Prologue

Scottish Highlands 1529.

It was a portrait perfect summer day in the Highlands. Birds flitting from tree to tree, calling to each other through song. Honeybees buzzing from flower to flower collecting pollen to bring back to their hive. A hum in the air, announcing the arrival of Reginald Ravensblade, the harpist of Time, disturbed the otherwise tranquil setting as an opening appeared in the Fabric of Time. Reg stepped through the opening and set off down the road toward the local monastery.

He rang the bell at the monastery's gates and waited several moments before a friar came to the gates and opened a small peephole.

"What can we do for you?" the friar asked.

"I would like to buy a barrel of whisky," the Bard answered.

"Wait a moment please," the friar replied, closing the peephole.

A few moments later the door opened and a rather large rotund man stepped out. Brown hair cropped short, he was wearing a brown coarse homespun robe with a simple hemp rope sash.

"I am Father David. Brother James said you would like to purchase a whole barrel of whisky?"

"Yes, I would," the Bard answered. "I want to try an experiment. I want to age a barrel for several years. I am hoping it will mellow the flavor, and make the whisky smoother. I would prefer a barrel of single-malt, something that was not blended."

"We have several barrels that will meet your requirements," Father David replied. "How much were you thinking of spending?"

The Bard reached into his shirt and removed a small pouch. Weighing it in his hand, he tossed it to the friar.

"Will that cover the cost, as well as a donation?" the Bard asked.

Opening the draw string and peering into the pouch of gold coins, the friar replied, "Yes, this is more than generous. Where do you intend to store your barrel?"

"Well, I had two ideas," the Bard smiled. "I could store it in a cave in the foothills, or perhaps your monastery would be willing to store it for me?"

"Yes, there is more than sufficient payment in here to cover those costs as well," Father David replied.

"Good, I will return in ten years," the Bard explained. "At that time I will require you to bottle the barrel's contents."

"Ten years?" Father David asked, clearly surprised. "A lot can happen in ten years."

"I will return in ten years," the Bard countered. "Can you ensure that my barrel will still be here?"

"Yes, to the best of my ability," Father David replied.

"Then that is the best that I can hope for," the Bard replied.

"Then, we have an agreement," Father David stuck out his hand, which the Bard grasped and shook. The friar returned to the monastery and shut the door.

"Timekeeper, forward to the time of the inn if you please." Reg commanded.

"As you wish, My Lord," the sword replied. The sword blade glowed with a bluish tint as its runes glowed silver. The "pocket door" slid open and Reginald Ravensblade, Harpist of Time, stepped through, the door sliding closed behind him.

Scottish Highlands 1539.

Reg stepped out onto the road leading into the town of Mortlach. Arriving at the town, he stopped at the blacksmith shop and rented a wagon and draft horse. He drove the wagon to the monastery, noting that it had changed very little in ten years. Parking the wagon, he walked up to the door and rang the bell. A friar came to the door and opened a small peephole.

"Yes, how may we help you?" the friar asked.

"Is Father David available?" the Bard asked. "I bought a barrel of whisky several years ago, and asked him to store it here in the monastery."

"Father David has retired," the friar replied. "If you will wait, I will fetch Father James."

The Bard nodded his head, and the friar closed the peephole. Several moments later the door opened and Father James stepped out.

He had changed little in the ten years, a little more gray in his hair, still cropped short. The same coarse home-spun brown robe and hemp rope sash.

"It has been many years," Father James stuck out his hand, which the Bard grasped and shook. "You have not aged at all."

"I try to keep fit," the Bard replied. "Although, that does not prevent the gray from coming out."

"There has been a running wager on whether or not you would show up," Father James smiled, releasing the Bard's hand. "Come, I will show you to our cellars."