Chapter 1: Ink and Oaths

The River Tay ran dark under a low sky, swollen with spring melt. The monastery sat above it like patient stone, smoke curling from the kitchen roof and the byre. Inside the scriptorium, the air smelled of scraped hide, lamp oil, and oak gall ink.

Eóin bent over the desk, fingers stained to the nail. He shaped each letter slowly, as if laying stones for a wall that must not fall. The Gospel book lay open, calfskin pages smooth where pumice had kissed them. Red initials waited like small fires among the black.

A shadow crossed his work. Abbot Cellach stood behind him, tall in worn wool, cowl pushed back. His hair was more grey than brown now. He watched the page without touching it, as if touch might bruise the words.

“You will finish it tonight,” the abbot said.

Eóin’s throat tightened. “Tonight, father? The gold is not laid. The binding thread is old.”

“It must go to Scone,” Cellach replied. “There is to be a great gathering, and the Gospel must lie under men’s hands.”

Eóin set down his quill. “For Malcolm, son of Donald?”

Cellach’s eyes did not flicker. “For the king’s peace. Names are argued over in every hall. In this year, men need the church to witness what they swear.”

The name still carried weight, even spoken with care. Men had died for names like that, and would again if oaths were loosened.

Eóin glanced toward the window slit where the river shone. “Why do they need our book? There are books at Dunkeld.”

“They want witnesses from many places,” Cellach said. “So no man can say the church was absent, or that one house alone leaned its shoulder to the oath.”

He reached for the page edge but stopped short, folding his hands instead. “Words bind souls, Eóin. A careless hand can break a peace that men bled to make. You know how a feud begins. Not with a sword first, but with a claim.”

Eóin swallowed. “I will finish.”

“Not only finish,” the abbot said softly. “Guard it. A Gospel is more than ink. Men will try to use it like a spear.”

Outside, a bell called the brothers to None. Eóin dipped his quill again. Each stroke felt heavier now, as if the letters were being written onto his own skin.

When the abbot turned to go, Eóin dared to ask, “Will there be danger at Scone?”

Cellach paused in the doorway. “There is always danger where men swear. Pray your hand is steady, and pray your heart is steadier.”

The door closed. The scriptorium fell quiet except for the scratch of the quill and the river’s low, endless voice.

Chapter 2: The Road to Scone

Two days later, the monastery yard was a churn of feet and breath. A messenger had arrived at dawn, his pony lathered, his cloak spattered with mud. He spoke to the abbot in a low voice, and the brothers watched as if watching a storm move over a hill.

By midmorning, the news was no longer a whisper. In 943, Scone would gather Alba’s great men. There would be a public acknowledging of kingship and the taking of oaths, with clerics set close so no man could later claim the words were never spoken. It was said that men who had fought one another last winter would stand shoulder to shoulder now, with smiles that did not reach their eyes.

Eóin packed the Gospel book in a linen wrap, then in a leather satchel. He checked the stitching twice, then tied the strap until his fingers hurt. The abbot gave him a second burden: a thick wax candle, pale as bone, wrapped in cloth. It smelled faintly of honey.

“For the altar,” Cellach said. “A steady flame in a wavering hall.”

Eóin nodded, though he did not fully understand. He had seen candles gutter in drafts and die. He had also seen a single flame draw every eye in a dark chapel.

They set out with a small escort: two lay brothers with staves, and three local men with spears, hired with cheese and a promise of prayer. The path followed the Tay at first, then climbed into rolling land. Wet grass brushed Eóin’s boots. Larks rose, singing, as if nothing in the world could ever be threatened.

At a ford they met other travelers. A priest from a nearby church walked with a boy carrying a bag of bread. The priest greeted Abbot Cellach with careful warmth.

“Scone will be crowded,” the priest said. “They say the mormaers are coming with full retinues, and men who do not like each other will share fire.”

Cellach’s eyes stayed on the path. “Then we will keep to prayer.”

The priest glanced at Eóin’s satchel. “Is that the Gospel?”

