Page 8 of Edge of Yesterday

Chapter Three

Val stood and Cailean resisted the impulse to rise, as well.

“My friends, behold the Heatheredge Blooding Stone.” Valdar pointed at the stone. “‘Tis almost time for the sacrifice to quench the stone’s thirst.”

Sacrifice?

Cailean grinned. How would Val bring this tradition to life?

“But first, other business,” Valdar said as a tall, frail-looking man in dark robes stepped through the door at the back of the dais. He held a rolled parchment. “All greet Nechtan the Old.” The man walked toward the table and feasters again bowed low. When everyone took their sets, Valdar smiled at the man who halted beside him. “Good men, our revered Heatheredge scribe has something of great value to show you.”

Cailean couldn’t take his eyes off the scroll. Thick, yellowed, and rolled, it looked like genuine medieval parchment. His gaze caught on the small silver talon at the scribe’s neck, a duplicate of Ross’s much larger dragon’s claw or talon pendant.

Nechtan the Old glanced at Valdar, who inclined his head.

“My lords and ladies.” The scribe’s voice proved stronger than his skeletal appearance suggested. “Braw knights of the realm and all tournament contenders, I present our newest Scroll of Valor.” He lifted the parchment high and turned in a slow half-circle. Cheers erupted, stopping only when he lowered the scroll and again tucked it under his arm. He retreated backwards from the dais to the door through which he had entered, then bowed and disappeared.

“You will excuse Nechtan, my friends.” Valdar chuckled. “Men of letters are a breed unto themselves. Hermits all, they spare few words for their fellow men. I’m pleased to announce that our previous Scroll of Valor is now filled and has claimed its rightful place in the Heatheredge Tower scriptorium.” Clapping rippled through the hall. “That means this year’s tournament winners will enjoy a triple honor.”

Triple honor? Cailean leaned forward.

“As we all know,” Valdar continued, “this week’s festivities mark the high point of the Gathering, when we reenact my ancestor and namesake’s final encounter with Elizabeth Ross, the ill-fated bride of Patrick Mackay. My forebear was Clan Ross’sorcerer, and a famed healer.” He paused. “Yet, despite his knowledge and skill, he was unable to save her.” A shadow flickered across his features. “However, he resurrected Heatheredge and brought the Mackay clan to redemption. Without him, our town would be moss-grown rubble like the crofting villages whose ruins litter the region. So we honor the brave men and women who rebuilt our home.” Val crossed to the dais steps. “At the end of this week, we shall honor new heroes.

“First, we will assign participation in the popular Valdar and Elizabeth scene to this week’s top tournament winners. Second, those champions will not only have their names entered into our Scrolls of Valor, but, as a third honor, they will see their names inscribed at the top of our newest scroll. And that is a privilege, indeed, as each scroll can hold up to a century’s worth of champion names.”

Cailean grinned. He intended to win this honor.

His attention centered on the joy-woman who started up the dais stairs. She could’ve been a bloody satyress, the female version of a satyr. The slits in her translucent gown gave glimpses of her full, dark-nippled breasts and—God help him—the black triangle at the top of her thighs. She held an intricately woven basket that was attached at the handles by a blue ribbon around her neck. Her breasts bounced as she approached the table. Worse, the torch flames limned her, revealing her tempting curves.

She paused at the head of the table. Candlelight flickered across her creamy skin and lustrous hair. “Good men, I will have your feathers,” she said, her voice husky and silken.

She stopped beside each feaster, holding out her basket for each man’s silver feather. These were surrendered gladly, for upon dropping the engraved banquet invitation into the basket, each reveler received a heated smile from the vixen. Then the men kissed the curve of her hip or the swell of her breasts generously displayed by the low cut bodice. Some gave her more than one kiss. This was a Heatheredge secret Cailean hadn’t expected. Not that he minded.

“My lord…” She stopped before him, her sultry gaze locked on his face. “Your pleasure?”

Cailean lifted a brow. “My pleasure, lass?”

Amusement appeared in her eyes. The woman was accustomed to male attention. “Your feather, please.”

He reached beneath his mail shirt, withdrew the feather, and placed it in the basket. She edged closer for her kiss and he caught her scent. An ancient, exotic blend of musk, spices, and night-blooming jasmine. A delicate chain slipped free of her bodice and swung forward. The attached silver charm winked—a tiny talon pendant like the design worn by Valdar and Nechtan the scribe. However, her tiny bird’s claw clutched a sprig of silvered heather. She tucked the necklace out of sight into the depths of her cleavage, then surprised him by gripping his shoulders and lowering her lips to his for a soft, light kiss.

She straightened and gave him a knowing smile. “We are pleased to have you here. If you want more than I offer the others, ask for Lilith.” Then she turned, hips swaying, as she rounded the table to the next lucky attendee.

“She liked ye.” Red-beard’s face split in a grin. “I wouldn’t mind airing her skirts myself. She keeps a room at the Red Lion. I’d seek her out later, if I were you.”

“She is beautiful,” Cailean said.

Somewhere in the hall, the slow beat of swords striking shields rose in the smoky air. Cailean scanned the lower hall as Valdar descended the dais, strode to the cleared area in the center of the hall and stopped beside the Blooding Stone. Three white-robed druids formed a triangle around the stone. A score of solemn-faced warriors flanked the druids and made the sword music. Two of the joy-women, now cloaked in robes of shimmering silver, approached from the far wall, each with a flaming torch held high. They reached the Blooding Stone as Valdar did and stopped.

He drew his dagger. The sword clangor ended and Valdar shouted, “Here at Heatheredge we honor the past. But now, on this night of nights, once every four years, we do more.”

A hush spread through the ranks, all eyes on the red-glowing Blooding Stone.

“In days of yore, Druids worshipped in the forested hills surrounding our town. So many centuries have passed since then, that we no longer know where they kept their sacred groves and ancient shrines. These places are known only to the gods and perhaps the chill mists that curl across the land. But while the sites of most of their blood sacrifices are lost to us, we do know that these very walls were drenched in the sacrificial blood of innocents.” Valdar turned in a slow circle and pointed with his dagger at each corner of the hall. “Long before Heatheredge Tower stood as we know it today, an older edifice claimed this hallowed ground, its foundations blessed by the living souls who were buried beneath its four cornerstones.”

“Hail Heatheredge! Hail Heatheredge!” came a swell of voices from the hall.

Valdar lifted his voice, “Those men were bled before they were dropped into the ground. Their life’s blood fed the earth, guaranteeing that the ancient ones would always look on Heatheredge with favor—even in later days when great tragedy befell us. Our town prevailed and became the place of pilgrimage and glory we know and love today. The souls who surrendered their lives so many centuries ago, are there still, as dust and bone beneath us. Now, at every festival’s opening banquet, we honor and thank them with a blood sacrifice of our own.”