Page 7 of Edge of Yesterday

“I don’t follow.”

A shadow crept across Val’s face. “The world is changing. I am long in years. I’ve seen much and some of it doesn’t please me. What we do here at Heatheredge is sacred. Sadly, in this age of internet and worldwide connectivity, the temptations of big cities and high-paying careers, our youth are lured away. Some go as far as London, a few even venture across the sea to America.” He lifted his ale cup to Cailean. “Our hopes, lad, are on you. We trust that your passion will fire the blood of our young people, renew their interest in the great heritage of this town.

“We’re also a bit mercenary.” Val knocked back a swig of ale. “Your presence at the festival has drawn a larger crowd than we’ve seen in years. Once we announced your attendance, the number of knights applying for acceptance soared. They all hope to challenge you.” A corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “So you see, you’re filling the town coffers, and that’s always welcome.”

Cailean laughed. “I’m glad I could oblige. But I can’t take credit for this year’s success. Heatheredge is legend. Any medieval scholar or serious reenactor would give an arm to be here.”

“May that always be so.” A speculative glint appeared in his eyes. “I am wondering if we can talk ye into staying a month, instead of the week you planned.”

A month? That would make him a bona fide Edger.

A shout went up somewhere across the hall, followed by cheers, claps, and foot-stomping. When the ruckus quieted, Cailean whispered, “A month in Heatheredge? I might never leave.”

Val grinned. “So my plan is working.”

More cheers emanated from the other side of the hall. The fiddlers and pipers joined in, playing a lively tune. A stone swung outward from the north side of the wall of silvered feathers.

Excitement rammed through Cailean when cries of “The stone! The stone! The stone!” broke the din.

He squinted in an effort to see through the haze that hung in the air, but couldn’t discern what lay beyond the dark opening. The crowd around the dancing beauties parted and three white-robed druids appeared. Their tonsured hair, shaven from ear-to-ear over the top of their heads, hung to their shoulders in the back. They had a dangerous look that would have given him pause had he met them in medieval Scotland. Bloody hell, he was enjoying himself.

They carried a flat, oblong reddish brown stone that glistened in the torchlight. Cailean thought he discerned runes carved on the stone. The three men halted at the heart of the dance floor, where light from several hanging oil lamps converged, and lowered the stone to the floor.

Red-beard leaned close. “Only the chosen see this—and I’ll warn ye no’ to speak of it outside these walls.”

Val looked at him. “‘Tis one of our most revered rituals. Thon is our Blooding Stone.”