Eóin felt his grip tighten. “It is.”

“Guard it,” the priest murmured. “Some men would rather hold a book than a cross, if it helps their claim.”

That night they slept in a shepherd’s hut. Smoke hung under the thatch. The hired spearmen ate oats and talked about Scone as if it were a market where fortunes could be bought.

Eóin lay awake, the satchel under his head. The candle rested beside it. In the dark, he imagined the mound at Scone and men’s hands on knife hilts, waiting for a moment to move.

In the morning, Abbot Cellach prayed over the candle before they left. “Lord,” he said, “keep our light from shaking.”

Eóin listened, and for the first time he feared not the road, but the gathering at its end.

Chapter 3: The Moot on the Mound

Scone rose from the flat land like a place remembered in song. There were wooden halls and clustered huts, and beyond them the sacred ground, a low mound where men said kings were acknowledged under God and oath. The air smelled of trampled grass, horse sweat, and peat smoke.

They arrived as the assembly was forming. Tents dotted the field like grey mushrooms. Warriors moved in bands, spears upright, cloaks pinned with bronze. Clerics in dark wool walked in small knots, heads bent, hands hidden in sleeves. Everywhere, eyes watched.

Abbot Cellach greeted other churchmen with measured courtesy. Names were spoken carefully, as if names themselves could cut. Eóin followed, carrying the satchel close. The Gospel book felt heavier here, as if the mound drew weight from it.

A leading man of the king’s household met them near the hall. He wore a fine wool tunic and a brooch that caught the weak sun. His hair was oiled and combed, but his eyes were tired.

“Abbot Cellach,” he said, bowing just enough. “You are welcome. The king’s household thanks you for coming.”

“The church comes to witness,” Cellach replied. “Not to flatter.”

The man’s mouth flickered. “Witness is what we need most.”

Eóin’s gaze drifted past them to the mound. Men stood around it in a loose ring. Some spoke with hands open, palms out, showing they held no knife. Others kept their arms folded, shoulders stiff. A mormaer, broad as an ox, laughed loudly at something, but his laughter sounded like a challenge.

Eóin heard fragments of talk as they passed.

“Malcolm’s blood is Donald’s.”

“Blood is not enough.”

“A king is made by men as much as by God.”

“Hush. The clerics are near.”

In the chapel, small and timbered, the air was cooler. The altar cloth was clean but plain. Eóin set down the candle and the satchel. He wanted to breathe, to let his shoulders fall, but the building itself seemed to hold its breath.

A young lay brother from another house approached, eyes bright with nervousness. “Are you the copyist?” he asked.

Eóin nodded.

The boy glanced toward the doorway. “My uncle says the great men will give pledges. He says they have to. But he also says a man can kneel and still plan murder.”

Eóin did not know what to answer. He touched the satchel. “We will pray.”

Outside, a horn sounded. Men began to move toward the mound. The air tightened, as if the whole place were a bowstring.

Abbot Cellach placed a hand on Eóin’s shoulder. “Stay close. Watch more than you speak.”

Eóin followed him out. The ring around the mound grew denser. Faces turned toward the clerics, then away again, as if the cross were only one of many things being measured.

Eóin realized then what the abbot had meant. The rite was strong, but the strain behind it was stronger. Men watched one another’s hands more than they watched the cross.

Chapter 4: A Page Goes Missing

The eve before the ceremony brought a cold drizzle that turned the field to mud. Fires hissed and smoked. Men crouched under cloaks, speaking in low tones. The chapel, though small, became a refuge for those who wanted stillness.

Eóin sat inside with the Gospel book open on his lap. He had been asked to check it once more before dawn. The candle stood on the altar, unlit, its wax smooth and untouched. Abbot Cellach had gone to speak with another abbot, leaving Eóin alone with the pages and the quiet.

He turned a leaf, then another. His fingers knew the texture of each page. He had scraped and ruled them himself. When he reached the middle, his hand stopped.

There was a gap.

