Drosten stood atop an as-of-yet unfinished stonework defensive tower, part of what was once the hill fort of Ceanannus. Leaning against a makeshift wood railing, he surveyed the campus of this, renamed, Abbey of Kells. It was obvious to him, now, why this place had been selected to protect the Key of Bridei.

Selected outside of my control, he thought. Why here, amongst the Scotti? How could this have been the solution to keeping the key safe?

His body ached. It was difficult to believe that his journey of more than a month had come to an end. What was he to do with himself now? He could go back to his homeland and... He sighed. Could he? This abbey may well be the place where he would die. He could not foresee another end.

Pictland was grieving the loss of a king. The Scotti were certainly, by this time, amassed for a push north, and the Pexa were in chaos.

The infighting to determine a new king of the Pexa was already raging by the time he had left Loch Ness for Inverness. By the time he had boarded a boat to travel north in Moray Firth, to the Tarbat Peninsula, the heaviness in his heart had convinced his mind that he would no longer have a country, a people, to return to when his mission was complete.

The boat ride to Tarbat was uneventful. The owner of the boat, in fact, was of good cheer, reassuring Drosten that things would soon return to normal. “That Scot king will soon find that retribution is both painful and final,” he quipped. Oh that it could be true, he’d thought. But what he already knew—with certainty—was that a new normal would overtake the land; a normal that would shatter everything that the Pexa held dear.

Drosten’s eyes hurt. It wasn’t a typical soreness from lack of sleep; this pain came from behind his eyes. It hurt to move them. Closing them didn’t help.

He heard footsteps approaching from the stairs inside the tower. He turned to see a monk, many years older than himself, appear in the sunlight. The sight of the man reignited a curiosity within Drosten. The monks of Scotia had taken on a different form of tonsure from their brothers in Britain and Pictland.

When Drosten was a youth and had first seen the oddly-cut hair, he had been told by one of his elders that it had become the mark of priests within the Roman religion. The design of the hair seemed to have been formed by placing a small bowl on the crown of the head and the only hair that was allowed to remain was that which was not hidden under the bowl.

These monks in Scotia, though, along with the monks he had met at Iona during his journey, had done something different altogether. The hair was left on the back of the head, but starting with one ear, they shaved an arc forward, still leaving hair above the brow, then arced back toward the other ear. It was like a quarter moon had been shaved onto the front half of the scalp.

“Greetings, friend! Pax vobiscum,” said the monk.

Drosten bowed, thinking that some outward sign of respect was due. “Greetings, …” He realized that he didn’t know this man’s title, so responded in kind. “… friend.”

The man smiled. “I am Abbot Conall.”

Drosten dipped his head in acknowledgment, now realizing that he stood before the man in charge of this abbey.

“So, then, I am told your name is Drosten.”

“It is, your… your…” Drosten sputtered to a stop again. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t know how to respectfully address you.”

“Tch tch. Let us not get wrapped up in pretense, young man. I am not royalty. You may call me abbot or simply, Brother Conall.”

Drosten dropped his eyes. “You ask me to call you brother, but I cannot. After all, it is your Scotti cousins who are at this moment killing my true brothers.”

The abbot dropped his eyes, as well. “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.”

Drosten looked up again. “In fact, I do not even know why I am here, or where, for that matter.”

“First, the where,” replied the abbot, meeting Drosten’s eyes again. “You are in the Abbey at Kells, within the boundaries of Airgialla. You have heard of it, have you not?”

Drosten shook his head.

“Ah, well… we are about two days north of the Hill of Tara.”

“My people know of Tara. It is where your kings are made. An ancient place of power, akin to that of Scone.” Dreadful flashbacks of his one visit to that ancient place of kings began to flood Drosten’s mind. He shook the mental images off. Somewhat off the subject, he asserted, “I have seen the power of our religion strike men down and even raise them back to life again. The right words, the right time, the right stone. You, too, have a stone at Tara that provides power to the kings of this land.”

“You, of course, speak of Lia Fail, the ‘Stone of Destiny.’” Again the abbot clucked his tongue. “That pillar of stone has no true power. Its only ability is to keep people blind to truth.”

Drosten stared at the abbot. No power? But before he could bring the question to his lips, the abbot continued.

“Now, why you are here... you are here to be saved,” said the abbot. “You have come for protection, and so it is offered.”

Fatigue, combined with growing frustration, began to peak within Drosten. “Yes, it is offered. But, why? We are enemies! You are Scotti! I am Pexa!”

