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completely filled in. A word he could not read was next to it and underlined several times. Another word, written then struck through several times, was under the black spot. When he touched that circle, screams filled his ears and visions of fire burst before his eyes.
    Soren drew back, not certain what had happened. The sounds and sights stopped when he no longer touched the parchment. The sick, queasy feeling that settled in his gut made him want to burn the thing. Only that it was the last contact with his grandfather stopped him from doing so. Standing, he held the paper in the sun’s light to see it more clearly. Other shadowy figures were revealed then, along the edges of the drawing, but he could not identify them.
    Placing the disturbing drawing down, he looked once more at the piece filled with words. More like words than symbols, he realized, but the language did not look familiar at all. Soren had seen Latin and English and Scots and many others and yet this did not seem similar to those.
    Einar would not have left them for him unless they were important and unless they could be understood or translated. So, if he could not translate these words or symbols, who could?
    The only man he knew who might be able to help lived in Kirkwall. A childhood friend, Ander Erlandson worked for the bishop now. Though Ander was a priest, Soren thought he could trust the man.
    Soren would not be able to travel to Kirkwall right away though he would as soon as was possible. Until then, he would protect these pages and say nothing about them to anyone. After speaking with Ander, he would go to the broch and try to find any sign that would help him understand whatever this information was that Einar wanted him to have.
    If only his grandfather yet lived . . .
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    Ander looked from the parchment he held to Soren and back again, squinting and peering closely at the strange words. Soren could see both the amazement and curiosity in his friend’s gaze as the priest scrutinized the sheet again. Soren left the other two—the map and the diagram—tucked safely inside his tunic. Until he had some idea of what these were, there was no reason to share too much with others. Even friends.
    â€œI have never seen the like, Soren,” Ander said, lowering the parchment to the table between them. “Where did you come upon such a document?” Ander moved a candle closer and bent over to look once more.
    Soren chose not to answer and waited on Ander’s examination to continue. When his friend happened on something curious or different, he would quickly become lost in it. Minutes passed as Ander turned the parchment this way and that, holding it up to the candlelight and away from it. Then he’d hold it up against the glare of the midday sun coming through the window in the corner of the chamber. Soren stood and walked to the window, away from the table so his pacing would not interrupt his friend.
    Peering out of the round tower of the bishop’s palace, he could see the cathedral of St. Magnus rising over the other buildings of the city. Ander’s position was important enough that he worked in the lower chamber of the bishop’s private residence.
    â€œMay I keep this a few days, Soren?” He turned as Ander approached, parchment in hand and a furrow in his heavy brow. “I want to compare it to something I saw in one of the bishop’s books.”
    â€œYou have no idea of what it says then?” Soren asked, fighting the urge to tear the paper from Ander’s hand.
    â€œAnd no idea of what language it is either,” Ander admitted. “I am baffled by it,” he laughed as he shrugged. “And I do not like to be baffled.” No, Ander did not. It was one of the reasons that the bishop took him into service—Ander was relentless when meeting an obstacle. Ander looked at Soren and waited for an answer.
    Could he part with it?