At first his mind refused it. He blinked and leaned closer. The binding thread held, but a leaf had been cut out. The edge was ragged, not torn by accident but sliced, leaving a wound in the spine. A few fibers clung like hair to a scab.

Eóin’s mouth went dry. He flipped back and forth, hoping he had miscounted. The missing leaf did not appear. The words jumped from one passage to another, broken like a bridge.

Footsteps sounded. Eóin snapped the book shut, then opened it again, forcing himself to breathe.

The household man who had welcomed them entered, shaking rain from his cloak. He paused when he saw Eóin’s face. “What is it?”

Eóin could not keep his voice steady. “A page is gone.”

The man’s eyes sharpened. He came closer, careful not to touch the book. “Gone?”

Eóin opened it to the gap. The household man stared at the ragged cut. For a moment, his composure slipped, and something like fear showed through.

“This is bad,” he whispered.

“Who would do this?” Eóin asked. “It is holy.”

“It is useful,” the man replied, and then seemed to regret the honesty. He glanced toward the chapel door as if the walls had ears. “There are men here who think the church’s blessing can be handled like a weapon. A leaf from the Gospel, shown at the right moment, can look like a sign. Or it can be used to dress a lie in holy clothing.”

Eóin’s stomach turned. “To sway the assembly?”

“To make men hesitate,” the household man said. “To make them doubt what they are about to swear, or to claim later that the words were never rightly spoken.”

Eóin felt heat rise in his face. “We must tell the abbot. We must tell the king’s men.”

“If you cry theft without proof, you may light a fire you cannot put out,” the household man warned. “A noble’s honor is a dry field. A spark is enough.”

Eóin looked at the candle on the altar. Unlit, it seemed suddenly helpless.

The household man lowered his voice further. “Keep the book close. Speak only to your abbot. Tonight, many will drink. Many will boast. A missing page can become an excuse for blood.”

When he left, the chapel felt colder. Eóin sat alone with the wounded book. He pressed his palm against the cover as if he could hold the pages together by force.

Outside, the rain fell steadily. In the field, men’s voices rose and fell around their fires. Eóin listened, and every laugh sounded sharp, like a knife being tested.

Chapter 5: Confession in the Dark

Night deepened. The drizzle stopped, but the air remained wet and heavy. Eóin carried the Gospel book back to the chapel after Vespers, refusing to leave it in the guest hut. He set it beneath the altar cloth, then sat on the floor with his back to the wall, listening to the building settle.

Near midnight the door creaked. A figure slipped in, quick and quiet. Eóin rose at once.

“Who is there?” he demanded.

The figure froze. Moonlight from the doorway showed a young lay brother, no older than Eóin. His hair was damp, his cheeks streaked with tears. He clutched his own sleeves as if trying to hold himself together.

“It is me,” the boy whispered. “I carried the book earlier. The abbot asked me to help. They said I had strong arms.”

Eóin remembered him, hovering near the chapel in the afternoon, eager to please. Anger flared, then faltered at the boy’s face.

“What have you done?” Eóin asked, keeping his voice low.

The boy’s knees buckled. He sank onto the floor before the altar, hands trembling. “I did not cut it. I swear by the saints. But I… I looked away.”

Eóin’s throat tightened. “Why?”

The boy rocked slightly, like a child. “A man came from a noble’s household. He had a fine belt and a smile that made my skin crawl. He said he needed to see the book, only to admire it. He said the king would be pleased. I told him I could not. He laughed and pressed silver into my hand.”

Eóin stared. Silver was rare in a monastery. It could buy a cow, or keep a poor family through winter.

“He said,” the boy continued, “that if I stepped outside for a moment, no one would know. He said I would be doing a service. I thought… I thought perhaps it was true. I wanted to be useful.”

Eóin felt his anger return, hot and bitter. “You sold your watch for silver.”

The boy flinched as if struck. “I did not mean to. When I came back, the book was closed. I did not see anything wrong. Then I heard talk. I heard men saying the clerics would bless whoever held the right words. I knew then. I knew I had opened the door.”

