and as she did, she saw Tamrys staring at her from the corner of her eye.
    “You are Winteria the Younger,” she said, starting to stand. “We did not recognize you without your markings of Home-longing.” Gypsy Scouts slipped in from the edges of the room until a glance from Rudolfo and a whistle from Aedric stood them down. The other stood, too, and both bowed deeply. “We bear word to you from your sister, the Elder.”
    Winters felt the blush rise to her cheeks. “I do not recognize her as my kin.”
    Tamrys smiled, and it was warm, genuine even. “You do not need to as yet. These things take time.” She looked to Rudolfo. “May I approach her?”
    He looked to Winters, and she wondered how wide her eyes had become even as his narrowed. He must have seen something there, because his voice was cautionary. “I’m not certain—”
    Winters found her voice. “You may approach.”
    Under the watchful eye of the scouts, the Machtvolk evangelist walked slowly across the room. As she did, Winters stood and faced the woman.
    The woman was tall, and when she gathered Winters into her arms, Winters felt the strength of the embrace and smelled the sweat and earth and ash of the woman. She felt warm lips upon her forehead, and then the mouth moved to her ear as the voice lowered to a whisper. “Little sister,” Tamrys said, “come home to me and to joy.”
    Unexpected, the words—and the love within that voice—raised goose bumps upon her skin.
    Then, with the message delivered, the evangelist inclined her head and returned to her seat.
    The conversation continued beyond that. Rudolfo asked questions, and the answers, circular and cryptic, followed. She heard references to schools and shrines built; to an expansion of the Machtvolk presence into what had once been Windwir;