ROOK AND RAVEN: The Celtic Kingdom Trilogy Book One (15 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sebastian had not expected to see Bishop in person so soon and the directions he had memorized and then eaten (they were after all covered in bacon grease, and had already been in his mouth) would take him into the bowels of Westminster.  It was disorienting to be back in London after so many years.  He had never had a chance to spend much time here. He was barely done with university before his forcible removal to Celtica and he found the city strange after years in a place so vastly different.

The crowds, while significantly cleaner and better mannered than most of the Vikings he had lived among, were large.  The constant clatter of wheels, hooves and hawking of merchants was nearly deafening.  There was no open space to be seen for miles and the choke of smoke from thousands of fires caught at his throat.  He had to admit that despite his polished appearance and love of certain comforts he wasn’t much for the big city.  His childhood among the eastern fens with Jessy and David was far away but he found himself longing for the salty fresh air and open miles.  He also realized he missed the countryside and shorelines of Celtica.  As a younger man he had thought nothing could be better than to be a man about town in London and he didn’t recognize that person anymore.

While Celtica might on the surface seem lost in the past, and it was overrun with murderous priests and Vikings, he missed it.  The capitol of
Lyradon was a mere village compared to this bustling metropolis.  However, the streets, the architecture, and walls you could walk along looking to the snowcapped mountains or to the sea below.  It made this city seem dull and dingy by comparison.  Lyradon was a place of amazing architectural beauty and he didn’t think London could boast a single building to vie with the palace.  It had been built over two thousand years ago and yet was a lyrical masterpiece of towers, gardens, loggias and views in every direction like an eagle’s eyrie. 

He could only hope they were successful in freeing the kingdom.  It was a shame to see the dirt, the damage and the fading take root in that magnificent land.  Celtica, famed for centuries for art, for literature and the wonders of its architecture, and the grace and skills of its citizens was increasingly nothing more than a place of murderous brawls, drunks and filth. That damned creeping Gooar cast its long shadow over life and reveled in the destruction of what the Celts had created.  

He shook his head.  He needed to keep his wits about him and make certain he was not followed.  He had no doubt the Gooar had its agents in London as they seemed to know a person’s thoughts before they had a chance to think them, let alone not be aware a major plot was afoot.

He had memorized the map on the paper Bishop had sent and had walked as much as possible to familiarize himself again with London.  While it was so much larger, so much more in terms of population, variety and action it lacked the stately measurements, the art and thoughtfulness that had gone
into the construction of the Celtic capitol.  Lyradon was immeasurably old seemed to have not had one addition made that an artist’s eye had not overseen.  Under the current grime and crudity, there remained the bones of a very advanced culture that put the poor roads, primitive heating and often extreme lack of sanitation in London to shame.

He seemed
to aimlessly meander, doubling back, gazing into shop windows, had his watch quickly cleaned at a jewelers all the while keeping a sharp eye out for anyone shadowing him.  The sun had overcome the morning drizzle, casting shadows and sudden dazzles of light against glass panes and puddles of water.  It made it harder for his eyes to constantly adjust and he found his hand holding tightly to the raw amethyst in his pocket.  The stone would pulse ever so slightly at any hint of danger and would grow downright agitated in the midst of extreme distress.  So far it remained still but he could not afford to let down his vigilance.  Bishop would not thank him for bringing a

Brother to his doorstep!  While the Gooar’s power was somewhat dampened on Celtica, they had no way to know how those abilities would be effected in England.

The Gooar were thought to have stolen the Tear of Rhiannon through magic and treachery long ago which had weakened the powers of the Sisters but neither had it strengthened the Brothers.  It required someone who could resonate with the sphere.  In over a thousand years no one had been found with the power.  If such a person existed, and was ever found, Sebastian could only hope he or she would be on the side of Celtica and not the Gooar.  Such power falling into the hands of the Gooar was enough to give him nightmares.  He had even heard rumors that the sphere had been stolen from the Gooar but they would be the last to admit if they didn’t have it.