He buried his face in his hands. “I have damned myself.”

Eóin knelt beside him. The chapel smelled of damp wood and old smoke. “You have sinned,” Eóin said, the words tasting harsh. “But you can confess. You can make it right.”

“How?” the boy sobbed. “If I speak, they will kill me. A noble’s men do not forgive shame. They will say I brought dishonor.”

Eóin glanced at the door. Outside, the campfires still glowed. Somewhere, men laughed. Somewhere, a blade might be sharpened.

“You will tell the abbot,” Eóin said. “Only him. He will decide what is safe.”

The boy shook his head violently. “He will hate me.”

“He will grieve,” Eóin corrected. “But he is a shepherd. He does not throw away a sheep because it strayed.”

The boy’s shoulders shook. Eóin took the silver from the boy’s trembling hand. It felt cold and heavy, like guilt made metal.

“Stay here,” Eóin said. “Pray. I will find the abbot.”

As he stepped into the night, the wind carried the smell of peat and wet leather. Eóin clutched the silver in his fist and wondered how many lives could be bent by such small coins.

Chapter 6: The Abbot’s Choice

Abbot Cellach was in the guest hut, speaking with two other clerics by the light of a rush lamp. Their faces looked drawn, as if each carried a private worry. When Eóin entered, the abbot lifted his eyes at once and read the trouble in him.

The other clerics withdrew without being asked. The hut’s door flap fell, muting the sound of the camp outside.

Eóin placed the silver on the low table. “Father, a page has been cut from the Gospel. The lay brother confessed he looked away. A household man paid him.”

Cellach’s gaze rested on the coins. He did not touch them. “Did the boy name the man?”

“He described him,” Eóin said. “Fine belt. Smooth speech. From a noble’s following.”

The abbot closed his eyes briefly, as if tasting pain. “Many men here wear fine belts.”

“Then we must tell the king’s household,” Eóin urged. “We must accuse openly. The book is wounded.”

Cellach opened his eyes. They were steady, but tired. “If we accuse without proof, we may spill blood on the mound before the oaths are spoken. A noble will not accept shame quietly. His kin will answer. Then the king’s acknowledging becomes a feud’s beginning.”

Eóin’s hands clenched. “But if we do nothing, they may use the leaf to turn men’s hearts.”

“We will not do nothing,” Cellach said. His voice softened, but it did not bend. “We will seek the stolen leaf quietly. We will not give a liar a stage.”

Eóin stared at him. “How?”

The abbot leaned closer. “You have sharp eyes. You know books and hands. Watch the men who come near the chapel. Watch who speaks of holy words as if they were tools. Listen.”

Eóin’s heart thudded. “You want me to spy.”

“I want you to guard truth,” Cellach replied. “There is a difference.”

He reached for the candle that Eóin had brought, setting it upright on the table. “This candle will burn through the night and through the rite. You will keep it burning as a sign of steadiness. When men see a flame that does not waver, they remember that God does not tremble because men do.”

Eóin looked at the candle’s pale wax. “And if I find the leaf?”

“Bring it to me,” Cellach said. “Do not wrestle alone. Do not strike. Sanctuary is stronger than fists if you can reach it.”

Eóin hesitated. “What of the boy?”

Cellach’s expression softened. “He will do penance. He will be afraid. So will you. Fear does not make a man wicked. It makes him human.”

Outside, a shout rose, then laughter. The abbot listened, his face unreadable.

“Eóin,” he said quietly, “the peace of Alba is not made only by kings. It is held together by small acts. A guarded book. A true tongue. A flame kept alive.”

Eóin nodded, though his stomach felt hollow. He took the candle back, cradling it as if it were fragile glass. When he left the hut, the night air bit his cheeks. Fires dotted the field. Shadows moved between them.

He walked toward the chapel, the candle under his cloak, and understood that the abbot had placed a heavy task in his hands without raising his voice.