“You, Drosten, are a man!” chided the abbot. “You may be someone’s enemy, but you are not mine!” He huffed and turned around to find a bench, and finding it, sat down. “Good.” The older man nodded. “We speak plainly from the start. This is good.”

Drosten stood looking at the man. He was perplexing. The ‘brothers’ at the abbey on the Isle of Iona5 were perplexing, as well, but at least they were known to have befriended the Pexa generations ago. Some of the Pexa who had converted to their religion—about some god who died and came back to life—had even become part of their order. In fact, they had built a building to worship this god on the peninsula of Tarbat. But after generations of having stood, it was violently destroyed by the Pexa King Caustantín some fifty years prior so as to reclaim their original spiritual heritage.

Caustantín wanted to wield the legendary power of their own Pexa gods. It was said that this power had kept the Romans at bay for hundreds of years, and the king was not going to be denied his place among the legends.

For possibly this very reason, all those who dwelt within the abbey at Iona considered themselves free of kingly allegiances. Drosten wondered what could be said about this cloister of men at Kells.

The abbot continued, “Today you and Abbot Indrechtach brought with you two objects that are also in need of protection. One of them, an inscribed stone, so I am told.”

Drosten nodded.

“The other, a copy of the Blessed Book; as much a work of art as it is the written words and accounts of our risen Lord, Íosa. Between King MacAlpin’s bent for conquest and that of the Vikings raiders, it was thought best to relieve the Abbey at Iona of the burden for their safety.”

The Pexa warrior stood mute for a moment. The abbot just gazed upon him. So … what now? Stay? Return home?

“Abbot, if I may rest here for a few days, I would be grateful.”

“Of course. You may stay as long as you would like.”

“I will not overstay my welcome. I intend to head back to my home…”

“Drosten.” The abbot pursed his lips and stood up. He walked over to the railing, folded his hands, and then gazed out toward the northeast. His next statement came after a protracted sigh. “Drosten, you are a man without a nation.”

Drosten began to object, but the older man closed his eyes and held up a restraining hand.

“I fear that I must be the bearer of ill tidings. From what Abbot Indrechtach has told me, the resistance put up by the Pexa against MacAlpin’s forces was feeble at best. With the petty squabbles and rifts that led to a new, yet weak, Pexa king, your people fell into disunity which allowed for only a very weak defense of your homeland, if defense it could even be called.” Abbot Conall let his words sink in before continuing. “Drosten, my son, Pictland is no more.”

The abbot turned from the railing. Drosten faced him and searched his eyes, looking for traces of deception. He couldn’t see it. He clenched his teeth. An emotion—an amalgam of anguish and hatred—boiled up from deep within. “Lies! You speak lies, priest!”

But Drosten knew. Deep inside he knew that the words were true. He’d known the impending reality from the moment he witnessed the spikes pierce his king’s body.

“Why did the abbot of Iona not say something to me, if what you say is true?”

“Whether right or wrong, he felt it best that you be safely transported from Britannia before anything was revealed. Perhaps he feared you would run back to your people once more, only to die a pointless death. Maybe he feared that the mission—the sacred trust—to which you had been appointed, would be abandoned.”

The warrior whirled away from the abbot as moisture began to cloud his vision. He looked out over the countryside and stared toward the horizon; toward the northeast, toward his home. It was then that the horrible finality of it all struck his heart: He would never see his beloved Pictland again.

22 JULIUS 843 – MIDDAY

“SO, WHY THE need of a key?” asked the young monk apprentice. Aed, a boy of sixteen or seventeen years of age, sat on a high stool from which he had just given Drosten a verbal tour of the facility in which he now stood.

As he walked throughout the structure, the Pexa warrior learned that much of the work of the abbey centered around this small stonework building, with its thatched roof, high writing tables, writing quills by the dozens, vellum paper, and vats of colored inks. Self-feeding oil lamps allowed the men of this cloister to work at all hours to accomplish projects.

Drosten came to know that there were three stations of work. The first, was an area where certain monks smoothed and chalked the vellum paper, preparing it for writing. The second area was where another group of monks ruled the writing surfaces and did the actual copying of the texts. Each copyist had his own desk that was partitioned from the others, allowing him to work uninterrupted. The third area was where the remarkable artwork on the pages—the illuminations—took place.

Aed had explained that the focus for many of the monks was the production of copies of their Biblia Sacra as well as other books they felt worthy to send to the heads of their Ecclesia Catholica Romana. Some were also sent to other abbeys or places of instruction. However, as Drosten was unable to read any of what was being inscribed, he could only stand amazed at the attention that was given to the artwork in their most sacred of texts. The chief of these texts turned out to be the very one that had traveled with him from Iona.6

This day was a weekly-appointed time of peace without work—Dies Dominica, the monks called it—the Lord’s Day. The brothers spent much time in prayer and singing what they called psalms of praise to their god.