He was aware that Olav had another sphere, this one stolen long ago from Uppsala.  One weakness the high priest did possess was the inability to control the black sphere.  Sebastian had seen it, hanging suspended over the fire in what they now called Odin’s Tower, but once had been the Queen’s Tower.  While Olav could catch glimpses of images, he could neither control what he saw nor harness the full possibilities of the sphere.  It was not unlike the Tear and it was what made Sebastian think the Gooar did not have the Tear.  Surely, if Olav had the Tear, he would have been tearing the countryside apart for a reader, for every woman with any amount of sight.  He had not. 

That spoke volumes.

He slowed for a moment to check his bearings and saw the sign he was looking for at the edge of a row of buildings that backed on to the river.  The tall, slightly dingy edifice, was made of gray stone with tall white casements.  The windows were filled with various bottles, bundles of herbs and dried small animals he hoped were more for show than actual use in any concoctions. Books of various sizes and ages where stacked a bit willy-nilly under the displayed items. 

Dimplewitty’s Emporium for the Gentleman in Need gave off an air of mild mystery cheered by a bright green door affixed with an unusual bell.  Upon closer inspection the bell was in the shape of a curled salamander and he stood there about to pull the rope when one bright green eye popped opened and peered down at him.  Well, well, well he was definitely in the right place and now no longer surprised at the strangeness of the location.  A magical person owned this establishment and would be able to provide some form of protection for anyone welcome inside.  He found the salamander charming and as soon as he thought this he could swear he saw it wink at him.

The door of the shop opened letting out a whiff of complex herbal scents, the smoky essence of burning candles and the clink and clatter of industry.  After a quick and subtle review of the street and sensing no one about him, or any vibration from the crystal in his pocket, he stepped quickly inside removing his hat. 

The shop was orderly in an overstuffed sort of way, with ceiling high shelves, long counters and a scatter of tables set out with bottles, cases, and old, curious objects.  It also exuded a sense familiar to him from his visits to the Ladies of Rhiannon; tranquility overlaying a sense of deep rooted power.  The stone hanging on the leather thong under his shirt warmed perceptively and he felt the muscles that had been tense since he left David’s house relax. 

In this strange shop, in a city so far from Celtica, he was among friends.  There was an inexplicable sense of home to this place.  He couldn’t recall having ever felt that as at home in his own house of Red Winds.

A bustle and shuffle of movement clattered toward him as a slim, aproned figure came around from behind the counter.  He found himself looking down into grey eyes as clear as lake water under a thatch of rather wild white hair.  The man had probably once been as tall as he but time, and the work of hunching over the long counter, had bowed his shoulders and gave the impression that he was shorter than he actually was.

He had taken the man’s hand and responded to his warm greeting, grasping a hand that sent a small jolt of
something
up his arm, before he realized they were speaking in the language of Celtica.  It was a unique blend of ancient Celt and Gaelic.  Something about the man seemed remarkably reassuring and familiar.

“You’ll have to be more careful than that Rook! When was it that you learned to speak the Caelig so well? Viking families refuse to speak the language. Emrys easily found you out.  Just because you are no longer literally surrounded by the enemy doesn’t mean you should let your guard down.”  Bishop’s deceptively lazy tones holding a sharp rebuke sounded through the dim shop.  

Sebastian looked toward the sound of the voice and Bishop’s form became visible in an old arm chair by a bookcase.   Sebastian hadn’t even seen him sitting there when he walked in.  Bishop always managed to make him feel that he must be the most inept spy on the rolls.  Of course it didn’t help that Bishop had studied for years under the Ladies and had the art of shadow and concealment to a high art.  His own time being taught by the priestesses paled in comparison to the years Bishop had spent at Caer Ynys, the home of the Temple of Rhiannon.

When he rose from the chair Sebastian noticed at once the sling in which

Bishop’s arm hung and the way he carefully cradled the elbow.