Chapter 7: A Sermon and a Snare

Dawn came grey and slow. Mist lay over the field, beading on cloaks and hair. The chapel filled early, men stepping inside as if entering a boundary they did not fully trust. Eóin lit the wax candle and set it near the altar. Its flame held steady, a small spear of light in the dim timber room.

Abbot Cellach began Mass with calm hands. His voice carried through the chapel, firm but not loud. Eóin stood near the wall, watching faces more than the altar, as the abbot had told him.

When it came time for the sermon, Cellach stepped forward and looked at the gathered men. Warriors stood beside clerics. A few nobles had come, their brooches bright, their eyes guarded.

“Brothers,” the abbot said, “a man may lie with his tongue and call it wisdom. He may twist words and call it skill. But false witness is not cleverness. It is a weight that drags the soul downward.”

Eóin saw shoulders stiffen. A noble near the door shifted his stance, hand brushing his belt.

Cellach continued. “An oath is spoken before God. If a man breaks it, he does not only betray a lord. He betrays the altar and the saints who hear him. And if a man steals holy words to steer men’s hearts, he makes himself a thief of souls.”

A murmur passed through the chapel like wind in reeds. Eóin’s eyes searched for the smooth-belted household man. He spotted him at last, half-hidden behind a taller warrior. The man’s face was blank, but his jaw tightened as if he were biting down on anger.

After Mass, men spilled out into the mist. The household man moved quickly, slipping between groups. Eóin followed at a distance, keeping his pace casual. His heart hammered, but he forced his breathing to stay even.

The man headed toward the campfires where nobles’ followings clustered. There, talk was louder, edged with bravado. Men squatted near flames, sharpening knives, chewing meat. The smell of grease and smoke clung to everything.

Eóin lingered near a stack of firewood, listening. The household man spoke to two others, his voice low but intense.

“The king is upheld by consent,” he said. “Consent can be guided. If men think God favors a different hand, they will hesitate. Hesitation is all you need.”

One of the listeners spat into the mud. “The clerics will not bless a thief.”

The household man’s mouth curled. “Clerics bless what is placed before them if the crowd presses hard enough. A page. A sign. A story told at the right moment.”

Eóin’s stomach knotted. He watched the man’s hands. They were clean, nails trimmed, not a warrior’s hands. Yet they moved with confidence, as if he held invisible strings.

The household man stood and walked toward a larger tent, marked by a carved pole. Eóin followed, closer now. The man paused, glancing back. For an instant, his eyes met Eóin’s.

Eóin looked away at once, pretending interest in the firewood. Sweat prickled under his tunic despite the cold. When he looked again, the man had entered the tent.

Eóin waited, counting his breaths. He could not rush in. He was a copyist, not a fighter. But he could watch. He could remember. He could carry truth like a hidden blade.

Behind him, the chapel candle’s flame was out of sight, but he held its steadiness in his mind like a prayer.

Chapter 8: Turning Point at the Threshold

The mist thinned as the day brightened. Men moved toward the mound in restless waves, then drifted back to their tents, waiting for the rite at sunrise the next day. Eóin stayed near the chapel, then ventured out again when he saw the household man emerge.

The man walked with purpose, not toward the mound but toward the edge of the field where the ground rose slightly and tents stood in a tighter ring. Eóin followed, keeping other bodies between them. He felt like a mouse trailing a cat, yet his steps did not falter.

Near a cooking fire, the household man stopped to speak with a noble, a thick-necked man wearing a heavy brooch. The noble’s face was calm, but his eyes were sharp. The household man leaned close, and the noble’s hand dipped toward a leather pouch at his belt.

Eóin’s breath caught. The pouch bulged oddly, not with coins but with something flat.

The noble turned slightly, and for a heartbeat the pouch gaped. Eóin saw it: a folded piece of vellum, pale and familiar. The cut edge looked ragged. The missing leaf.

Eóin’s mouth went dry. His mind raced. If he accused the noble in the open field, knives would come out. If he did nothing, the leaf could be raised at the moot like a banner.