Four days had passed since Drosten’s arrival in Kells. He felt out of place and without a purpose. Little that these people did made sense to him. They prayed to an unseen god who was once a man and somehow still was. This god-man died because he chose to out of a sense of love for the very ones who would put him to death. It nearly made him dizzy to think about it. A crazy religion. It didn’t surprise him that it was Roman. They seemed to want to conquer the world with all sorts of idiocy.

Still these brothers did seem to know how to love differently than most. They were strong men, for the most part, that chose to lead lives showing compassion on the pitiful, providing instruction to the illiterate—several times they offered to teach him to read and write their language—and giving attention to the sick. They appeared to live their beliefs without hypocrisy.

“I’ve noticed,” responded Drosten, “that you have many crosses that surround the abbey, most of which have inscriptions and carvings.”

The young monk-to-be snickered. “Aye, but that doesn’t answer my question about why you need a key.”

A smile came upon Drosten’s face. “No, it does not. But it will. The figures on the large cross to the west, do they have a meaning?”

“Aye. They do. The man with his arms outstretched is Íosa Christus Rex. The two men to either side are soldiers who put him to death. One spear pierces our Savior’s side to assure the Roman soldier that he had truly passed.”

Drosten accepted the description, though he now found it a marvel that the Romans killed the god that they continued to worship. “The standing stones in my land have messages on them, as well. They are not representations, such as yours, but they do have meanings. You write a language in your books that can be read by those who know that language. We write a language on our stones that is kept secret from the rest of the world.”

“Is it the language that you speak? The Pexa language?”

Drosten didn’t know how to answer the question directly, so he asked, “The language that you are inking into that book right now, is it the language of the Scots?”

“No,” Aed responded. “It is the language of the Mother Church. It is called Latin.”

“So, you write a language onto vellum that is not your native tongue.”

“Aye.”

“We, too, put into stone a language that we do not speak. It is not a language that all of the Pexa know. But all Pexa know that it is a language that tells a secret. This key allows the Pexa to look at the images on the stone and know their meanings in the language that we speak.”

“Ahh! It is a runa language! A secret or hidden language, heh?”

“That, it is!”

The young monk reflected on that a moment, then the excitement left his eyes as he came to an uneasy conclusion. “Drosten, if your people are no more, as it is said… If soon no one will know how to speak the Pexa language… How will anyone know how to use the key?”

The realization struck Drosten hard. To have escaped Pictland with the key may have served no purpose at all! If he was to be one of the last of his people to read and write his native tongue, then no one following would be able to use the key to discover what the great stones throughout Pictland meant. Even if some still could speak the language of the Pexa, what about the writing? How long before the written language disappeared altogether?

He had in his possession the Key of Bridei. The Key Stone, the large standing stone into which the Key of Bridei fit and interpreted the runa language, was in hiding near Inverness in his homeland. Should the two ever be brought back together… with no one remaining who knows how to read or write the Pexa language… this… this whole mission will have been pointless!

Drosten couldn’t come up with a response to the monk’s question. Eyes big with realization, he just walked out of the scriptorium and into the heat of the midday sun.

The years of carrying and protecting the key…

The escape from the murderous Scots…

The weeks of seeking safety for the key…

All of it had come to this: With his own death, be it soon or a long way off, would also come the death of the knowledge of his people’s very existence.

LATE EVENING

IT WAS WELL into the dark of the evening when Drosten sat over a cup of wine relating his dismay to Abbot Conall, Abbot Indrechtach, and a few others of the order. The hall in which they sat had two long tables lined with benches on either side and was used for feeding the men of the cloister. The evening meal was long past, but seven of the men sat to both listen and give counsel to an inconsolable foreigner. The warrior had not eaten, but was willing to drink to dull the pain that attacked his emotions. It was at this time that Aed came running into the building, out of breath.

“Drosten!” he shouted as he entered. Seeing the two abbots seated with him, the boy became contrite. “Abbot Conall… Abbot Indrechtach… My apologies. I didn’t realize that you were still here.” He bowed his head and looked to the hardwood floor.

Abbot Conall answered. “It is okay, son. You may approach.” As the young apprentice came near, the abbot looked to his elder. “Brother Indrechtach, this is Aed. He was deposited here at the abbey some thirteen or fourteen months ago by his grandmother. His family was murdered by Viking marauders two years ago. He’s proving to be quite the hard worker and is very intelligent!” Turning back to the boy, he queried, “What is it, Aed, that has caused you to see fit to disrupt this morose occasion?”