‘What happened?” Sebastian stepped forward quickly, surprised by the level of concern he felt.  While Bishop was maybe was only ten years older than himself, he realized he’d come to see his mentor and trainer as an almost infallible father like figure.  To see him injured was troubling.

Bishop grimaced and held up his uninjured hand, “The reason I cautioned you so sharply.  The Gooar are definitely in London and I had a run in with two of them late last night. They were too damn close to one of my pawn shops.” Pawn shops where their code for the network of brothels Bishop had cultivated to provide potentially vital information for not only Celtica’s cause, but England’s safety as well.

“I thought I had lost them when I ducked into an alley a few streets from the brothel but they move damn fast.  In fact I would say they are faster here and more dangerous than they were on Celtica.  The Lady had warned me this might be so as the Sisters work tirelessly to block their magic on the island.   

They were like smoke swooping in upon me.  How they found out my identity is another worry as well.  I’ve been most careful to not reveal myself in any way all these years.” His face took on a grim and troubled cast.

“I hope you rid us of those two anyway?” Sebastian asked hopefully.

Bishop smiled slightly “Oh yes, they shall not trouble us again.  Blades forged in the Lady’s Cauldron they have no healing defense against.  I managed to spin away from the first attacker when he leaped at me.  I was able to sink my blade into the chest of the second.  I wasn’t fast enough blocking the other.  I had no sooner dispatched the second than that first bastard had his knife slashing down my arm,” he winced as he tried to move his arm in the sling. “I was lucky.  He was aiming for my heart but I turned just in time and managed to bury my second blade up to the hilt in his scrawny neck,” he smiled with grim satisfaction.

“Now Alastair I told you to keep that arm still!” Emrys cautioned.  “It’s a good thing you made it to me in time.  Those poisoned blades of the Brothers can kill a man in less than an hour without hitting anything vital.  Treacherous bastards!” Emrys nearly shouted with outrage. “Their magic will never outdo ours however.  Not a trick they have we haven’t a cure for, at least not yet,” he added with a faint trace of worry he tried to disguise by bustling over to the counter.  He retrieved a tonic he pressed into Bishop’s hand.  “Drink it all up now and I don’t want to hear a word about the taste! It tastes like sewage and I know it.  You’ll just have to choke it down.” 

Sebastian paced about the clutter of the curious shop stopping here and there to study some interesting object and being told occasionally to
not touch that!!
By Emrys.  Thinking of the magical cures and medicines this old gentleman seemed adept at reminded him of a question he had meant to ask Bishop last they had seen each other, “Do you really believe it is the Cauldron of legend?  This great pot they melt the metals in for our weapons? The one

Merlin searched for?”

‘Well they had the sword once upon a time so I do think it is the one.  By the way, don’t
ever
call it a pot!  Not only Emrys here but every Sister on the island would take serious umbrage at calling one of the most vital vessels of

Britain and Celtica a mere pot.”

“Merlin was a canny bastard and would have known he had no chance of protecting them all in Britain,” Sebastian heard a slight
humph
from Emrys as he puttered about.  “Once Mordred and his awful mother starting poisoning Arthur’s kingdom, Celtica was the perfect place to take them.  Now, if we ever found the sword along with the sphere that damned Gooar Odin would run as fast as their black robes would let them.  We’d wipe them not just from Celtica but from the face of this earth.”

Not for the first time Sebastian wondered about what no one ever said out loud; that Celtica was none other than Lyonesse, or as it was also known, Avalon.  There were reasons for the legends of the stories of Lyonesse disappearing beneath the waves and Avalon being beyond the mists.  Like
many legends they had branched into various stories and were remembered as mythical stories and not truth.   When he had sat with Jessy as a child and listened to her mother tell them tales of Celtica he had been mesmerized but not truly believing.  He had been sure she was embellishing stories of the land in which she had once lived.  He had also been fed entirely different information by his own mother and little about the stories found commonality. Now he knew Baroness Pemberly had not revealed even half of the miraculous truth.