He stepped forward, trying to keep his voice calm. “My lord,” he said, bowing his head. “Forgive me. I am the copyist who prepared the Gospel for the gathering.”

The noble’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

“The book is wounded,” Eóin said. “A leaf is missing. It must be returned before any man lays his hand upon it. For the sake of your soul, and mine.”

The household man’s face hardened. “Go back to your ink,” he said quietly. “This is not your place.”

Eóin’s gaze stayed on the pouch. “It is God’s place,” he replied, surprised by his own steadiness.

The noble’s hand moved. The household man moved faster. His fingers flashed to his belt, and a knife appeared, short and practical.

Eóin stumbled back, heart lurching. The household man advanced, eyes cold. “You saw nothing,” he hissed. “You will say nothing.”

Eóin turned and ran, not toward the open field but toward the chapel door. Mud sucked at his boots. Behind him, footsteps slapped, fast and close.

He reached the threshold and threw himself into the doorway. The chapel was dim, the candle still burning on the altar like a watching eye.

“Sanctuary!” Eóin shouted, his voice cracking. “Sanctuary before God!”

The word rang. Men inside the chapel turned. Two clerics stepped forward. The household man halted at the threshold as if struck by an unseen wall. His knife was still in his hand, but now it was seen.

Outside, heads turned. A few warriors moved closer, drawn by the shout. The noble followed, his face darkening as he realized eyes were upon him.

Eóin pressed his back against the doorpost, panting. He lifted his hands, palms out, showing he held no weapon. “He has the stolen leaf,” Eóin said loudly, forcing the words into the open air. “It is in my lord’s pouch.”

For a moment, everything held still. The candle flame did not flicker. The household man’s jaw worked, as if he wanted to bite the air.

Abbot Cellach appeared from within the chapel, drawn by the noise. He took in the knife, the gathered men, Eóin’s pale face. His eyes sharpened like a blade, but his voice remained calm.

“Let the truth be spoken here,” the abbot said. “At God’s door, where lies choke.”

Chapter 9: The King’s Justice and the Church’s Mercy

The commotion drew the king’s men as smoke draws wind. A leading warrior of Malcolm’s household arrived with four armed guards, spears level. The noble tried to step back into his circle of kin, but the press of bodies held him.

“What is this?” the household leader demanded.

Abbot Cellach stood in the chapel doorway, candlelight behind him. “A theft from the Gospel,” he said. “And a knife drawn at sanctuary.”

The leader’s gaze snapped to the household man’s blade. “Drop it.”

The household man hesitated. Two spearpoints touched his chest. He let the knife fall into the mud.

Eóin’s legs trembled now that the chase had ended. He kept his eyes on the noble’s pouch. The noble’s face was stiff with anger, but he did not deny it.

The leader held out his hand. “The pouch.”

The noble’s nostrils flared. “You would search me like a common thief?”

“I would search any man who brings disorder to the king’s acknowledging,” the leader replied. His voice carried, and men nearby leaned in to listen.

For a heartbeat, Eóin thought the noble might call for his kin. He saw warriors’ hands drift toward sword hilts. The field seemed to tilt toward violence.

Then Abbot Cellach lifted one hand. “No blood here,” he said, firm as a bell. “Not for this. Not at the threshold of God’s house.”

The words steadied the moment. The noble’s eyes flicked to the chapel, to the watching clerics, to the men who would remember. Slowly, with a face like stone, he unhooked the pouch and thrust it toward the leader.

The leader opened it and drew out the folded vellum. The ragged edge showed plainly. A murmur rose, part shock, part satisfaction, part fear.

The leader looked to Abbot Cellach. “Is this your page?”

Cellach took it with careful fingers, as if it were a wounded bird. He examined the script. “It is ours,” he said. “Eóin’s hand.”

The noble’s voice came out rough. “My man took it without my command.”

The household man snapped, “I did what you wanted. You said we needed a sign.”

A hiss of breath ran through the crowd. The noble’s eyes flashed murder at his own servant.