“Again, master, my apologies,” he began, still excited and out of breath. “It’s just that I think I’ve come up with a way to help Drosten complete his assignment with victory!”

“Go on, my son.”

Aed walked up to the table across from where Drosten was positioned. The warrior looked up at the boy with a look of curiosity more than hope.

“Well, I was thinking that while Drosten’s native tongue may one day be gone, there is one language that will be around forever. Latin!”

Drosten looked at the boy with a furrowed brow, still not grasping what was being conveyed. He looked at Brother Conall and shrugged. “I do not understand.”

The abbot shook his head. “Nor do I. Pray continue, Aed.”

Looking at Drosten, Aed asked. “May I see the Key of Bridei?”

Drosten stared at the apprentice for a long moment, then simply said, “Yes.” He stood to his feet and the others at the table did the same. All of the men ventured into the cool and damp evening air.

Aed asked if Drosten would retrieve the object and bring it to the scriptorium where the men would wait. Upon returning with the key, Drosten saw the group nodding with smiles on their faces.

“Drosten!” proclaimed Brother Conall. “The boy has saved the day!”

The enthusiasm in the room was catching. Drosten couldn’t help but smile, though only slightly. His eyes revealed optimism, yet remained grounded in caution. “What? What is it?”

“Aed, explain again what you’ve just told us,” prompted one of the monks by the name of Lasrén.”

“May I see the key, Drosten?” Aed extended his hands to accept the flat, polished stone that was hidden within a leather bag cinched at the top with a leather drawstring. Once he had it in his hands he walked to one of the tables used to stretch the cleaned animal hides for scraping and their eventual transformation into vellum. Setting the bag down and pulling the object out, he set it down atop the pouch. Turning to look at Drosten, he asked, “The words on the face of the stone, they are of the language of the Pexa. Aye?”

“Yes, my native tongue.”

“So, you will have no problem reading these aloud to us. Aye?”

“Aye… Yes.” Drosten looked around to the other men gathered around, hoping someone would just spit out what the lad was maddeningly delaying. The elder abbot, Indrechtach, just smiled and extended his right hand back to the boy, bidding the warrior to redirect his attention so he could continue.

Aed looked back down at the stone. It was circular and approximately twelve inches in diameter. It was divided into six equal sections by what appeared to be spokes emanating from a center hub. In between each spoke near the hub was a small symbol. Just above the symbol were words of the Pexa language. Above the writing were two more symbols followed by more writing. Each division contained a total of thirteen symbols, with an accompanying amount of writing.

“These symbols that separate your Pexa language, these comprise the runa language that you told me about. Aye?”

“Aye.”

“Then each of these symbols is something like a futhark, a letter in the alphabet of the runa language,” Aed surmised.

The monks who had not yet seen the stone marveled at the intricacy of the engravings. It was just as much a piece of artwork as anything that they produced within their own walls. The intricate etchings of the symbols were more out of a need to conserve space than to impress anyone who looked upon it, but it was obvious that a master hand had crafted everything that they saw.

The young apprentice flipped the stone over. The back of the stone was free from any markings. The only thing noticeable was the hub that protruded about two inches from the center and was about an inch-and-a-half in diameter. Pointing it out, Aed asked, “This is to position the key correctly into the Key Stone, aye?”

“Aye.” The Pexa warrior was beginning to enjoy saying the Scotti word himself. “Then it is dialed to match symbols in the Key Stone itself. The spokes on the front of the key stretch to match the spokes on the Key Stone.”

“Would anything placed on the back of this key prevent it from working?”

Drosten knit his brows together, revealing that he didn’t understand.

Aed expounded. “If I were to, let’s say, engrave symbols or some words on the back of the key, would it in any way prevent the key from working correctly?”

“I cannot see how it would. But why would you do that?”

The boy grinned and looked at his elders and mentors who smiled and nodded back. Brother Conall even winked at him.

“Drosten, even if your language dies off, the language of the Mother Church will not. What if we transcribe what is written in the Pexa language into Latin, then etch it word-for-word into the backside of the key? In the future anyone who can read and write in Latin will be able to understand what is written in your language on the front. They, in turn, will be able to interpret the symbols, and the key will once again interpret the Key Stone of your people!”

Drosten’s lips parted. His eyes grew wide as he stood there, the realization of the answer permeating his spirit. Tears of joy and relief began to well up in his eyes.

He had done it. With the help of a pup, wise beyond his years, he had done it.

He had ultimately protected the history of the Pexa people.

He had not failed his king after all.