ROOK AND RAVEN: The Celtic Kingdom Trilogy Book One Read Free Page A

as Mordent the Mad.” At the king’s look of shock she laughed again, “I did say our best agents.  Bishop is a master of disguise.  I’ve known him for years and he still fools even me. Bishop is one of the few allowed to have studied with the priestesses.  He is a very talented man. He makes an excellent mad vagabond.
    Rook is his right hand, the hand with the dagger,” her voice held a note of grim satisfaction.
    “An assassin?” he raised an eyebrow.
    “We all do what is necessary for Celtica your majesty,” she stated simply.
    Now it is my turn, he thought, to do what is necessary. What was necessary was to remove every last one of those bloody, pure blood obsessed priests who had made a shambles of his kingdom. He would do it if it meant killing every last one of them himself; magic or no magic. 
    What Conal could not know was from a high tower in the palace at Lyradon his escape to England had been allowed by his greatest enemy. Olav laughed softly to himself.  Once he had recovered from the rage engendered by his discovery that the whelp of the house of Llyr had been hiding under his nose all these years, he had begun to adjust his own long held plans.  He had worked devotedly, tirelessly, blood line to blood line had been crossed and re -crossed, his “children” of the blood trained and prepared.  With their information, their infiltration of the English and Celtic supporters of the House of Llyr, he had learned of Conal being alive and well.  Without their success he might never have known, nor been prepared with a plan.  He was proud of his ‘children.’
    When he smiled, the blue tattooed lips stretched, the empty eye socket pulled and sunk even further into his head.  He pulled back the black hood of his robe to reveal a head shaved up the sides with a tightly woven braid of ink black hair cresting his head and dropping low down his back. He rubbed his long, spidery fingers along the ritual scars of his face.  The moment had come at last.  This time he was sure they would succeed in cleansing this island.  He had every hope and belief that the prophecy given to him a thousand years ago on the death of Freya would finally come to pass.  He still regretted her death.  She had done as asked then, even though it killed her.  While the plot had not fully worked at the time, she had provided him with what he needed to fulfill his plan.  His patience would at last lead to total success.
    His continued failure to produce the necessary blood sacrifice of the prophecy was all that plagued him.  It also angered him and his anger had many victims.  His own priests, while subservient to his wishes even unto death, feared his wrath.  But he had over a thousand years of knowledge and magic at his blackened fingertips, entrenched in his ruthless and clever mind.  He was so close now and his twins, waiting in England may have bred true with the experiments and be able to provide what he needed.  He had not been able to risk bringing the man to Celtica to see if he could produce on the Llyr girl, but it could happen in England too, it only mattered that it worked .
    He could hear the screams of the girl, one of the last children of the blood of Llyr, from the next room.  Ulrich, his own puppet king, was trying yet again to plant his seed in the daughter of the long dead Prince Ban.  He would go and watch in a moment.  It gave him pleasure to see the agony as Ulrich toyed with her, hurt her and used her slender and bruised form.  It was a small enjoyment as he waited for what he had worked a thousand years for; the final defeat and destruction of the Lady of Rhiannon and absolute rule of this kingdom.
    For now he wanted to revel in the feeling of elation that came at action.  The feeling that again the pieces were in motion and the game was once more engaged. This Llyr was going to end exactly as his father. With that thought he stroked bone white fingers over the eagle shaped scar that