Royal guards seized the household man’s arms. He struggled, then went limp, realizing resistance would only tighten the rope.

Malcolm himself did not appear, but his authority did. The leader spoke loudly. “This will be answered before the assembly. The king will not have his oath fouled.”

Abbot Cellach stepped forward. “Answer it without feud,” he insisted. “Restitution and surety. Let the thief restore what he stole. Let the noble give pledge for peace and make gift to the church for the shame done at God’s door. If blood is spilled, it will call for more blood, and the mound will be stained before the oaths are even spoken.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed, weighing. Then he nodded once. “The king wants obedience, not chaos. Your counsel is heard.”

Eóin exhaled shakily. The candle flame still burned in the doorway, steady as if it had never known wind. He realized his hands were clenched so hard his nails bit his palms.

As the guards led the household man away, the noble followed under watch, his pride dragged like a cloak through mud. Men watched him go, and Eóin felt the shape of power shift. The king’s justice had tightened like a knot, and the church’s mercy had kept it from becoming a noose.

Chapter 10: The Candle at Dawn

Before dawn, the chapel smelled of wax and fresh thread. Eóin sat at a small table, the Gospel book open before him. The missing leaf lay beside it, its edges still rough from the knife. Abbot Cellach watched in silence while Eóin threaded a needle with linen.

“Make the scar visible,” the abbot had said. “Let men see what was nearly done.”

Eóin’s fingers shook at first, but steadied as he worked. He aligned the leaf carefully, matching the ruled lines. The stitches went through the fold, small and tight. When he drew the thread taut, the page settled into place, though the cut remained like a pale seam.

“It will hold,” Eóin murmured.

“It will remind,” Cellach replied.

Outside, the first light bled into the sky. The mist returned, thin as breath. In the field, men stirred, stamping cold feet, tightening belts, checking brooch pins. The air tasted of smoke and wet grass.

Eóin carried the Gospel book in both hands now, as if it were a living thing. The wax candle, lit again, was placed in a brother’s hands, its flame sheltered by a cupped palm. Together they walked toward the mound, Abbot Cellach at the front, his steps measured.

The assembly gathered in a wide ring. Mormaers stood with their households, faces stern. Warriors held spears upright, breath visible. Clerics formed a smaller circle near the center, the cross raised.

Malcolm, son of Donald, stepped forward. He was younger than Eóin had expected, but his bearing was controlled. His cloak was fastened with a bright brooch, and his hair was bound back. When he looked at the gathered nobles, his eyes did not flinch.

Abbot Cellach presented the Gospel. The candle flame shone on the book’s cover, and on the stitched scar that any man close enough could see.

Malcolm placed his hand upon the Gospel. The murmurs died. The oaths began, spoken one by one: pledges of loyalty, of peace, of support, with sureties named and remembered by all who listened. Some nobles spoke clearly, voices ringing. Others spoke as if swallowing stones. Yet they spoke.

Eóin watched the noble whose pouch had held the stolen leaf. The man’s jaw worked, but when his turn came, he knelt. His oath came out tight, yet it came out. Around him, his kin stood rigid, but they did not move.

When the oaths were done, a blessing was spoken. The cross lifted. The candle flame held steady in the morning air.

Afterward, as the crowd loosened and talk resumed, Abbot Cellach drew Eóin aside. “You did well,” he said, not as praise, but as judgment.

Eóin looked at the Gospel book in his arms. The scarred stitching seemed to stare back at him.

“I thought peace would be made in one act,” Eóin admitted. “One gathering. One oath.”

Cellach’s gaze went toward the mound, now only a rise of earth under a widening sky. “Peace in Alba is a daily labor,” he said. “Truth, fear, faith. Each day you choose which one you will feed.”

Eóin nodded slowly. He could still feel the knife’s threat at his back, and the sanctuary’s threshold under his hands. He looked at the candle, still burning, and understood that a small flame could hold a room steady if enough people chose not to blow it out.